Studio Sex

by Liza Marklund

  Anne placed the pickup on the vinyl and they both sang along.

  Hans came in and turned the volume down. “This is a built-up area,” he said. “Have you ever eaten palt?”

  “Nope.” Annika had never fancied the idea of bread baked with blood and rye flour.

  It was fried and tasted quite good, a bit like potato dumplings.

  “Do you want to go see a movie?” Anne said when the dishwasher started rumbling.

  “Is there a movie theater here?” Annika wouldn’t have thought there would be.

  Anne gave her father an inquiring look. “Are there any theaters still open?”

  “Sorry, I don’t know.”

  “Do you have a phone directory?” Annika asked.

  “Upstairs, by the computer,” Hans replied.

  After she looked for a movie theater, Annika thought she might as well look up Roger Sundström. Why not? There were two, one whose wife was called Britt-Inger. They lived on Solandergatan.

  “Djupviken,” Anne told her. “Other side of town.”

  “Do you want to go for a walk?” Annika said.

  *

  The sun was going down behind the pulp mill. They walked through Strömnäs and crossed over the Nolia area behind the People’s Palace. The Sundström family lived in a sixties yellow-brick bungalow with a basement. Annika could hear children singing.

  “Do whatever you want,” Anne said. “I’m just coming along for the ride.”

  Annika rang the doorbell; Roger Sundström was in. The man was surprised when Annika introduced herself, and then he became suspicious.

  “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you told me,” Annika said. “Now I’m here in Piteå, visiting my friend Anne, and I thought I’d just drop by.”

  The children, a boy and a girl, came rushing into the hallway and hid behind their father’s legs, filled with curiosity.

  “You go and put on your pajamas,” the man said, and tried to shoo them into a room on the left.

  “Are we going to sing later, Dad?”

  “Yeah, yeah, and brush your teeth.”

  “Can we come in for a minute?”

  The man hesitated but then showed them into the living room: corner couch, glass coffee table, china ornaments in the bookcase. “Britt-Inger is at her evening class.”

  “Nice house you’ve got here,” Anne said in much broader Norrland accent than she usually spoke in.

  “So what do you want?” Roger sat down in a plush armchair.

  Annika sat down on the edge of the couch. “I’m sorry to intrude like this. I’m just wondering if I remember correctly. Did you fly from Arlanda with Transwede?”

  The man scratched his stubble. “Yes. That’s right. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  The question was tentative— he knew he should offer.

  “No thanks,” Anne said. “We won’t stay long.”

  “So then you departed from Terminal Two, didn’t you?” Annika said. “The small one?”

  “Which one?” the man asked.

  “Not the big domestic departure terminal, but one that’s a bit farther away.”

  Roger nodded circumspectly. “That’s right. We had to take a transfer bus, and we had to carry our luggage all the way, because it had to go through customs in Stockholm.”

  Annika nodded. “Exactly! And it was there, at that small terminal, that you and Britt-Inger saw the minister?”

  Roger thought about it. “Yes, it must have been there. Because we were checking in.”

  Annika swallowed. “I know this may be difficult, but do you remember which gate you left from?”

  He shook his head. “No idea.”

  Annika sighed inwardly. Oh, well, it was a long shot.

  “Although,” the man said, “we let the kids ride on top of the baggage trolley and that was a sight. I think Britt-Inger filmed it. Maybe you can see it on the videotape.”

  Annika opened her eyes wide. “For real?”

  “Let’s have a look.” The man went over to the bookcase. He opened the doors to the cocktail cabinet and started looking through the tapes.

  “Majorca, here we are.” He pushed the tape into a VCR and started the video. The picture flickered— the kids playing by a pool. The sun must have been high as the shadows were short. Two hairy legs, probably Roger’s, appeared on the left. The text in the corner read July 24, 2:27 P.M.

  “Is that clock right?” Annika wondered.

  “I think so. I’ll fast-forward it a bit.”

  A blond, sleeping woman on an airplane, her chin slack. The date had jumped forward to July 27, 4:53 P.M. “My wife.”

  And then a tanned, smiling Roger was pushing a trolley fully loaded with both luggage and children, July 27, 7:43 P.M. The boy was standing up, holding on to the handle of the trolley; the girl sat on top of the suitcases. Both were waving at their mother behind the camera. The picture wobbled a bit as the camera swept across the hall.

  “There!” Annika yelled. “Did you see? Sixty-four!”

  “What?” Roger said.

  “Rewind a bit,” Annika said. “Have you got freeze-frame?”

  Roger pressed on the remote control buttons.

  “Too much,” Anne said. “How did you manage to see that?”

  “I was there today, and I was thinking about this,” Annika said. “Go on, maybe there’s more.”

  A bunch of people were suddenly jostling in front of the camera. Someone knocked the camera and then Roger was back in the picture.

  “Christer!” he called out on-screen, lifting his hand and waving.

  On-screen Roger stood on tiptoe, looked to his left, toward his wife, and talked into the living room. “Did you see him? It was Anna-Lena’s Christer! He must be on our flight.”

  “Why don’t you go over and say hello?” an invisible woman’s voice said.

  Roger turned around, and Annika saw people moving to the side, and in the distance, albeit out of focus, she saw Christer Lundgren running toward a gate. It was the former minister for foreign trade, without a doubt.

  “Do you see?” Annika yelled out. “He’s holding a ticket! He is boarding a plane.”

  On-screen Roger lost the minister in the crowd, looked in another direction, and called out, “Christer!” and then the screen went black. The picture jumped as the tape was beginning to rewind.

  Annika felt a violent wave of adrenaline sweeping through her. “No wonder you didn’t see him on the plane. Christer Lundgren took the flight from gate sixty-five, not sixty-four.”

  “Where was it going?” a confused Anne asked.

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” Annika said. “Thank you so much for letting us disturb you, Roger.”

  She gave his hand a quick squeeze and hurried outside.

  “What did I tell you?” she shouted with joy once they were outside. “I’ll be damned! He did go somewhere that night. But he can’t say where!” She performed a short war dance in the street.

  “We know where he was,” Anne said wryly. “He was at a sex club.”

  “No, he wasn’t. He made a trip somewhere and the destination is top secret.” Annika did a pirouette. “It’s so damn secret that he’d rather be accused of murder and resign.”

  “Rather than what?”

  Annika stopped. “Tell the truth.”

  Nineteen Years, Four Months, and Seven Days

  I have to decide what’s important. I have to arrive at a conclusion about what I am. Do I exist, other than through him? Do I breathe, except through his mouth? Do I think, outside of his world?

  I have tried talking to him about it. His logic is plain and lucid.

  Do I exist, he asks, other than through you? Do I live— without you? he asks. Can I love without your love?

  Then he gives me the answer.

  No.

  He needs me. He can’t live without me. Never leave me, he says. We are the most important thing there is to each other.

  He says


  he will never

  let me go.

  I’ve been alone for a long time.

  Tuesday 4 September

  Patricia had slept for a few hours when she woke up with a vague sense of unease. She sat up on her mattress, brushed her hair from her face, saw the man, and screamed.

  “Who are you?” the guy in the doorway asked. He was crouching and looked at her as if he’d been there for a while.

  Patricia pulled up the cover to her chin and backed up against the wall. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Sven. Where’s Annika?”

  Patricia swallowed and tried to get a grip on the situation. “I… she… I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t she get back from her holiday yesterday?”

  Patricia cleared her throat. “Yes… Yes, I think so. Her clothes had been hung out to dry when I got home.”

  “Home?”

  She looked down. “Annika said I could stay here for a while. I was sharing with a friend who… I didn’t see her yesterday. I don’t know where she is. She didn’t come home last night.”

  The words hung in the air, pulsating. Patricia was hit by a monstrous feeling of déjà vu.

  “Where do you think she is now?”

  She had heard that question before; the whole room spun, and she gave the same answer now as then. “Don’t know, maybe she’s gone shopping, maybe she’s with you…”

  The guy gave her a searching look. “And you don’t know when she’ll be back?”

  She shook her head, tears burning behind her eyelids.

  Sven stood up. “Well, we’ve established who I am and what I want. Who the hell are you?”

  She swallowed. “I’m Patricia. I got to know Annika when she worked at Kvällspressen. She said I could stay here awhile.”

  The man looked at her closely; she pressed the cover tighter against her chin.

  “So you’re a journalist too? What do you write about? Have you known her long?”

  The unease sent shivers up and down her spine. She had answered so many questions, had been held responsible for so much that had nothing to do with her.

  The man moved a few steps closer so that he stood right above her. “Annika hasn’t been herself lately. She thought she’d make some kind of career here in the big city, but it was a nonstarter. Was it you who got her into all this?”

  The words flashed through Patricia’s mind and she yelled straight back at him, “I didn’t get anyone into anything! No way.” She glared up at the man, who started back.

  “Annika will be moving to Hälleforsnäs soon. I hope you’ve got somewhere else to go then. I’ll be staying here a few days. Tell her I’ll be back tonight.”

  Patricia heard him walk out of the apartment, the front door shutting. A whimper rose in her mouth; she curled up in a small, hard ball, clutching her hands tightly, desperately.

  *

  Hans Snapphane was having coffee and reading the local newspaper when Annika padded into the kitchen.

  “There are some boiled eggs on the stove,” he said.

  Annika fished one out and ran cold water over it.

  “My daughter is still asleep, I imagine?”

  Annika nodded and smiled. “She’s worked hard for a long time.”

  “I’m glad she got away from there. That place did her no good. This new TV job seems to have decent hours. There are more women in management too.”

  Annika glanced at him furtively; he seemed to have a brain.

  “Could I use your phone to make a few calls?” she asked as he got up and grabbed his briefcase.

  “Sure, but go easy on Jim Steinman for a while, will you? Britt-Inger’s working late again tonight.”

  He waved to her from the car as he drove off.

  Annika gobbled down the egg and sprinted upstairs. She began by phoning the Civil Aviation Administration flight information at Arlanda.

  “Hello, I was wondering if you could help me with something. I need to know when a particular flight departed.”

  “Sure,” the customer service man said. “Which one?”

  “It’s a bit complicated. I only know which gate it left from.”

  “That’s no problem— if it was today or yesterday, that is.”

  “Oh… No, it wasn’t. Is it impossible to find out?”

  “Have you got the time of departure? We can see the flights one day back and six days ahead.”

  Annika’s heart sank. “This was five weeks ago.”

  “And all you have is the gate number? That makes it a bit tricky. I can’t check that far back, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t you have timetables?”

  “You’d have to get in touch with the airline. What’s it about? Is it an insurance matter?”

  “No, not at all.”

  They fell silent.

  “Well,” the man said, “you’d have to contact the airline.”

  She sighed. “I don’t know which airline it was,” she said glumly. “Which airlines fly out of Terminal Two?”

  The man listed them. “Maersk Air, a Danish company that runs services to Jutland, among other places; Sabena to Brussels; Alitalia; Delta to the U.S.; Estonian Air; Austrian Airlines; and Finnair.”

  Annika jotted down the names of the airlines. “And do they all fly from all gates by turns?”

  “Not really. The international flights usually use gates sixty-five to sixty-eight. Seventy to seventy-three are on the floor below for bus transfers.”

  “Gate sixty-five is international?”

  “Yes. Customs and the security checkpoint are inside.”

  “And sixty-four, what kind of gate is that?”

  “Mostly domestic. The gates are in pairs. But that can be altered by moving the doors about in a certain way—”

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

  International indeed… Christer Lundgren traveled abroad on the night of the twenty-seventh of July and returned just after five in the morning on the twenty-eighth.

  “So he didn’t go to the U.S.,” Annika said out loud, crossing out Delta Airlines.

  He could have flown to Jutland, Finland, Brussels, Tallinn, and Vienna and back. The distances were short enough for it to be possible. Italy was more unlikely.

  The question was, however, how did he get home in the middle of the night? It must have been a damned important meeting. It must have taken some time as well.

  She counted on her fingers.

  Say he left at 20:00; so wherever he was going, he wouldn’t get there and clear customs before 21:30. Then he probably had to get somewhere in a taxi or a car, unless the meeting took place at the airport.

  Suppose 22:00 was the time of the meeting. And suppose it finished at 23:00. Back to the airport, check in— he couldn’t have been on a return flight before midnight.

  There can’t be that many scheduled flights at that time of the night, not with these airlines. And what was Maersk Air?

  She sighed.

  He could have got home some other way, she thought— by car or boat. That would exclude Vienna, Brussels, and anywhere in Italy.

  She looked down at her pad; that left Jutland, Finland, and Tallinn. She looked up Finnair’s ticket office in the phone book, dialed the toll-free number, and got the company’s call center in Helsinki.

  “No,” said the friendly voice of a man who sounded like the Moomin Troll in Tove Jansson’s children stories, “I can’t check data like that on my computer. Did you say you don’t have a flight number? If you did, I could check back.”

  Annika closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with her hand. “Which cities do you fly to from Stockholm?”

  The man tapped on his computer. “Helsinki, of course. And Oslo, Copenhagen, Vienna, Berlin, and London.”

  Dead end. It was impossible to check this way where the plane went.

  “One last question. When does the last flight to Stockholm leave?”

  “From Helsinki? It leaves at twenty-on
e forty-five and arrives at twenty-one forty in Stockholm. You’re one hour behind us.”

  She thanked him and rang off.

  He must have got home some other way than on a regular flight. Private plane, she thought. He could have chartered a plane to return on.

  It costs a lot of money, she thought, remembering the uproar surrounding the prime minister’s private flights. You have to pay for a chartered plane, and she didn’t think Christer Lundgren would do that out of his own pocket. It would be against his religion.

  She raised her eyes and looked out of the window in Hans Snapphane’s study. To the right she saw the most common house type in Piteå, a red, seventies, prefab bungalow. Straight ahead, on the other side of the street, was a larger white-brick house with brown-stained paneling, and in the distance a stretch of woodland.

  There has to be an invoice somewhere. Regardless of how he got home, the former minister for foreign trade must surely have invoiced his travel expenses to some department or government office.

  It struck her that she didn’t even know to which department foreign trade belonged.

  She went into Anne and woke her up.

  “I’ve got to go back to Stockholm,” Annika told her. “I’ve got a lot to do.”

  *

  Anne wasn’t surprised at Annika’s reawakened enthusiasm for her job. She helped Annika make the return arrangements. Back in Stockholm, Annika went straight from City Terminal to the Ministry for Foreign Affairs in Gustav Adolfs Square. But the pink-and-yellow building was surrounded by shiny, dark cars. Important men stood around watchfully, and pensioners with cameras were dotted here and there. The people made her uneasy as she approached the entrance. A large black vehicle with a ridiculous registration plate in the form of a crown blocked the entrance. When she’d walked around it, an obese security guard in olive drab uniform blocked her way.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Inside,” Annika replied.

  “We’ve got enough reporters as it is.”

  Shit, Annika thought. “But I’m going to the registrar.”

  “Then you’ll have to wait,” the guard said, and with a peremptory gesture crossed his hands over his crotch.

  Annika didn’t move. “Why’s that?”

  The guard’s gaze shifted slightly. “State visit. The president of South Africa is here.”