The press officer stalled. "Yes, the investigation has gained some ground, and the Krim detectives thought it was time for the prosecutors to get involved."
"So there's a suspect."
The press officer cleared his throat. "Like I said, the investigation has gained some ground and-"
"Is it Joachim, the boyfriend?"
The press officer heaved a sigh. "I can't confirm that. We can't divulge any such information at this point in time."
"But that is the case?" Annika persisted.
"We've conducted quite a few interviews and there are signs pointing in that direction, yes. But I must ask you not to publish anything about it yet. It would be detrimental to the investigation."
A sense of triumph rose within her. Yes! It was him! The bastard.
"So what can I write? Surely I could say that the police have a clear lead and a suspect, that you've interviewed lots of people… Did sheever report him?"
"Who?"
"Josefin. Did she ever file a report against Joachim for intimidation or assault?"
"No, not that we've been able to track down."
"What makes you think it's him?"
"I can't go into that."
"So it's something someone has said in an interview? Was it Patricia?"
The press officer hesitated. "Now look, please respect what I've said to you. I can't give you any details. We haven't come that far. So far, no one has been charged with the crime. The police continue to have an open mind in their hunt for Josefin's killer."
Annika realized she wouldn't get any further. She thanked him, hung up, and called Chief District Prosecutor Kjell Lindström. He was in court all day. She sighed. She might as well go down to the Seven Rats and get something to eat.
***
"Message for you," the porter said in a surly tone, and gave Annika a note when she walked past the reception on her way up.
Martin Larsson-Berg had called, the deputy principal at Josefin's old school. The number wasn't for his house but looked like an extension number.
"I'm glad you called back," he said energetically when she got hold of him. "We've opened up the youth club here in Täby a week early."
"Really. Why's that?"
"The youngsters need an outlet for their grief over Josefin's death. We've got a crisis management team here to take care of all these unhappy people. A counselor, a psychologist, a priest, youth workers, teachers… Our school is making preparations for dealing with the difficult questions."
Annika hesitated. "Did Josefin really have that many friends?"
Martin Larsson-Berg's tone was extremely serious when he answered, "A crime of this nature can shake a whole generation. Here at our school we feel we need to be there for the students and support them in their trauma. You mustn't turn your back on a collective pain of this magnitude."
"And you want us to write about this?"
"We feel it's important to act as role models for people in similar situations. Show them that you can move on. This calls for commitment and resources, and we have both here."
"Could you hold for a moment?" She got up and walked over to Spike.
As usual, the news editor was on the phone.
"Do we want to look at the grieving in Täby? Where she came from," Annika asked without waiting for him to finish his call.
"What's that?" Spike put the phone against his stomach.
"The deputy principal of her school has opened a crisis management center at the youth club. He's very pleased with himself. Do we want to visit them?"
"Go," Spike said, and returned to his phone conversation.
Annika returned to her desk. "So where can we find you?"
She was assigned a freelance photographer by the name of Pettersson. He had an old VW Golf that stalled at every other junction.
I'll never complain about Bertil Strand again, she thought.
***
The youth club, housed in a complex of seventies-style buildings, comprised a kitchen, a poolroom, and some couches. The boys naturally took up most of the space. The girls were squeezed into a corner, and several of them were crying. Annika and the photographer did a quick tour before Martin Larsson-Berg received them.
"It's important to take the youngsters' feelings seriously," he said with an air of concern. "We will be open around the clock for the rest of the week."
Annika took notes, an unpleasant feeling spreading through her. It was loud in there and the young people were upset and acting out their feelings; they were yelling at each other and were generally jittery. Two guys tried to tear the T-shirt off one of the girls in the poolroom and didn't stop until the counselor intervened.
"Lotta likes the boys," Larsson-Berg said apologetically.
Annika stared at him in disbelief. "It looked like they were trying to strip her shirt off."
"They're having a hard time right now. They didn't sleep much last night. Here's Lisbeth, our counselor."
Annika and Pettersson introduced themselves.
"I feel it's very important to really listen to these young people," the counselor said.
"Can you really do that in this environment?" Annika asked tentatively.
"The children need to share their pain with someone. They help each other overcome the grief. We welcome all of Josefin's friends."
"Including people from out of town?" Annika wondered.
"Everybody is welcome," Larsson-Berg said emphatically. "We can help everybody who needs it."
"Do you do house calls?" Annika asked.
The counselor smiled an uneasy smile. "How do you mean?"
"Well, Josefin's best friend, Patricia- have you been in contact with her?"
"Has she been here?" the counselor asked, a puzzled look on her face.
Annika looked around the room. Four girls sat next to a crackling stereo, sobbing and playing Eric Clapton's "Tears in Heaven" at high volume. Three others were writing something to Josefin with a lit candle and the graduation photo from Kvällspressen on the table in front of them. Six boys were playing cards. She couldn't imagine Patricia setting foot here of her own free will.
"I doubt it."
"But she's very welcome. Everybody's welcome," the counselor declared.
"And you're going to stay open all night?"
"Our support is unwavering. I broke off my holiday to be here for them."
The counselor smiled. Something shiny and unearthly was in her eyes. Annika stopped writing. This didn't feel right. The woman wasn't there for Josefin's or her friend's sake, but for her own.
"Maybe I could have a word with some of her friends?" Annika suggested.
"Whose?" the counselor asked.
"Josefin's."
"Oh, yes, of course. Anyone in particular?"
Annika gave it a moment's thought. "Charlotta? They were in the same class."
"Oh, yes, Charlotta. I believe she's organizing a mourning procession to the murder scene. There's a lot to arrange, hiring a coach and stuff like that. This way."
They went into an office behind the poolroom. A young woman with a short bob and a healthy tan was discussing something over the phone. She glared at them for disturbing her, but her face lit up when Annika mouthed, "Kvällspressen." She promptly finished the call.
"Charlotta, Josefin's best friend," the counselor said by way of introduction, flashing an appropriately mournful smile.
Annika mumbled her name and lowered her gaze. "We've spoken."
Charlotta gave a nod of assent. "Yes. I'm still in shock," she said dryly. "It's been such a blow."
The counselor gave her a sympathetic hug.
"But together we're strong," Charlotta resumed. "We have to rouse public opinion against senseless violence. Josefin will not have died in vain, we'll see to that."
There was passion and dedication in her voice. She would be the perfect guest on a talk show, Annika thought.
"In what way?" Annika asked quietly.
Charlotta shot the counsel
or a hesitant glance. "Well, we have to be united. And protest. Show that we won't give way. That feels most important right now- to support each other in our grief. Share our feelings and help each other through the difficulties." Charlotta gave a wan smile.
"And now you're organizing a mourning procession?" Annika remarked.
"Yes, so far over a hundred people have signed up. We'll fill at least two coaches." Charlotta rounded the desk and picked up some lists of names that she showed to Annika.
"Naturally, we'll pay for all expenses," the counselor interjected.
Pettersson, the photographer, appeared in the doorway. "Can I take a picture of you two?"
The two women, one young, one older, lined up next to each other with straight backs.
"Could you try to look a bit sadder?" the photographer asked.
Annika groaned inwardly, shut her eyes, and turned her back. To the great satisfaction of the photographer, the women hugged each other and quivered their lips for him.
"We won't take up any more of your time now," Annika said, and moved toward the exit.
"There are several more weeping kids out there," Pettersson said.
Annika wavered. "Okay," she said reluctantly. "We'll ask them if they want to be in a picture."
They did. The girls cried their eyes out, the candles sparkled, and the grainy photocopy of Josefin's graduation photo floated behind them. Pettersson took pictures of the girls' poems and drawings, and while he was snapping away, the sound level rose to even higher levels. The youths were pumped up by the presence of the two journalists, their excitement growing fast.
"Hey, we want to be in a picture!" two guys with pool cues in their hands shouted out.
"I think it's time to leave," Annika whispered.
"Why?" Pettersson asked in surprise.
"Let's go," Annika hissed. "Now."
She walked off to find Martin Larsson-Berg while the photographer began to pack up his equipment. They thanked the deputy principal and left the building.
"What's the goddamn hurry?" Pettersson asked Annika testily on the way to the car. He was walking ten feet behind Annika, his camera bag bouncing against his hip.
Annika replied without turning round to look at him, "That was a freak show. It could get out of hand real fast."
She climbed in the car and turned on the radio.
They didn't speak on the way back to town.
***
Annika had just got back to her desk when she saw the man come walking from the far end of the newsroom. He was big and blond and the light from beyond the sports desk fell on him. She followed him curiously with her gaze. The man stopped every three feet, shaking hands and saying hello. Not until he reached the news desk did she see that the editor in chief was walking next to him, his slight figure almost invisible.
"Could I have your attention, please," the editor in chief said in his nasal voice over at the news desk. Spike was on the phone, feet on the desk, and didn't even look up. Picture Pelle gave the man a quick glance and continued working at his screen. Some of the other staff stopped what they were doing and watched the men with skepticism. Nobody had asked to have a TV celebrity for editor.
"Could you listen, please?" asked the editor in chief.
The faces of the staff were impassive. Suddenly the big blond took a step toward Spike's desk. Athletically, he climbed up on the long desk and walked along it, dodging the telephones and coffee mugs. He came to a stop right in front of Spike, whose eyes traveled up his body. "I'll call you back," Spike said, and put the phone down. Picture Pelle let go of his Mac and came over. The sound level dropped to a quiet murmur as the staff slowly gathered in the center of the newsroom.
"I'm Anders Schyman," the man said. "At present I'm in charge of the current affairs desk at Swedish Television. Starting on Wednesday, August first, I'll be your new deputy editor."
He paused; a palpable silence filled the big room. His voice had the intensity and bass that characterized the voice-overs you'd hear on TV documentaries. Fascinated, Annika stared at him.
The man took a step and looked out over another part of the newsroom. "I don't know your job. You know it. I can't teach you what to do. You know that better than anyone."
New silence; Annika could hear the sounds of the evening, the air-conditioning, and the traffic in the street below.
Annika felt he was looking straight at her. "What I will do is smooth the ground for you. I won't be driving the engine. I will break the ground and plan the tracks. I can't lay them myself, we have to do that together. But you are the engine drivers, the stokers, and the conductors. You'll be the ones talking to the passengers and you'll be signaling to us so the train arrives on time. I'll be coordinating departures and make sure that we go to the right places and that there are tracks all the way. I'm no engineer. I want to become one in time, when you have taught me all the things I don't know. But today I'm only one thing: a media man."
He turned round and looked at the sports desk; Annika could only see his broad back. His voice carried almost as well.
"I feel a deep sense of duty as a journalist. Ordinary people are my employers. I have fought corruption and the abuse of power all my working life. That's the core of journalism. Truth is my guiding principle, not influence or power."
He turned so that Annika saw his profile.
"Big words, I know. But I'm not being pretentious, only ambitious. I didn't take this job for the salary and the title. I've come here today for one single reason, and that is to work with you."
You could have heard a pin drop. Spike's phone rang and he quickly took it off the hook.
"Together we can make this newspaper the biggest in Scandinavia. All the qualities required are already in place, meaning you, the staff. The journalists. You are the brain and heart of the paper. In time we'll make everybody's heart beat as one, and the roar that will issue forth will tear down walls. You'll see that I'm right."
Without saying anything more, he stepped over the edge of the desk and jumped down to the floor. The murmur returned.
"Amazing," said Carl Wennergren, who had suddenly appeared by Annika's side.
"Yes, really," she replied, still moved by the man's presence.
"I haven't heard such pretentious nonsense spoken since my dad's speech at my graduation. Did you get anywhere?"
Annika turned around and returned to her desk. "The police have a suspect."
"How do you know that?" Carl said skeptically from behind her.
Annika sat down and looked him straight in the eye. "It's quite simple, really. It's her boyfriend. That's almost always the case, you know."
"Has he been arrested?"
"Nope, he hasn't even been cautioned."
"Then we can't publish anything," Carl said.
"It depends how you formulate the words. What have you been doing?"
"I've copied out my diary from the race. The guys at the sports desk want it. Do you want to read it?"
Annika gave a lopsided grin. "Not just now, thanks all the same."
Carl sat down on her desk again. "It's turned out to be quite a break for you, this murder."
Annika threw away some old TT wires. "That's not exactly how I see it."
"First page two days in a row- no other freelancer has managed that this summer."
"Except you, of course," Annika pointed out in a silken voice.
"Well, yes, that's true, but then I had a head start. I did my work experience here."
And your father's on the board of the paper, Annika thought, but didn't say.
Carl got up. "I'll go down to the murder scene and catch a few mourners," he said over his shoulder.
Annika nodded and turned to face the computer. She created a new document, setting a dramatic tone: "The police have made a breakthrough in the hunt for Josefin Liljeberg's killer-"
That's as far as she got before the Creepy Calls phone rang. She swore and picked it up.
"Enough is enough," a woman's
voice wheezed.
"I agree."
"We won't bow to patriarchy any longer."
"Fine by me."
"We're out for revenge."
"Sounds like fun," Annika said, unable to keep the mocking tone out of her voice.
The voice got irritated. "Just listen to me. We're the Ninja Barbies. We've declared war on oppression and violence against women. We won't take it anymore. The woman in the park was the final straw. Women shouldn't have to be afraid to go outside. Men will know the fear of violence- you just wait and see. We're starting with the police force, Establishment hypocrites."
Annika was listening now. This sounded like a genuine nutcase. "So why are you calling us?"
"We want our message to be communicated in the media. We want maximum publicity. We're offering Kvällspressen the opportunity to be present at our first raid."
What if she was serious? Annika looked around the newsroom, trying to catch someone's eye and wave him or her over. "How… What do you mean?" she said hesitantly.
"Tomorrow. Do you want to be in on it?"
Annika frantically looked around the room. Nobody paid her any attention. "Are you serious?" she asked feebly.
"These are our terms. We want full control over copy, headlines, and pictures. Guaranteed absolute anonymity. And we want fifty thousand kronor in advance. Cash."
Annika breathed silently down the phone for a few seconds. "That's impossible. Out of the question."
"Are you sure about that?"
"I've never been more sure in my life."
"Then we'll call the Rival," the woman retorted.
"Go ahead, be my guest. You'll get the same answer from them. Sure as hell."
There was a click and the line went dead. Annika put the phone down, shut her eyes, and hid her face in her hands. Christ, what the hell should she do now? Call the police? Tell Spike? Pretend nothing had happened? She had a feeling she'd be taken to task whatever she did.
"And this is where the night reporters sit," she heard the editor in chief say. She looked up and saw the senior editors of the paper over at the picture desk, and they were walking in her direction. They were, apart from the editor in chief, the new deputy editor, Anders Schyman; the sports editor; the features editor; the picture editor; the arts editor; and one of the lead writers. They were all men, and all of them, apart from Anders Schyman, were dressed in the same navy jackets, jeans, and shiny shoes.
Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed Page 12