Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed

by Liza Marklund

  "A girl died in there yesterday," the blond woman said, and pointed in among the graves as they walked past Annika.

  "No kidding?" the dark one said, eyes open wide.

  The first one nodded in a bossy way and waved her hand around. "She lay in there, completely cut open. She'd been raped after she was killed."

  "That's awful."

  They stopped a few yards away, engrossed in the dark shadows among the stones. After a minute or so, they were both crying.

  "We've got to leave a message," the blond woman said.

  They dug out a piece of paper from one bag, a pen from another. The blonde leaned on the other's back to write the note. Then they dried their tears and walked off toward the subway.

  When they'd disappeared around the corner, Annika walked over and read the note:

  "We miss you."

  At that moment she saw a team from the Rival step out of a car parked by the playground on Kronobergsgatan. She turned around and quickly walked down Sankt Göransgatan; she most definitely did not want to stand around chatting to Arne Påhlson.

  On her way down to the 56 bus stop, she walked past Daniella Hermansson's street door, the cheery mother who always slept with her window open. She fished out her pad- yes, she had the entry code jotted down next to Daniella's address. Without deliberating any further, she punched in the code and entered the building.

  The current of air that hit her was so cold that she shivered. She stopped to hear the street door close behind her. The entrance was decorated with murals with park motifs.

  Daniella lived on the third floor. Annika took the elevator. She rang the doorbell but nobody answered. She looked at her watch: ten past three. Daniella was most likely in the park with her kid.

  She sighed. The day hadn't been particularly productive so far. Especially in terms of material she could write about. She looked around the hallway. There were a lot of doors, so the apartments had to be small. On the mailboxes were the names of the tenants in plastic lettering that had turned yellow. Annika walked up and studied the one nearest to her. Svensson, she read. She might as well get some reactions from other neighbors now that she was here.

  Annika rang the Svenssons' bell, and through the narrow crack that opened came the stench of acrid BO. Annika took a step back. A shapeless woman in a mauve and turquoise polyester dress peered out through the opening: myopic eyes, gray tangle of greasy hair. She was holding a fat little mutt of indeterminable breed.

  "Excuse me for disturbing you. I'm from the newspaper Kvällspressen."

  "We haven't done anything." The woman gave Annika a frightened look.

  "No, of course not," Annika said politely. "I'm just knocking on the doors of this house to hear how people in the neighborhood are reacting to a crime being committed nearby."

  The woman pulled the door closed a bit. "I don't know anything."

  Annika started regretting disturbing the woman; maybe it wasn't such a good idea. "Perhaps you haven't heard that a young woman was murdered in the park," she said calmly. "I thought the police might have been here and-"

  "They were here yesterday."

  "So then they would have asked-"

  "It wasn't Jasper!" the woman cried out unexpectedly, making Annika take an involuntary step back. "There was nothing I could do to stop him! And I don't believe the minister had anything at all to do with it!"

  The woman slammed the door on Annika. Jesus, what had happened?

  A door at the other end of the hallway opened a crack. "What's going on?" an old man's irritated voice sounded.

  Annika picked up her pad and took the stairs down. Well out on the street, she started walking to the right without looking at the park.

  ***

  "Thanks for feeding the cats."

  Anne Snapphane was back and was sitting on her chair with her feet on the desk.

  "How was Gotland?" Annika asked, dropping her bag on the floor.

  "Scorching. Like having a fire next to a pizza oven. But they've got it under control now. But what the hell's happened to you?"

  "What?" Annika said, not understanding.

  "You've got a great big cut above your eye!"

  Annika's hand flew up to her left eyebrow. "Oh, that. I hit my head on the bathroom cabinet this morning. Guess where I've been."

  "At the murder victim's house?"

  Annika smiled broadly and sat down.

  "Well, I never," Anne said.

  "Have you had lunch?"

  They went to the cafeteria.

  "So tell me about it," Anne Snapphane said with curiosity, loading a big forkful of pasta shells into her mouth.

  Annika reflected. "Her roommate's an immigrant, or first-generation Swedish. From South America, is my guess. A bit odd, believes in astrology, but I like her."

  "And what was Josefin like?"

  Annika put down her fork. "I don't know. I can't figure her out. Patricia says she was really smart, the deputy principal that she was a stupid blonde, and her classmate Charlotta didn't seem to know the first thing about her. She wanted to be a journalist and help children, and at the same time she worked as a stripper."

  "Stripper?"

  "Her boyfriend runs some kind of strip joint. Studio 69, it's called."

  "But that's that radio show. Boring old P3 trying to be intellectual. I hate it."

  Annika nodded. "Yep. Joachim, the boyfriend, apparently thought it was hilarious. Studio 69 must be the most pretentious radio show around."

  "If his aim was to bait those hotshots at the radio station, it points to a certain degree of intelligence."

  Annika smiled and stuffed her mouth full.

  "Tell me more. What was the apartment like?"

  Annika chewed and thought about the question. "Spartan. Like it wasn't really furnished, you know, mattresses straight on the floor. As if they hadn't moved in for real."

  "How the hell did she get an apartment on Dalagatan?"

  "Mommy Barbro bought it. The phone's in her name too."

  Anne Snapphane leaned back in her chair. "Why did she die?"

  Annika shrugged. "Don't know."

  "What are the cops saying?"

  "I haven't talked to them yet."

  They both bought a bottle of mineral water to take back to the newsroom. Spike was on the phone; no one else was in the office.

  "What are you doing today?" Annika wondered.

  "New forest fires have flared up all over the realm. I'll be putting them all out single-handedly."

  Annika laughed.

  She switched on her computer and loaded a floppy disk. She swiftly entered the notes from her conversation with Patricia, saved the file to the floppy, and deleted it from the hard disk. She put the floppy in her bottom desk drawer.

  Annika's phone rang. She knew from the signal that it was an internal call.

  "You've got a visitor," Tore Brand informed her.

  "Who is it?"

  Brand disappeared from the phone; she could hear him hollering in the background, "Hey! Stop! You can't just walk in there-"

  Steps returning to the phone.

  "Listen, he went right upstairs. But I think it's all right. It's a guy."

  Annika felt the irritation growing inside her. Tore Brand was there to prevent exactly this sort of thing from happening. Stupid old man.

  "Did he say what he wanted?"

  "He wanted to discuss something in today's paper. We're supposed to be accessible to the readers," Tore Brand said, as if it were meant literally.

  At that instant, Annika spotted the man out of the corner of her eye. He was moving toward her, his eyes glaring. Annika hung up the phone and watched the man stalk through the newsroom and up to her desk.

  "Are you Annika Bengtzon?" he said tensely.

  Annika nodded.

  The man geared himself up and slammed a copy of the day's Kvällspressen onto Annika's desk. "Why didn't you call?" His voice cracked in a spasm that came somewhere from his stomach.


  Annika stared at the man- she didn't have a clue who he was.

  "Why didn't you tell us what you were going to write? Her mother didn't know that this is how she died. Or that someone had been chewing on her. Jesus Christ!"

  The man turned round and sat down on her desk, then hid his face in his hands and started crying. Annika picked up the paper he'd slammed down in front of her. It was open on the story on what Josefin looked like when she was found: her mute scream and bruised breasts, and the picture with the naked leg in the dense summer vegetation. Annika closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead.

  This was Josefin's father, of course. Good God, what have I done? Annika felt shame wash over her like a giant tidal wave, coming at her in hot flushes. The floor started rolling. Christ Almighty, what had she done?

  "I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd want to be disturbed-"

  "Disturbed?" the man shouted out loud. "Do you think we could get more disturbed than this? Did you think we wouldn't see the garbage you wrote? Were you hoping we'd die too and never find out about it? Were you?"

  Annika was on the verge of tears. The man was red in the face and was practically foaming at the mouth. Spike had turned around and was looking in her direction. Picture Pelle had showed up and was staring at the scene.

  "I'm very sorry," she said.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, Berit materialized. Without a word, she put an arm around the man's shoulder and led him away toward the cafeteria. He went with her without arguing, shaking with tears.

  Annika grabbed her bag and hurried to the back exit. She was breathing raggedly and had to make a huge effort to walk normally.

  "Where are you going, Bengtzon?" Spike hollered after her.

  "Out!" she yelled back in a far too shrill voice.

  She ran down the steps and threw her body at the back door. Two floors down, in the stairwell outside the archive, she sat down.

  I'm a contemptible human being, she thought. This is never going to work.

  She just sat on the stairs for a while and then left the building via the entrance next to the printing works.

  She walked slowly down to the water by Marieberg Park. The noise of kids swimming traveled over the surface from Smedsudds Beach. She sat down on a bench. This is what it's like to live, she mused. You hear the sounds, feel the wind and the heat. You fail and you're ashamed of it. That's what it's all about- to live and learn.

  I'll never hesitate again to make a call or make contact. I'll always stand up for what I write. I'll never be ashamed of my work or my words. She made promises to herself.

  She slowly made her way along the water's edge over to the beach. There she took the path skirting Fyrverkarbacken and leading back to the newspaper offices.

  "You have to tell me when you leave the building," Tore Brand grumbled at the reception desk when she passed.

  She didn't have the energy to answer but just took the elevator up, praying that the father would be gone. He was, along with everybody else. Spike and Jansson were doing the handover, the subeditors weren't in yet, and Berit was out someplace.

  Annika sat down heavily at her desk. She hadn't produced anything useful today. All that remained was to call the police.

  The press officer said that the investigation was in progress.

  There was no reply at the Krim duty desk.

  The police control room hadn't been involved in the murder case during the day.

  She hesitated but then decided to call the captain in charge of the investigation all the same.

  When she dialed the number for the Krim duty desk, he answered the phone. Her pulse quickened.

  "Hello, this is Annika Bengtzon at-"

  "I know, I know." Quiet groan.

  "Are you always at work?"

  "Same with you, it seems like." His tone was cold and curt.

  "I've got a few quick questions-"

  "I can't talk to every reporter in town. If I'm on the phone, I can't be doing my job." Angry, annoyed.

  "You don't have to talk to everybody, only to me."

  "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Tired.

  Annika reflected in silence for a few seconds. "This is taking a long time. It'd be quicker if you just answered my questions."

  "The quickest thing would be for me to hang up."

  "So why don't you?"

  He breathed silently down the line, as if asking himself the same question. "What do you want?"

  "What have you been doing today?"

  "Routine interviews."

  "Patricia? Joachim? The other people at the club? Maybe even a few of the customers? The parents? Her twin brother? People living near the park? The fat lady with the dog? And who's Jasper? And who's the minister?"

  There was a pause. She'd got him. "You've done your homework."

  "Just the normal research."

  "We've found her clothes."

  Annika felt the hair on her arms stand on end. This was news. He was giving her an exclusive.

  "Where?"

  "At the incinerating plant in Högdalen."

  "At the dump?"

  "No, they were in a compactor together with a whole lot of other garbage. They must have been thrown in a trash can somewhere on Kungsholmen. They're emptied into open wagons every day and the contents are compacted along with everything that's picked up from the street. So you can imagine."

  "Will you be able to use the clothes as evidence?"

  "So far the techs have found parts of a TV, fibers from couch upholstery, what look like bits of banana, and feces from a diaper among the clothes." He sighed.

  "So it's useless?"

  "So far, yes."

  "Were the clothes torn?"

  "Torn to pieces- by the compactor."

  "So all fingerprints, hairs, tears, and other stuff that could have told you something is ruined."

  "You've got it."

  "Can I write that?"

  "Do you think it's of any interest?"

  "The murderer must have dumped the clothes in the trash can. Someone might have seen him."

  "Where? How many people throw rubbish in a bin on Kungsholmen every day? Take a guess!"

  "Like… everybody?"

  "Correct! And it doesn't even have to have been the murderer who put them in the bin. The clothes could have been found by some concerned citizen who thought they were littering the footpath or something."

  She waited in silence. "At least it shows that the police are doing something," she said after a while.

  He laughed. "Which must be a good thing."

  "Perhaps I don't need to state exactly how ruined the clothes are. The murderer doesn't need to know."

  He grunted but didn't respond.

  "What about the interviews?"

  "I can't say anything about them. They're progressing." The chill was back.

  "What about the people I mentioned earlier?"

  "They're just a start."

  "What about the autopsy? Did it produce anything?"

  "It will be performed during office hours, that is, tomorrow."

  "What kind of place is Studio 69?"

  "Go find out for yourself."

  "Do you know which minister the woman was talking about?"

  "I'm glad there's something left for you to find out. I can't talk any longer now. Bye."

  Annika contemplated the information she'd been given. The clothes thing was new, they could work that. Pity the police didn't rate the find highly, but at least they knew now that the murderer didn't keep the clothes.

  Spike, Jansson, and Picture Pelle had returned from the handover. They were chatting over at the news desk.

  "I've got an exclusive, at least for the time being."

  The men looked at her, all with the same surprised and slightly annoyed look on their faces.

  "They've found her clothes."

  The men straightened up and reached for their pens.

  "No shit. Can we get a photo of them?" the picture editor asked.

&nbs
p; "No, but of the place where they were found. The incineration plant in Högdalen."

  "They get any leads?"

  Annika weighed her answer. "Not really, but the police don't want to say that."

  The men nodded.

  "It's looking good," Jansson said. "Together with what we've got already, this is some good stuff. Look at it."

  He held out a sketch pad to Annika.

  "I think we'll lead off with your story, 'New Police Lead'; photo of Josefin; photo of the dump. Soon we'll have to get a picture byline for you, Bengtzon!"

  The men all laughed, kindly laughs. Annika cast down her eyes and blushed.

  "Then there's the dad," Jansson went on. "Berit got a fantastic interview with him."

  Annika was dumbfounded. "She did?"

  "She sure did. He came up here shouting and going on about getting screwed, and Berit took care of him. Said he wanted to tell his story. She's gone out to the parents with the copy. They wanted to see the story first."

  "Incredible," Annika mumbled.

  "Then we need something from the murder scene. Any flowers there yet?"

  "There weren't many this afternoon."

  "Can you go and check out if there's any more now? Maybe talk to some mourners, someone leaving a message or lighting a candle."

  Annika sighed and nodded. "What about her classmates?"

  "Berit couldn't find any, apart from your Charlotta. We've got a photo of her in her room. Some of them are sure to be returning home tonight- it's the end of the industrial holidays today. But leave that for the time being, this will do for today. We've got the forest fires and the situation in the Middle East as well. It's getting pretty bad…"

  The subeditors clattered in, raring to go to work. Annika returned to her desk, wrote her copy about the new police lead, and packed her bag to go down to the murder scene again.