Studio Sex

by Liza Marklund

  Annika scratched her ear. “I just described her as a person. It didn’t seem relevant.”

  “Of course it’s relevant, come on.”

  Annika swallowed. “You get a one-dimensional picture if you bring up that stuff with the strip joint: she’s just a simple hooker. There was a lot more to her. She was a daughter and a sister and a friend and a schoolgirl—”

  “And a stripper. Of course it matters, Annika.”

  The phone was silent.

  “I’m going to report Studio 69 to the press ombudsman,” Annika said in the end.

  Berit’s response was short but she sounded mad: “Why?”

  “Patricia didn’t know they were going to broadcast the information.”

  “Who’s Patricia?”

  “Josefin’s best friend.”

  “Don’t get pissed now, Annika, but I think you’re taking the coverage of this murder a little too personally. Beware of mixing with the people involved. It never ends up well. You’ve got to keep a professional distance or you can’t help anyone, least of all yourself.”

  Annika closed her eyes and felt she was turning pink. “I know what I’m doing,” she said, a bit too shrilly.

  “I’m not convinced you do.”

  They quickly finished the call. Annika sat with her face in her hands for a long while. She felt battered, on the verge of tears.

  “Have you finished the apartment story?” Jansson shouted over from the news desk.

  She quickly got ahold of herself. “Sure. I’m putting it on the server… now!”

  She typed in the command and let the article zoom through the cables. Jansson gave her the thumbs-up when the copy landed on his screen. She collected her things and got up to leave. At that moment Carl Wennergren came galloping from the elevators.

  “Get out my full picture byline, ‘cause tonight I’m a star!” he shouted.

  All the men around the news desk looked up at the reporter while he performed a war dance on the newsroom floor, pad in one hand, camera in the other.

  “The Ninja Barbies have tried to set fire to the whorehouse where the stripper worked. Guess who’s got exclusive rights to the pictures!”

  The men around the desk all got up and went to slap Carl on the back. Annika saw the reporter’s camera floating like a trophy above their heads. She quickly took her bag and left through the back door.

  The temperature had dropped a few degrees but the air was thicker than ever. It felt like a real thunderstorm was on its way. Annika walked past the closed hot dog kiosk and ignored the bus stop. Instead she slowly walked toward Fridhemsplan and without noticing soon found herself in Kronoberg Park.

  All the cordons were gone, but the mountain of flowers had grown. They were in the wrong place, next to the entrance of the cemetery, but that didn’t matter. The truth about Josefin wasn’t important, only that the myth lived on. People could project whatever they wanted onto it.

  She turned to the right and reached Hantverkargatan, where blue lights of emergency vehicles were flashing in the night.

  The Ninja Barbies’ arson, she thought, and in the next instant, oh my God, Patricia!

  Annika ran past Kungsholmen High School and down the hill. The three crowns on top of City Hall glowed in the last rays of the sun. A group of bystanders had collected, and she saw Arne Påhlson from the Rival hanging about over by one of the fire engines. She edged closer. One of the narrow lanes of the street was closed off, so the cars had to crawl past in one lane. Three fire engines, two police cars, and one ambulance were parked outside the anonymous entrance to Studio 69. The sidewalk and the facade were blackened with soot. She stopped behind a group of young men with beer cans in their hands excitedly discussing what had happened.

  Suddenly the door to the club swung open and a plainclothes officer stepped outside. Annika immediately recognized him, even though he wasn’t wearing a Hawaiian shirt this time. He was talking to someone who was obscured by the door. Annika pushed her way nearer to the front and saw a thin woman’s arm point at something on the street.

  “Where?” Annika heard the police captain say.

  Patricia stepped out onto the sidewalk. It took a couple of seconds before Annika registered that it was her. She wore heavy makeup and had her hair in a high ponytail. She was dressed in a red, glittering bra and panties with a G-string. The men surrounding Annika started howling and wolf-whistling. Patricia winced and looked over at the group. She instantly recognized Annika, and Patricia’s face lit up as their eyes met. She lifted her hand to wave and Annika stiffened. Without thinking she ducked behind the men and drew back. The men pushed forward, and she heard a woman crying out. She rushed into the nearest side street, one she’d never been in before, and ran over to Bergsgatan, past the police headquarters and its parking lot, and then turned into Agnegatan. She took the shortcut across the yard and reached the street door of her house, trembling and out of breath. The key in her hand shook so badly that she could hardly get it into the lock.

  I’m losing it, she thought, and bowed her head when she became conscious of her cowardice.

  She was ashamed of Patricia.

  Eighteen Years, One Month, and Twenty-Five Days

  When deepest trust vanquishes dread, that’s when true confidence is born. Everything else is a failure; I know that.

  He wants me to relive horrible old memories.

  He pushes me into the bathroom and tells me to masturbate.

  He opens the door while I’m sitting with the showerhead between my thighs, his face white with anger.

  “So you can fuck with that, but not with me?” he screams.

  *

  The hotel corridor, the door that locks. Panic, pulling and tugging, naked and wet.

  Voices, the pool area, daren’t call out. Dark and quiet, the tiled floor cold under my feet.

  I creep into the bushes, step on a big insect, and nearly cry out. Hate spiders, hate small creeping things. Crying, freezing, shaking.

  It’s all about overcoming your fear, defeating your demons.

  At regular intervals I try the door.

  He unlocks it just before dawn, warm, dry, hot, loving.

  *

  We are the most important thing

  there is

  to each other.

  Thursday 2 August

  The prime minister saw the news photographers in the distance and heaved a sigh. The journalists had formed an impromptu wall by the entrance to the government offices at Rosenbad. He knew they’d be there, of course, yet he’d been hoping, somehow, that he could avoid them. So far he hadn’t commented on the suspicions surrounding Christer Lundgren. He’d referred the media to the young woman who was minister for integration, who was acting head of government during the summer holidays. He couldn’t go on doing this any longer. The few days that constituted this year’s holiday had shrunk to almost nothing. He gave another sigh and yawned. He always did that when he was nervous. People around him thought it gave a casual impression, which could be a positive thing. Like now— the men in the car had no idea about the turmoil going on inside him or the tight knot in his stomach. His intestines were twirling with the anxiety; he’d have to go to the bathroom soon.

  The media scrum caught sight of the car as it turned onto Fredsgatan. The entire group gave a start like one organism. The photographers struggled to hang the cameras with their long lenses around their necks. The prime minister watched them through the darkened windows. He could see radio, TV, and print reporters waving their little tape recorders in the air.

  “They all look like toy figures,” he said to the security man in the front seat. “He-Man with his detachable accessories. Don’t you think?”

  The security man agreed. All his people agreed with what he said. He gave a tired smile. If only the media and the opposition were so cooperative.

  The car stopped with a soft rocking movement. The bodyguard was out of the car before the wheels had stopped, opening the back door and protectin
g the prime minister with his body.

  The questions washed over the head of government.

  “What do you think of the suspicions about the minister for foreign trade?”

  “What are the effects on the party?”

  “Will this change the focus of your election campaign?”

  “Should Christer Lundgren resign?”

  He wriggled out of the car and drew himself up full length. With all his extra weight, he could produce a highly theatrical sigh. Microphones, tape recorders, lenses, and film recorded this little exhalation. Everybody could see that the prime minister didn’t look on the matter very seriously. He was dressed in a light-blue shirt that was open at the neck, crumpled trousers. His bare feet were in sandals.

  “Now listen,” the prime minister said, and stopped in the glare of a TV light. He spoke slowly and quietly, in a relaxed and somewhat long-suffering manner.

  “Christer is not suspected of anything at all. And this business will have no effect whatsoever on our successful election campaign. I certainly hope that Christer will stay in the cabinet, for the sake of the government and for the sake of Sweden and Europe. We need people with energy to carry our policies as the twenty-first century progresses.”

  End of line one, he thought, and started walking toward the entrance. The media people followed him like limpets, as he knew they would.

  “Why have you interrupted your holiday?”

  “Who will be at today’s emergency meeting?”

  “Do you still have confidence in Christer Lundgren?”

  The prime minister took a few more steps before answering, just as he’d done when practicing with the media coach. Time for his cue.

  As he turned around to the group, he gave a wry grin. “Do I look like it’s an emergency?” He tried to get a sparkle in his eyes. It seemed to work. Several of the limpets were laughing.

  He reached the door and the security people were prepared to open it. It was time for the grand finale. He adopted his slightly concerned face.

  “Joking apart, though,” he said, his hand on the big brass handle of the door. “Naturally, I feel for Christer at a time like this. This kind of unwarranted media attention is always a trial. But I assure you, for the government— and the party— this business is of no consequence whatever. I suppose you’ve all seen Kvällspressen today. They’ve realized why the police have been interviewing Christer. He happens to have an overnight apartment next to Kronoberg Park. Even cabinet ministers have to have somewhere to live.”

  He gave a pensive smile and nodded at his own words of wisdom before he entered the security doors of the government offices. As the doors shut, he could hear the questions seeping in through the crack.

  “… a reason for several police interviews?”

  “… seen anything in particular?”

  “… comment on the latest statements from…”

  He focused on walking up the stairs slowly and calmly for as long as the journalists could see him through the glass door. Goddamn hyenas!

  “Shit, it’s hot in here,” he burst out, and opened a few more buttons on his shirt. “If I have to sit here all day, at least you could see to it that I can breathe!”

  He stepped into an elevator and let the doors slide shut before the security people had time to get in. He really had to get to the bathroom.

  *

  The shoelace broke and Annika cursed. She didn’t have any new ones at home. With a sigh she sat down on the hallway floor, pulled the sneaker off, and made yet another knot. Soon there wouldn’t be any lace left to tie the shoes with. She had to remember to buy new ones.

  She ran downstairs cautiously, not wanting to put too much strain on her knees. Her legs felt stiff and numb; she’d neglected her running all summer.

  The air in the backyard was stagnant and heavy. All the windows of the building were open wide, baring black holes in the dilapidated facade. Curtains hung tiredly, not moving an inch. Annika threw in a towel in the shared basement bathroom and slowly jogged out through the gateway to Agnegatan.

  The newsstand on the corner of Bergsgatan already had the Kvällspressen table of contents up. Carl Wennergren had the lead story again with his Ninja Barbies. She jogged in place for a couple of seconds while reading the headlines.

  EXCLUSIVE PICTURES IN KVäLLSPRESSEN:

  STRIP CLUB ATTACK

  Her pulse quickened and she began to sweat. In the picture, the door of the club was blown open, a fire blazing in the doorway.

  I wonder where Patricia was when the explosion went off, she mused. Was she frightened?

  She picked up a copy of the paper and skimmed the front-page story. There hadn’t been any major damage to the club. She was relieved.

  She put the paper back, turned around, and started jogging down Agnegatan toward Kungsholmsstrand. Down by the canal she turned left and increased the pace. Pretty soon her lungs started to ache. She was seriously out of condition. She let her feet slam down on the asphalt with increasing intensity, not minding the pain. When she saw Karlberg Palace ahead on her right, she moved into high gear. Her chest heaved like bellows, and the sweat ran into her eyes. She came back on Lindhagensgatan, through Rålambshov Park and up via Kungsholms Square. When she finally stepped into the shower, she was exhausted.

  I have to take care of myself, she thought. I have to get regular exercise. As she returned up the stairs to her apartment, her legs were shaking.

  *

  She walked into the newsroom just before lunch. Berit still hadn’t returned from Gotland, so Annika used her desk again.

  Her own contribution for the day was the story on the minister’s overnight apartment. The headline was eye-catching, “Kvällspressen Reveals: Why Police Questioned Minister.”

  She was happy with the intro: “Christer Lundgren lives next to the murder scene. He has a secret overnight apartment only 50 yards from the cemetery.

  “Not even Lundgren’s press secretary knew the apartment existed.

  ” ‘How did you find me?’ the minister asked when Kvällspressen yesterday visited him in the studio apartment.”

  Then followed a description of the apartment, the fact that everybody in the house had been interviewed, and then Daniella’s words: “As if he’d be a murderer? It’s so silly. He’s no killer.”

  Annika had left out the part about his being a cheapskate.

  Then she’d added a few cryptic lines about the police still taking a greater interest in the minister than the rest of the occupants in the building. She’d kept that paragraph brief as she didn’t quite know what the police were after.

  The bitch Mariana with the fancy surname had done a short piece on Josefin’s having worked in a club called Studio 69.

  Berit had a short piece on the Speaker’s denial of any knowledge of the IB affair.

  *

  A stranger was sitting at the news desk with Spike’s telephone receiver glued to his ear. Annika turned on her computer and peeked at him from behind her screen. Did he know who she was? It occurred to her that she should go up and introduce herself. She hesitated for a moment, smoothing down her half-dry hair. When he put down the phone, she hurried up to him. Just when she’d drawn breath to begin speaking behind his back, the phone rang again and he answered it. Annika was left standing behind his chair, looking around her. That’s when she saw a copy of the Rival. The picture of Josefin in her white graduation cap dominated the front page. The headline was fat and black: “A Stripper.” Annika held on to the news editor’s chair and leaned over the paper. The caption added, “Murdered Josefin a sex worker.”

  “How the hell could we miss that angle? Maybe you can tell me that!”

  Annika looked into the man’s cold gaze. She wet her lips and held out her hand. “I’m Annika Bengtzon, nice to meet you,” she said in a slightly hushed voice.

  He released her eyes, quickly pressed her hand, and mumbled his own, Ingvar Johansson. He picked up the Rival and held it out in front of Anni
ka.

  “From what I hear, you’ve been covering this story. How the hell could we miss out on the fact that she was a hooker?”

  Annika felt her pulse racing; her mouth was as dry as dust. She knew Johansson was the news editor. Her mind raced.

  “She wasn’t a hooker,” she said with a trembling voice. “She danced in her boyfriend’s club.”

  “Well, she wasn’t dancing ballet. She was bare-assed.”

  “No, she wore panties. And the boyfriend was strictly legit.”

  Johansson stared at her. “So why didn’t you write that if you knew all about it?”

  She swallowed hard, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. “Well, I guess I was… wrong. I didn’t think it mattered.”

  The telephone rang again and the news editor turned away. Annika swallowed and felt the tears welling up. Shit. Shit. Shit. She’d blown it. She’d fucked up.

  She turned around and started walking toward Berit’s desk, the floor rolling underneath her feet. She didn’t seem to be able to do anything right.

  Her telephone was ringing like mad. She hurried up to it, cleared her throat, and picked it up.

  “Yes, hello, this is Lisbeth,” she heard a mature woman’s voice say.

  Annika dropped down on the chair and closed her eyes. She was trying not to hyperventilate.

  “Who?”

  “You know, Lisbeth the counselor.” The voice sounded reproachful.

  Annika sighed soundlessly. “Oh, yes, of course, the youth club in Täby. What can I do for you?”

  “The young people here are going ahead with their protest against violence today. They’ll be leaving here at two P.M. in three coaches. They should be at the murder scene around two-thirty.”

  Annika swallowed and rubbed her forehead. “At two-thirty,” she echoed.

  “Yes, I thought you might want to know.”

  “Yeah, that’s great. Thanks.”

  Annika hung up and went out to the ladies’ room and ran cold water on her face and wrists. Slowly, the feelings of panic subsided.

  It isn’t that bad, she told herself. I’ve got to try to get things into perspective. Of course people might think I did the wrong thing— so what?