"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-one 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."
"No shit?" Annika said, and realized how far out of the news loop she was already.
"Come back after three o'clock."
Annika turned on her heel and walked away across Norrbro. She looked at her watch. She had over an hour to kill. The rain had stopped, so she decided to take a quick walk up to South Island. She had run regularly in Turkey, feeling the need and enjoying the calm that returned to her body. Now she walked fast and vigorously through Old Town and over to the steps around Mosebacke Square. With her bag across her chest, she ran up and down the steps until her pulse was beating fast and she was dripping with sweat. She paused at the top of Klevgränd and looked out over Stockholm: the narrow alleys cutting in between the Skeppsbro facades; the white hull of the af Chapman sparkling in the water; the light-blue roller coaster of Gröna Lund, resting against the green foliage like a tangled ball of yarn.
I really have got to find a way to stay here, she thought.
***
By five to three, all the cars in front of the Arvfurstens Palace were gone.
"I'd like to know something about how the cabinet ministers arrange their travels," Annika said politely to the Foreign Ministry lady behind the counter. Annika felt a bead of perspiration run along the root of her nose and quickly wiped it off.
The woman raised her eyebrows slightly. "Oh," she said in a disdainful tone of voice. "And may I ask who's asking?"
Annika smiled. "I
'm not obliged to prove my identity. You don't even have the right to ask me. But you are obliged to answer my questions."
The woman stiffened.
"So what happens when a cabinet minister wants to travel?" Annika asked in her silkiest voice.
The woman's voice was frosty around the edges. "The minister's assistant books the tickets through the agency that has the government contract. At present Nyman and Schultz has that remit."
"Do the ministers have their own travel budgets?"
The woman sighed soundlessly. "Yes, naturally."
"Right. Then I'd like to make a request to look at an official document. An invoice with a credit card slip handed in by the former minister for foreign trade Christer Lundgren on the twenty-eighth of July this year."
The woman could barely conceal her delight. "No, that will not be possible."
"Oh, no? Why not?"
"Because the minister for foreign trade falls under the Ministry of Industry, Employment, and Communications, not the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which he or she did until the current prime minister took over. The prime minister transferred questions concerning the promotion of export trade from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to the Ministry of Industry, Employment, and Communications. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs got asylum and immigration matters instead."
Annika blinked. "So the minister for foreign trade doesn't hand in his invoices here at all?"
"No, not at all."
"Not for entertainment expenses or anything?"
"No."
Annika was at a loss. The studio reporter on Studio 69 had claimed they'd found the receipt from the strip joint at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, she was absolutely sure of that. The entire program resonated like a stubborn tune in her head, whether she wanted it to or not.
"Where is the Ministry of Industry, Employment, and Communications?"
Annika got the directions and walked past the Museum of Mediterranean and Near East Antiquities to 8 Fredsgatan. She found the equivalent civil servant and asked, "A traveling-expenses invoice and an entertainment invoice from July twenty-eighth this year. Will it take long?"
The registry clerk was a friendly and efficient woman. "No, it won't take long. Come back in an hour and we'll have it ready for you. But don't come any later, as we'll be closed."
Annika went up to Drottninggatan and had a look around. There was a light drizzle, and a mass of black clouds behind the Parliament building signaled heavier rain later in the evening. She strolled around, indifferently looking at the music, posters, and cheap clothes on offer. It was all beyond her, she was flat broke. The impulsive flight up to Piteå had cleaned her out.
She walked down the mall toward Klarabergsgatan. She went into a vile American coffee place and ordered ice water. They wanted five kronor for a glass of tap water. Annika swallowed her cutting remark and dug into her pocket. The rain had gotten heavier and it was worth spending the money to avoid getting soaked.
She sat down at the bar and had a look around. The café was full of trendy people with their cappuccinos and espressos. Annika took a sip of water and chewed on an ice cube.
So far she'd resisted the thought, but now it was inescapable. By resigning voluntarily from Katrineholms-Kuriren, she wasn't getting any unemployment benefits for a month and no more money was coming in from Kvällspressen.
But my expenses aren't that high, she thought. She began listing them.
Her rent was only 1,970 kronor a month, and now she had a roommate. Food didn't have to be that much, she could eat pasta. She didn't need a monthly travel ticket. She could buy reduced-rate tickets, walk or sneak in on the subway. She had to have a telephone, that was a priority. Forgoing clothes and makeup was no big sacrifice, at least not for a while.
I need a part-time job, she thought.
"Is this chair taken?"
A guy with two-tone hair and wearing mascara was standing in front of her.
"No, go ahead," Annika mumbled.
She took the opportunity to go to the bathroom. That didn't cost anything.
***
Fifty minutes later she was back at the office in Fredsgatan. The registry clerk went inside to collect the papers. She returned with a concerned look on her face.
"I couldn't find any travel-expenses invoices for that date, but here's the entertainment invoice."
She gave Annika a copy of the invoice. The receipt from Studio 69 was for 55,600 kronor and was specified as "entertainment and refreshments."
"Jesus," Annika said.
"I think they may have trouble getting that past the auditors," the clerk said without looking up.
"Have a lot of people asked to see this?"
The woman hesitated. "Not that many, actually." She looked up. "We thought a lot would, but so far only a handful have asked for it."
"But there's no travel-expenses invoice?"
The woman shook her head. "I checked both the preceding and the following weeks."
Annika thought a moment. She looked at the sprawling signature on the credit card slip. "Could he have handed in his travel-expenses invoice at another ministry?"
"The minister for foreign trade? I doubt it. It would still end up here."
"What about some other public authority? He travels a lot, lobbying for different organizations and companies, doesn't he?"
"Well, I suppose. Maybe the companies pay. I don't know."
Annika persisted. "But if he was traveling on behalf of the government and the invoices weren't handed in here, then where?"
The woman's phone rang. Annika noticed her tense up.
"I'm sorry, I honestly don't know," the woman said. "Keep the copy, it's on me."
Annika thanked her and left the woman to answer the call.
***
The apartment was quiet and still. She went straight to Patricia's room and peeped in.
"Annika!"
To her surprise, Patricia sounded frightened, and she entered the room.
"What is it?" Annika smiled.
Patricia jumped up, threw herself around Annika's neck, and cried.
"Jesus, what's wrong?" Annika said worriedly. "Has something happened?"
Patricia's hair got tangled up in her eyelashes, and she carefully tried to remove it so that she could see.
"You didn't come home. You didn't spend the night at home, and your boyfriend came here and asked where you were. I thought… something had happened."
Annika stroked Patricia's hair tenderly. "Silly. What would happen to me?"
Patricia let go of Annika and wiped her nose on her T-shirt. "I don't know," she whispered.
"I'm not Josefin," Annika said, smiling. "You don't need to worry yourself over me." She had to laugh. "Come on, Patricia, snap out of it! You're worse than my mom. Do you want some coffee?"
Patricia nodded and Annika went out into the kitchen.
"Toast?"
"Yes, please."
Annika set out evening coffee while Patricia put on a sweat suit. The mood at the table was a bit quiet.
"I'm sorry," Patricia said, spreading marmalade on a piece of toast.
"Don't worry. You're just a bit on edge, that's all."
They ate in silence.
"Are you moving out?" Patricia asked timidly after a while.
"Not right now. Why?"
Patricia shrugged. "Just wondering…"
Annika poured more coffee. "Has there been much in the papers about Josefin while I've been away?" She blew at the hot drink.
Patricia shook her head. "Hardly anything. The police say that suspicions point in one direction but that they won't be arresting anyone. Not at the moment, at least."
"And everybody's interpretation is that the minister is guilty?"
"Something like that."
"Have they written a lot about him?"
"Even less. It's as if he died rather than resigned."
Annika sighed. "Never kick a man when he's down."
"What?"
"They said on Rapport that the voters are abandoning the polls. A lot of people don't want to vote because they lack faith in the politicians. It's possible the Social Democrats will lose the election."
Annika nodded, it made sense. A minister suspected of murder in the middle of an election campaign was a nightmare.
Patricia wiped her fingers on a piece of paper towel and began clearing the table.
"Have you spoken to the police lately?"
Patricia stiffened. "No," she said.
"Do they know you're here?"
The woman got up and went over to the counter. "I don't think so."
Annika also got up. "Perhaps you should tell them. They might want to talk to you about something, and no one at the club knows you're staying here, right?"
"Please don't tell me what to do," Patricia replied curtly.
She turned her back and put a pan on the stove to heat water for the dishes.
Annika went back to the table and for a while sat watching the woman's back.
Well, go ahead and sulk, she thought, and went into her room.
***
The rain rattled hysterically on the windowsill. Will it never stop? Annika thought, and sank down on her bed. She lay on top of the bed without switching on the light. The room was dark and gray. She stared at the worn wallpaper, yellowed with a gray pattern.
It all has to come together somehow, she thought. Something happened just before the twenty-seventh of July that made the minister for foreign trade take a flight from Terminal 2 at Arlanda, so jittery and stressed-out that he didn't even notice his relatives calling out to him. Or he ignored them. The Social Democrats must have been in a real panic.
But it could have been something private, Annika suddenly realized. Maybe he wasn't on a government or party errand at all. Maybe he had a mistress somewhere.
Could it be that simple?
Then she remembered her grandmother.
Harpsund, she thought. If Christer Lundgren had committed a private indiscretion, the prime minister would never have let him use his summer residence as a hiding place. It had to be something political.
Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed Page 27