Studio Sex

by Liza Marklund

  She smoothed down her hair and then went to the cafeteria and bought a sandwich. From a purely ethical point of view, it could be argued that she’d done the right thing. It was worth looking into.

  She took the sandwich and a diet Fanta back to Berit’s desk.

  The press ombudsman was kind and patient: “You have to be a relation of the deceased to make a report, or have the consent of the family.”

  Annika thought about it. “This partly concerns a newspaper, partly a radio program. Would you deal with that?”

  “We could look at the newspaper article but not the radio program. You’ll have to go to the Broadcast Commission for that.”

  “I thought they only do impartiality and objectivity.”

  “It’s true, but they also look at ethical and journalistic issues. The rules are roughly the same as for the print media. What form of publication is this about?”

  “Thanks a lot for your help,” Annika said quickly, and rang off.

  She called the Broadcast Commission.

  “Yes, we could look into that,” said the chief administrative officer who answered the phone.

  “Even if I’m the one bringing it up?” Annika asked.

  “No, we only look into complaints from the public concerning impartiality and objectivity. When it comes to issues of intrusion into a deceased’s family privacy, the complaint has to come from the people concerned.”

  Annika shut her eyes and leaned her head in her hand. “If that happened, what do you think would be your conclusion?”

  The officer considered the question. “The outcome often isn’t clear-cut. We’ve had a few cases, and in a couple of them the family’s complaint has been upheld. Could you be a bit more specific?”

  Annika drew a breath. “It’s about a murdered woman. She’s been depicted as a stripper in a radio program. Her family had not approved making this information public.”

  This wasn’t strictly true; Annika hadn’t talked to Josefin’s parents. But as far as Patricia was concerned, she was like family.

  “I see.” The administrative officer hesitated. “It’s not completely straightforward,” she said in the end. “The commission would have to receive a complaint and then consider the case. There is the public interest to take into account.”

  Annika gave up. She felt she wouldn’t be getting any further. She thanked her and hung up.

  But I’m not completely talking through my hat, she thought. There might be a privacy case to be made.

  *

  The lunchtime Eko started. Annika put her feet on the desk and listened absentmindedly to Berit’s transistor radio. They headlined five stories: the Middle East, the prime minister’s comment on the Christer Lundgren affair, and three other things that Annika forgot about as soon as she’d heard them. She let her thoughts roam free while they droned on about the Middle East. When they announced the prime minister, she turned up the volume.

  The familiar voice sounded mischievous: “Do I look like it’s an emergency?”

  The reporter described the prime minister as having been relaxed and in excellent spirits when arriving at Rosenbad this morning. He wasn’t the least worried about the accusations against Foreign Trade Minister Christer Lundgren, but was looking forward to the forthcoming election campaign with confidence. He did feel sympathy for his colleague, however, and knew what he was going through.

  The prime minister again: “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.”

  That was the end of the report. The next item was about some official report from the Association of Local Authorities. Annika turned the radio off. If one thing really bored the pants off her, it was Local Authorities’ reports.

  *

  “Is it you who’s been talking all this rubbish?”

  Patricia blinked sleepily at the strip of light between the curtains. She tried to sit up straight on the mattress and moved the receiver to the other ear.

  “Hello.”

  “Don’t try to get out of it. Just tell me the truth!” The shrill voice broke.

  Patricia coughed and rubbed her eyes, wishing the pollen season would soon be over.

  “Is that you, Barbro?” she said cautiously.

  “Of course it’s me! Who else would it be? One of your porn friends, perhaps!”

  Josefin’s mother was raging down the phone, a rant so inarticulate and incoherent Patricia hadn’t even recognized her voice at first. Patricia took a deep breath and tried to collect her thoughts. The words entwined, mixed up, and blurred. Spanish took over, as it sometimes did when she was under stress.

  “No entiendo…”

  “Do you understand what you have done?” Josefin’s mother yelled. “You’ve blackened her memory forever. How could you?”

  Patricia’s mind cleared— something was wrong. “What’s happened? What are you talking about?”

  The voice on the phone dropped to a whisper. “We know what you are. You’re a greaseball whore. Do you hear that? And as if that weren’t enough, you had to drag Josefin down with you!”

  Patricia stood up and shouted back, “That’s not true! Not at all! I didn’t drag Josefin into anything!”

  “Now listen to me,” Barbro Liljeberg Hed hissed. “I want you out of my apartment today. Pack your dirty things and go back to Africa or wherever you came from.”

  “But—”

  “I want you gone before six o’clock.”

  Click. The line went dead. Patricia listened to the empty noise for a while. Then she slowly put the phone down and sank down on the mattress. She sat down with her chin on her knees, her arms around her legs, and began rocking slowly back and forth, back and forth.

  Where would she go?

  The phone rang again. She flinched, as if from a slap. Without thinking she grabbed the phone, ripped the cord from the socket, and hurled it out in the hallway.

  “Fucking bitch!” she screamed, and started to cry.

  *

  Annika let it ring for a long time. Patricia ought to be home by now. Maybe she was asleep, but she should still hear the telephone.

  What if something had happened to her?

  Worry mingled with the shame that lingered from the day before. First for being associated with the woman and then for her betrayal.

  She walked restlessly around the newsroom, had a cup of coffee, and watched CNN for a while. When she came past the news desk, she realized that she had forgotten to tell them about the demonstration at the murder scene.

  “You’ll have to do it,” Ingvar Johansson said curtly. “All the other reporters are busy.”

  She walked over to Picture Pelle and booked a photographer for 14:15.

  “Pettersson will go with you,” Pelle said. “He’s on his way in.”

  Annika smiled nicely but groaned inwardly. The clapped-out VW again.

  “I’ll wait outside,” she said, and went to pick up her bag.

  She took the elevator down, walked outside, and sat down on one of the concrete foundations outside the multistory garage. The air was boiling and electrically charged; her lungs crackled as she breathed. She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the city; they might not be hers for much longer.

  When she opened her eyes, she couldn’t make sense of the image at first. The woman walking into the entrance looked familiar, but it took her a second to recognize her.

  “Patricia!” Annika called out, and ran after her. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  Confused, the woman looked around and saw Annika. She walked outside and nearly got caught between the automatic sliding doors. Tore Brand yelled something and Patricia stopped.

  “What’s happened?”

  “They’re throwing me out.”

  Annika breathed freely again. “But that’s just as well. You’ll soon find a new job.”

 
Patricia looked at her, taken aback. “Not the club. The apartment.”

  “Josefin’s parents?”

  Patricia nodded and wiped away the tears. “Jossie’s mother’s a real bitch. A racist bitch.”

  “Where will you go?”

  The young woman tossed her hair back defiantly and shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe I’ll shack up with some guy. There’s plenty of sugar daddies around.”

  Without really thinking about it, Annika rummaged around in her bag. “Here.” She put her keys in Patricia’s hand. “Thirty-two Hantverkargatan, across the yard, top floor. Have you got any money? Make some copies, my boyfriend has my extra set.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got an extra bedroom. It’s an old maid’s bedroom behind the kitchen. You can have it. Do you have a mattress?”

  Patricia nodded.

  “What about the other furniture in the apartment?”

  “The bed belongs to Joachim, and the table Jossie bought secondhand.”

  “Are you working tonight?”

  She nodded again.

  “Do you work every night?”

  “Almost,” she said in a low voice.

  “Okay, that’s your business. Just don’t mess the place up. That would make me unhappy.”

  Patricia looked at her with wide eyes. “How do you know you can trust me? You don’t know me.”

  Annika smiled wryly. “There’s nothing to steal.”

  At that moment Pettersson came driving along Gjörwellsgatan; Annika could hear that by the way he stalled at the entrance.

  “Take the bus over there on Rålambsvägen. Number sixty-two will take you all the way down Hantverkargatan.”

  Patricia stood there looking at the keys.

  Annika left her and walked toward the photographer.

  “We’ll have a thunderstorm tonight,” Pettersson said through the window.

  Patricia waved good-bye and walked off. Annika forced a smile in Pettersson’s direction. He was some freaking weather prophet too.

  “Let’s park a little ways away,” she said as she climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not a hundred percent sure they’re going to like us being there.”

  They drove in silence over to the cemetery. The car only stalled twice. They parked in a garage that had its entrance down by Fleminggatan.

  Annika slowly walked along Kronobergsgatan up to the park. They were out in good time; the coaches would only have just left Täby. She sat down on a doorstep where she had a good view of the cemetery. The photographer wandered around on the other side of the street.

  In the winter I’ll wish I was back in this heat, she mused. When the wind is blowing hard and the snow falling, when I’m scraping the ice off the windshield in the morning— then I’ll be longing for these days. When I drive into Katrineholm to cover yet another council meeting and talk to some angry women about the closure of another post office, then I’ll be remembering this. Here and now. Chaos and murder. The hot city.

  She looked straight up at the sky— it was bluer than blue. Beyond the park it was a shade of steely gray, shiny and sharp.

  So maybe Pettersson was right, she thought. Maybe we’ll have a thunderstorm.

  *

  The first coach drove up along Kronobergsgatan at twenty past two. Annika stayed in the doorway while the photographer put on a telephoto lens and started snapping the youngsters as they stepped out of the coach. The other two coaches appeared a few minutes later. Annika got to her feet and brushed off her pants. She swallowed; her mouth was dry. Damn it, she always forgot to bring water with her on assignments. She approached the group slowly, looking out for Martin Larsson-Berg, Lisbeth, and Charlotta. She didn’t see them.

  The youngsters were loud and seemed aggressive. Several of them were crying. She came to a stop in Sankt Göransgatan. She didn’t feel good about this. Despite the distance, she could see that many of the kids looked tired. Their faces were gray with lack of sleep. She crossed the street to Pettersson’s side.

  “Hey,” she said. “Let’s give this one a miss.”

  The photographer lowered his camera and looked at her, surprised. “Why, for Christ’s sakes?”

  Annika nodded toward the coaches. “Look at them. They’re hysterical. I don’t know if it’s healthy to encourage mass psychosis like they do at that youth club. These kids probably haven’t been home since last Sunday.”

  “But they called us.”

  Annika nodded. “Yeah, they did. This is probably very important to them. But it’s our responsibility to use our brains, even if they can’t.”

  The photographer was getting impatient. “Goddammit. I’m not going to ditch a job just because you’ve suddenly developed a conscience.”

  The group of youngsters was milling around, spreading out around the cemetery. Annika was still wavering.

  At the same moment, Annika saw the car from the rival newspaper drive up and park in Sankt Göransgatan. Arne Påhlson stepped out.

  That settled it. “Come on, then. Let’s go closer,” she said to Pettersson.

  She approached the cemetery with the photographer in tow, aiming at the wrought-iron arches of the fence. Her mouth was dry as dust as she swallowed, her pulse quickening. When she was a few yards away from the kids, one pointed at her and started screaming.

  “There they are. They’re here! The vultures! The vultures!” Everybody’s attention was directed at the two journalists.

  “Is Lisbeth here?” Annika asked, but her voice didn’t carry over the noise.

  “Beat it, fucking assholes!” a boy of no more than thirteen or fourteen screamed at them. He took a few hostile steps toward Annika, who drew back instinctively. The boy’s face was swollen from crying and lack of sleep, his whole body shaking with adrenaline and fury. She stared at him, speechless.

  “Listen,” she said, “we didn’t mean to intrude—”

  A big girl stepped forward and gave Annika’s shoulder a hard shove. “Fucking hyenas!” she bawled, the spit flying.

  Annika stumbled backward. She tried to catch the girl’s furious gaze with calm. “Please. Let’s try to talk about this—”

  “Fucking hyena!” the girl screamed. “Asshole!”

  The group of young people surrounding Annika grew denser. She was frightened. Someone pushed her in the back so she stumbled forward and collided with the big girl.

  “What are you doing, bitch?” the girl screamed. “Are you starting something?”

  Annika frantically looked around for Pettersson. Where was he?

  “Pettersson!” she cried out. “Pettersson, where the hell are you?”

  His voice reached her from somewhere over by the garage entrance.

  “Bengtzon!” he yelled in panic. “They’re trying to take my cameras!”

  Suddenly one voice could be heard above all the others. Menacing and frenzied, it cut through the noise.

  “Where? Where are they?”

  A girl who had grabbed hold of Annika’s bag let go of it and turned her attention toward the voice. Annika saw a copy of Kvällspressen bobbing above the heads of the youths. The group parted and she saw several kids opening up newspapers. Charlotta from Josefin’s class was making her way forward through a passage in the crowd. Annika drew back another few steps at the sight.

  The girl was on the verge of collapse. Her eyes were red and the pupils were dilated and dark, and her movements were jerky and uncoordinated. Her hair was dirty and messy and her breathing ragged.

  “You… scavenger!” she screamed, and made a lunge at Annika. “You scumbag!”

  With all her might, Charlotta whacked Annika over the head with the paper. Annika instinctively held up her hands as the blows rained down on her. The papers hit her on the arms and across her back while the screams around her rose to a collective roar.

  Annika felt all thoughts disappear from her mind as she turned around, pushed kids out of the way, and started running.
Away, God help her, away from here, and she heard her own steps thudding on the street. The green of the park flashed past on the right. She sensed Pettersson somewhere behind her, but so were the youths.

  The slope down to the garage was pitch-dark after the strong sunlight in the park, and she stumbled.

  “Pettersson!” she cried. “Are you there?”

  She had reached the car, and once her eyes had grown used to the dark, she could see the photographer running down the ramp. He had his cameras in one hand, his photographer’s vest hung loose from one shoulder, and his hair stood on end.

  “They tried to tear my clothes off,” he said, visibly disturbed. “That was fucking stupid, walking up to them.”

  “Just shut the fuck up,” Annika shouted. “Get into the fucking car and let’s get out of here!”

  He opened the door, got in, and opened her door. Annika jumped in; it must have been a hundred degrees inside the car. She quickly wound down the window. Unbelievably, the car started on the first try, and Pettersson drove toward the exit on screeching tires. Outside, the light hit them and Annika was momentarily blinded.

  “There they are!”

  The howls reached her through the open side window and she saw the mob rushing toward them like a wall.

  “Step on it, damn it!” she screamed, and wound up the window.

  “It’s a one-way street,” the photographer wailed. “I’ve got to drive past the cemetery!”

  “No way!” Annika yelled at him. “Just drive!”

  Pettersson had just reached Kronobergsgatan when the car stalled. Annika wound up the window, locked her door, and put her hands over her ears. Pettersson turned the ignition key repeatedly. The starter went around and around without igniting. The mob reached them, surrounding them on all sides. Someone tried to climb up on the roof. They were thumping the car with their fists.

  Annika saw a copy of Kvällspressen pushed against the windshield, open to her article about the mourning youth in Täby. The picture of the girls with their poems left marks of printing ink on the window.

  Someone crumpled up the paper on the hood and set fire to it. Annika yelled, frantic.

  “Just get the fucking car started, damn it! We’ve got to get out of here!”