"They all look like toy figures," he said to the security man in the front seat. "He-Man with his detachable accessories. Don't you think?"
The security man agreed. All his people agreed with what he said. He gave a tired smile. If only the media and the opposition were so cooperative.
The car stopped with a soft rocking movement. The bodyguard was out of the car before the wheels had stopped, opening the back door and protecting the prime minister with his body.
The questions washed over the head of government.
"What do you think of the suspicions about the minister for foreign trade?"
"What are the effects on the party?"
"Will this change the focus of your election campaign?"
"Should Christer Lundgren resign?"
He wriggled out of the car and drew himself up full length. With all his extra weight, he could produce a highly theatrical sigh. Microphones, tape recorders, lenses, and film recorded this little exhalation. Everybody could see that the prime minister didn't look on the matter very seriously. He was dressed in a light-blue shirt that was open at the neck, crumpled trousers. His bare feet were in sandals.
"Now listen," the prime minister said, and stopped in the glare of a TV light. He spoke slowly and quietly, in a relaxed and somewhat long-suffering manner.
"Christer is not suspected of anything at all. And this business will have no effect whatsoever on our successful election campaign. I certainly hope that Christer will stay in the cabinet, for the sake of the government and for the sake of Sweden and Europe. We need people with energy to carry our policies as the twenty-first century progresses."
End of line one, he thought, and started walking toward the entrance. The media people followed him like limpets, as he knew they would.
"Why have you interrupted your holiday?"
"Who will be at today's emergency meeting?"
"Do you still have confidence in Christer Lundgren?"
The prime minister took a few more steps before answering, just as he'd done when practicing with the media coach. Time for his cue.
As he turned around to the group, he gave a wry grin. "Do I look like it's an emergency?" He tried to get a sparkle in his eyes. It seemed to work. Several of the limpets were laughing.
He reached the door and the security people were prepared to open it. It was time for the grand finale. He adopted his slightly concerned face.
"Joking apart, though," he said, his hand on the big brass handle of the door. "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. I suppose you've all seen Kvällspressen today. They've realized why the police have been interviewing Christer. He happens to have an overnight apartment next to Kronoberg Park. Even cabinet ministers have to have somewhere to live."
He gave a pensive smile and nodded at his own words of wisdom before he entered the security doors of the government offices. As the doors shut, he could hear the questions seeping in through the crack.
"… a reason for several police interviews?"
"… seen anything in particular?"
"… comment on the latest statements from…"
He focused on walking up the stairs slowly and calmly for as long as the journalists could see him through the glass door. Goddamn hyenas!
"Shit, it's hot in here," he burst out, and opened a few more buttons on his shirt. "If I have to sit here all day, at least you could see to it that I can breathe!"
He stepped into an elevator and let the doors slide shut before the security people had time to get in. He really had to get to the bathroom.
***
The shoelace broke and Annika cursed. She didn't have any new ones at home. With a sigh she sat down on the hallway floor, pulled the sneaker off, and made yet another knot. Soon there wouldn't be any lace left to tie the shoes with. She had to remember to buy new ones.
She ran downstairs cautiously, not wanting to put too much strain on her knees. Her legs felt stiff and numb; she'd neglected her running all summer.
The air in the backyard was stagnant and heavy. All the windows of the building were open wide, baring black holes in the dilapidated facade. Curtains hung tiredly, not moving an inch. Annika threw in a towel in the shared basement bathroom and slowly jogged out through the gateway to Agnegatan.
The newsstand on the corner of Bergsgatan already had the Kvällspressen table of contents up. Carl Wennergren had the lead story again with his Ninja Barbies. She jogged in place for a couple of seconds while reading the headlines.
EXCLUSIVE PICTURES IN KVäLLSPRESSEN:
STRIP CLUB ATTACK
Her pulse quickened and she began to sweat. In the picture, the door of the club was blown open, a fire blazing in the doorway.
I wonder where Patricia was when the explosion went off, she mused. Was she frightened?
She picked up a copy of the paper and skimmed the front-page story. There hadn't been any major damage to the club. She was relieved.
She put the paper back, turned around, and started jogging down Agnegatan toward Kungsholmsstrand. Down by the canal she turned left and increased the pace. Pretty soon her lungs started to ache. She was seriously out of condition. She let her feet slam down on the asphalt with increasing intensity, not minding the pain. When she saw Karlberg Palace ahead on her right, she moved into high gear. Her chest heaved like bellows, and the sweat ran into her eyes. She came back on Lindhagensgatan, through Rålambshov Park and up via Kungsholms Square. When she finally stepped into the shower, she was exhausted.
I have to take care of myself, she thought. I have to get regular exercise. As she returned up the stairs to her apartment, her legs were shaking.
***
She walked into the newsroom just before lunch. Berit still hadn't returned from Gotland, so Annika used her desk again.
Her own contribution for the day was the story on the minister's overnight apartment. The headline was eye-catching, "Kvällspressen Reveals: Why Police Questioned Minister."
She was happy with the intro: "Christer Lundgren lives next to the murder scene. He has a secret overnight apartment only 50 yards from the cemetery.
"Not even Lundgren's press secretary knew the apartment existed.
" 'How did you find me?' the minister asked when Kvällspressen yesterday visited him in the studio apartment."
Then followed a description of the apartment, the fact that everybody in the house had been interviewed, and then Daniella's words: "As if he'd be a murderer? It's so silly. He's no killer."
Annika had left out the part about his being a cheapskate.
Then she'd added a few cryptic lines about the police still taking a greater interest in the minister than the rest of the occupants in the building. She'd kept that paragraph brief as she didn't quite know what the police were after.
The bitch Mariana with the fancy surname had done a short piece on Josefin's having worked in a club called Studio 69.
Berit had a short piece on the Speaker's denial of any knowledge of the IB affair.
***
A stranger was sitting at the news desk with Spike's telephone receiver glued to his ear. Annika turned on her computer and peeked at him from behind her screen. Did he know who she was? It occurred to her that she should go up and introduce herself. She hesitated for a moment, smoothing down her half-dry hair. When he put down the phone, she hurried up to him. Just when she'd drawn breath to begin speaking behind his back, the phone rang again and he answered it. Annika was left standing behind his chair, looking around her. That's when she saw a copy of the Rival. The picture of Josefin in her white graduation cap dominated the front page. The headline was fat and black: "A Stripper." Annika held on to the news editor's chair and leaned over the paper. The caption added, "Murdered Josefin a sex worker."
"How the hell could we miss that angle? Maybe you can tell me that!"
He released her eyes, quickly pressed her hand, and mumbled his own, Ingvar Johansson. He picked up the Rival and held it out in front of Annika.
"From what I hear, you've been covering this story. How the hell could we miss out on the fact that she was a hooker?"
Annika felt her pulse racing; her mouth was as dry as dust. She knew Johansson was the news editor. Her mind raced.
"She wasn't a hooker," she said with a trembling voice. "She danced in her boyfriend's club."
"Well, she wasn't dancing ballet. She was bare-assed."
"No, she wore panties. And the boyfriend was strictly legit."
Johansson stared at her. "So why didn't you write that if you knew all about it?"
She swallowed hard, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. "Well, I guess I was… wrong. I didn't think it mattered."
The telephone rang again and the news editor turned away. Annika swallowed and felt the tears welling up. Shit. Shit. Shit. She'd blown it. She'd fucked up.
She turned around and started walking toward Berit's desk, the floor rolling underneath her feet. She didn't seem to be able to do anything right.
Her telephone was ringing like mad. She hurried up to it, cleared her throat, and picked it up.
"Yes, hello, this is Lisbeth," she heard a mature woman's voice say.
Annika dropped down on the chair and closed her eyes. She was trying not to hyperventilate.
"Who?"
"You know, Lisbeth the counselor." The voice sounded reproachful.
Annika sighed soundlessly. "Oh, yes, of course, the youth club in Täby. What can I do for you?"
"The young people here are going ahead with their protest against violence today. They'll be leaving here at two P.M. in three coaches. They should be at the murder scene around two-thirty."
Annika swallowed and rubbed her forehead. "At two-thirty," she echoed.
"Yes, I thought you might want to know."
"Yeah, that's great. Thanks."
Annika hung up and went out to the ladies' room and ran cold water on her face and wrists. Slowly, the feelings of panic subsided.
It isn't that bad, she told herself. I've got to try to get things into perspective. Of course people might think I did the wrong thing- so what?
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 arou
nd 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?"
Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed Page 18