Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed

by Liza Marklund

  Annika could feel the eyes on her from the news desk without even looking up, the gazes burning through the back of her head.

  "Wednesday, August first. Welcome to Studio 69 from Radio House in Stockholm," boomed the voice of the program presenter.

  "Josefin Liljeberg was a stripper at the notorious strip club that has taken the name of this radio program, Studio 69. In other media, principally in the tabloid Kvällspressen, she has been portrayed as a quiet family girl dreaming of a journalistic career and wanting to help children in need. The truth is quite different. We will now hear a recording of the woman's voice."

  A tape began rolling in the control room. A young woman, trying hard to sound sensual, invited you to Studio 69, the most intimate club in Stockholm. She gave the opening hours: 1 P.M. to 5 A.M. You could meet gorgeous girls, buy them champagne, watch the floor show or a private show, watch movies or buy them.

  Annika had difficulty breathing and hid her face in her hands. She hadn't known the voice was Josefin's.

  The program carried on with information about the murder. The minister had been brought in for another interview at Stockholm police headquarters. They started up another tape, a door slamming shut and reporters shouting questions as Christer Lundgren entered the building.

  Annika got up, hung her bag over her shoulder, and walked out the back door. The looks burning in her back ate away the oxygen from her. She had to have air before she died.

  ***

  Patricia had set the clock radio for 17:58 on the P3 station. This would give her time to go to the bathroom and drink some water before Studio 69 started. She had slept a deep and dreamless sleep and felt almost drugged when she stumbled back to the mattress. Clumsily, she propped up the pillows against the wall. She listened in the dark behind her black curtains, Josefin's curtains. The man on the radio tore Jossie to pieces, dragging her name through the mud, sullying everything about her. Patricia cried. It was so unfair.

  She switched off the radio and went to the kitchen. With trembling hands she made a pot of tea. Just as she was about to pour the first cup, the doorbell rang. It was the journalist.

  "The fucking bastards!" Annika exclaimed, and stormed into the apartment. "How the hell can they make her out to be some kind of prostitute? It's insane!"

  Patricia wiped away her tears. "Would you like a cup of tea? I've just made a pot."

  "Please." Annika sank down on a chair. "I wonder if you can do something- report them to the press ombudsman or make a complaint to the Broadcast Commission, or something. They can't do this!"

  Patricia took out another cup and put it in front of the journalist. She didn't look well. She was even paler and thinner than last time she'd seen her.

  "Do you want a sandwich? I've got some flat bread." It was Jossie's favorite, with Port Salut cheese.

  "No thanks, I've been eating all day." Annika pushed the cup away and leaned over the table, staring straight into Patricia's eyes. "Did I get it all wrong, Patricia? Did I get it wrong in my articles?"

  Patricia swallowed and looked down. "Not that I know,"

  "Tell me honestly, Patricia. Have you ever seen that minister, Christer Lundgren?"

  "I don't know," she whispered. "Maybe."

  Annika leaned back on the chair, resigned. "Jesus. So it could be true. A cabinet minister. Jesus Christ!" She got to her feet and started pacing up and down. "But it's fucking indefensible to depict Josefin as a hooker. And to play that tape with her voice- it's so awful."

  "That wasn't Jossie." Patricia blew her nose.

  Annika stopped and gaped at her. "It wasn't? Then who the hell was it?"

  "It was Sanna, the hostess. It's her job to keep a check on the answering machine. Drink your tea, it's getting cold."

  The journalist sat down again. "Those jerks at the radio don't know as much as they think."

  Patricia didn't reply. She put her hands over her face. Her own life had disappeared along with Josefin's, replaced by an uncontrollable reality. She was being pulled further into an abyss each day.

  "It's all a bad dream," she said, her voice muffled behind her hands. She felt the journalist's gaze on her.

  "Have you talked with anyone about all this?"

  Patricia let her hands drop from her face, sighed, and lifted her cup. "How do you mean?"

  "A therapist or a counselor?"

  Patricia looked affronted. "Why would I want to do that?"

  "Perhaps you need to talk to somebody?"

  Patricia drank her tea- it was tepid. She swallowed. "What could anyone do? Josefin is dead."

  Annika looked at her intently. "Patricia. Please, tell me what you know. It's important. Was it Joachim?"

  Patricia placed her cup on the saucer and looked down on her lap. "I don't know," she said in a low voice. "It could have been someone else. Some VIP…" Her voice trailed off; suddenly the kitchen was heavy with silence.

  "Why do you think that?"

  Tears welled up in her eyes again.

  "I can't tell you," she whispered.

  "Why not?"

  She looked up at the journalist, tears rolling down her cheeks; her voice was squawky and shrill. "Because he'd know that it was me who'd ratted on him! Don't you get it? I can't! I won't!"

  Patricia jumped to her feet and ran out of the kitchen. She threw herself on her mattress, pulling the cover over her head. The reporter stayed in the kitchen. After a while Patricia heard her voice over by the door.

  "I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to upset you. I'll check if it's possible to report Studio 69 for the shit they've been circulating about Josefin. I'll call you tomorrow. Okay?"

  Patricia didn't answer but stayed under the cover, breathing rapidly and shallowly, inhaling stuffy, clammy air that seemed to have lost its oxygen.

  The journalist opened the front door and closed it quietly behind her. Patricia threw the cover to the side. She lay still, looking out through a gap in the black curtains.

  Soon it would be night again.

  ***

  Jansson was back, thank God! At least he had a brain, unlike Spike.

  "You look tired," Jansson said.

  "Thanks," Annika retorted. "Have you got a moment?"

  He clicked away something on his screen. "Sure. Smoke room?"

  They sat down in the glass cubicle next to the sports desk. The night editor lit up a cigarette and blew the smoke up toward the fan.

  "The minister lives fifty yards from the murder scene. Everybody in the house has been interviewed."

  Jansson whistled. "That puts it in a different light. Have you found out anything more?"

  She looked down at the floor. "The boyfriend has an alibi. One of my sources tells me that it could have been someone important who killed her."

  Jansson smoked and looked at the young journalist in silence. He couldn't figure her out. She was smart, inexperienced, and unbelievably ambitious. A not completely healthy combination.

  "Tell me. What are your sources?"

  She pressed her lips together. "You won't tell, will you?"

  He shook his head.

  "The murdered girl's roommate and the police captain in charge of the investigation at Krim. Neither of them will speak openly, but they do tell me things off the record."

  Jansson's eyes widened a bit. "Not bad. How did you manage that?"

  "I've been calling and hassling them. I went to the girl's house. Her name's Patricia. I'm a bit worried about her."

  Jansson stubbed out the cigarette. "We'll go harder after the minister today. They've had him in for questioning three times now. There has to be something more than his apartment that's motivating them. That he lives so close is interesting, I haven't read that anywhere else. Let's do a story on that. How did you find out, by the way?"

  "I had coffee with a neighbor. Then I rang on his door."

  Jansson was taken aback. "And he opened the door?"

  She blushed. "I needed to use the bathroom."

  The night ed
itor leaned back in his chair. "What did he say?"

  She gave an embarrassed laugh. "He threw me out."

  Jansson laughed heartily.

  "Where's Carl?" Annika wondered.

  "He got another tip-off about those Barbie dolls. They seem to have something new going on."

  Annika stiffened. "What happened yesterday?"

  "I don't know, actually. He just came in with the pictures around nine."

  "Did you know he was bringing them in?"

  Jansson shook his head and lit up again. "Nope. They came like a gift from the skies."

  "Do you think it's ethically justifiable to stand around and watch people setting fire to police cars?"

  Jansson sighed and stubbed the cigarette out after two drags. "That's too big a discussion for right now." He stood up. "Will you check with Carl to see if you should add anything to his story?"

  Annika also got up. "Sure thing, babe."

  Jansson hurried over to answer his phone.

  "Hi, Berit! How the hell's it going?… No? The son of a bitch!"

  Annika sat down at Berit's desk and wrote her pieces. The minister's association with the crime scene was tricky to string together. She didn't have much to make a show of. She just sat staring at the screen for a long while, then she lifted the phone and rang Christer Lundgren's press secretary.

  "Karina Björnlund," the woman answered.

  Annika introduced herself and asked if she was interrupting anything.

  "Well, yes, I'm getting ready for a dinner party. Could you call back tomorrow?"

  "Are you serious?"

  "I told you I'm busy."

  "Why are they questioning the minister?"

  "I haven't the faintest idea."

  "Is it because he lives right next to the murder scene?"

  The press secretary's surprise sounded real. "He does?"

  Annika groaned. "Thanks for letting me interrupt you," she said dryly. "It was very helpful."

  "That was nothing," Karina Björnlund chirped. "Have a nice evening!"

  Jesus Christ! Annika thought.

  She called the switchboard and asked where Berit was staying in Gotland and got the number of a hotel. The reporter was in her room.

  "No luck?" Annika said.

  Berit heaved a sigh. "The Speaker refuses to admit any knowledge of the IB affair."

  "What is it you're trying to dig out?"

  "He was one of the principal players in the sixties. Among other things, his wartime posting was with IB."

  "Really?"

  "Formally, he was posted at the Defense Staff Headquarters intelligence outfit, but in reality he carried on with his normal political work. How are you doing?"

  Annika paused. "So-so. Studio 69 reported that she was a stripper."

  "Did you know that?"

  Annika closed her eyes. "Yep."

  "So why didn't you write about it?" Berit sounded surprised.

  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 Mo
nth, and Twenty-Five Days

  W hen 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.