Exposed Page 10

  Christer Lundgren cleared his throat.

  ‘As expected, really. They’re not exactly delicate when it comes to negotiating.’

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose it’s the sort of situation where you’d expect delicacy,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘So where do we go from here?’

  The Minister for Foreign Trade quickly arranged his thoughts in his foggy brain. When he spoke he sounded more or less organized and focused. He had had several hours to think on the drive up to Luleå.

  After the call ended he stayed where he was, his head hanging over the desk. It was covered with a map of the world before the fall of the Iron Curtain. He let his eyes roam across the various republics, anonymous yellow areas without cities or boundaries.

  His wife peered anxiously round the door.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  He turned and smiled at her.

  ‘Yes, that would be good,’ he said, smiling even more. ‘But first of all I’d like you.’

  She took him by the hand and led him back to the bedroom.

  16

  Patricia jumped at the sound of the doorbell. The police weren’t due for several more hours. Her mouth went dry. What if it was Josie’s parents?

  She padded quickly out into the hall and peered through the spyhole in the door. She recognized the figure outside: it was the woman from the park earlier that morning. She opened the door at once.

  ‘Hello,’ Patricia said. ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  The journalist smiled. She looked tired.

  ‘Computers,’ she said. ‘There are registers for everything these days. Can I come in?’

  Patricia hesitated. ‘It’s a bit of a mess,’ she said. ‘The police were here, and they turned everything upside down.’

  ‘I promise not to start cleaning,’ Annika said.

  Patricia hesitated for a few more seconds.

  ‘Okay,’ she said finally, throwing the door open. ‘But it isn’t always like this. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Annika. Annika Bengtzon.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘Come in.’

  The journalist stepped into the dark hallway and took off her shoes.

  ‘God, it’s so hot,’ Annika said.

  ‘I know,’ Patricia said. ‘I hardly slept a wink.’

  ‘Because of Josefin?’

  Patricia nodded.

  ‘Nice dress,’ Annika said, gesturing with her head. Patricia blushed, running her hand over the shiny, bright pink dress.

  ‘It was Josefin’s. I was given it,’ she said.

  ‘It makes you look like Princess Diana,’ Annika said.

  ‘Not really,’ Patricia said. ‘I’m too dark. I’ll take it off. Hang on …’

  She disappeared into her room, the living room, and hung the dress on its hanger again. She looked around for a hook to hang it on, then gave up and hung it on one of the door-hinges.

  She quickly pulled on some shorts and a vest.

  The journalist was standing in the kitchen when she emerged.

  ‘It was pretty mean of them not to tidy up after themselves,’ Annika said, nodding towards the stacks of plates on the table.

  ‘It’s going to take me all day to sort it out,’ Patricia said. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘Please,’ Annika said, settling onto a chair.

  Patricia lit the gas stove, filled an aluminium pan and quickly put the contents of the kitchen cupboards back in their place.

  ‘Josie had the stars against her,’ Patricia said. ‘The signs weren’t good. Saturn has been in her sign for almost a year now; she’s been having a really tough time.’

  She fell quiet, blinking back tears. The journalist looked at her in surprise.

  ‘Do you believe in all that?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t believe, I know,’ Patricia said. ‘We’ve got Lipton or Earl Grey.’

  Annika chose Lipton.

  ‘I brought a copy of the paper,’ she said, laying the first edition of the Evening Post on the table. Patricia’s expression didn’t change.

  ‘You can’t write about anything I tell you,’ she said.

  ‘Okay,’ Annika said.

  ‘You can’t write that you’ve been here.’

  ‘Whatever you want,’ Annika said.

  Patricia studied the reporter in silence. Annika looked young, hardly any older than her. She dunked her tea-bag a few times, then pressed it with a teaspoon and squeezed the last drops out of it.

  ‘So what are you doing here, then?’ Patricia asked.

  ‘I want to understand,’ Annika said quietly. ‘I want to know who Josefin was, how she lived, what she thought, what she felt. And you know all that. Then I’ll be able to ask other people the right questions, without letting on what you’ve told me. Anything you say to me is protected by law. No one in any position of authority is entitled even to ask who I’ve spoken to.’

  Patricia considered this for a moment as she sipped her tea.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, you know best,’ Annika said. ‘What was she like?’

  Patricia sighed. ‘Sometimes she could be really childish. I used to get cross with her. She’d forget that we’d arranged to meet up, things like that. So I’d be left standing there like an idiot. And afterwards she was never even sorry. She’d just say, “Oh, I forgot.” ’

  Patricia fell silent.

  ‘But I’m really going to miss her,’ she added.

  ‘Where did she work?’ Annika asked.

  She had taken out her pen and notepad. Patricia noticed and straightened up.

  ‘You’re not going to write any of this, are you?’

  Annika smiled. ‘Sometimes my memory’s as bad as Josefin’s,’ she said. ‘I’m only making notes to remind myself of what we’ve talked about.’

  Patricia relaxed.

  ‘At a club called Studio Six. On Hantverkargatan,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’ Annika said, astonished. ‘I live there! Where on Hantverkargatan?’

  ‘On the slope. There’s no flashing neon sign or anything like that. It’s pretty discreet, just a small sign in the window.’

  Annika was thinking.

  ‘Isn’t there a radio programme called Studio Six?’ she said, suddenly unsure.

  Patricia giggled.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But Joachim – he owns the club – found out that Swedish Radio hadn’t registered the name. So he used the same name for the club, mainly to annoy the people at Swedish Radio. Besides, it’s a great name. It sounds close enough to “Studio Sex” for people to realize what it’s all about. Who knows, maybe they’ll all end up in court.’

  ‘Joachim,’ Annika said. ‘Was he Josie’s boyfriend?’

  Patricia grew serious.

  ‘That stuff I told you in the park, you mustn’t tell anyone about that. Ever,’ she said.

  ‘But you said you’d told the police?’

  Patricia’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘That’s true,’ she said, sounding horrified, ‘I did.’

  ‘That’s nothing to worry about,’ Annika said. ‘It’s really important that they get to know things like that.’

  ‘But Joachim’s so upset. He was here this morning, in floods of tears.’

  Annika looked down at her notes and decided to drop the subject for the time being.

  ‘So what was Josie’s job?’

  ‘She was a waitress and dancer.’

  ‘Dancer?’

  ‘On stage. Not naked, that’s not allowed. Joachim sticks to the law. She wore a thong.’

  Patricia could see that the reporter was easily shocked.

  ‘So she was a … stripper?’

  ‘I guess you could say that,’ Patricia said.

  ‘And you, you’re a … dancer too?’

  Patricia laughed. ‘No, Joachim says my tits are too small. I work in the bar, and I’m learning how to run the roulette table. Well, I’m suppos
ed to be learning. I’m no good at maths.’

  Her laughter died away and she sniffed a few times. Annika waited in silence until Patricia had composed herself.

  ‘Did you go to the same school, you and Josefin?’ she asked.

  Patricia blew her nose on a piece of kitchen roll and shook her head.

  ‘No, not at all,’ she said. ‘We met at the gym, the Sports Club on Sankt Eriksgatan. We used to go at the same times and always used lockers next to each other. Josefin was the one who got us talking; she had no trouble talking to anyone. She’d just got together with Joachim and was so in love. She used to talk about him for hours. How handsome he was, how much money he had …’ She fell quiet, lost in her memories.

  ‘How did they meet?’ Annika asked after a few seconds.

  Patricia shrugged. ‘Joachim grew up in Täby, like her. I first got to know Josie the Christmas before last, a year and a half ago. Joachim had only just opened the club. It was a success right from the start. Josie sometimes worked there at weekends, and she got me the job in the bar. I’ve got a catering qualification and everything.’

  The phone rang out in the hall, and Patricia jumped up to answer it.

  ‘Of course, no problem,’ she said. ‘In half an hour.’

  When she came back into the kitchen Annika was putting the tea things on the draining board and had put her things away in her bag.

  ‘The police will be here in a little while,’ Patricia said.

  ‘Well, I won’t disturb you any longer,’ Annika said. ‘Thanks very much for talking to me.’

  ‘Well, feel free to call again,’ Patricia said.

  Annika went out into the hall and pulled on her sandals.

  ‘How long are you going to stay here?’ she wondered.

  Patricia bit her lip.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s Josie’s flat. Her mum pulled a few strings and got hold of it to save Josie having to commute from Täby kyrkby when she got into the school of journalism at Stockholm University.’

  ‘Did Josefin get in there? Were her grades good enough?’

  Patricia gave Annika a sidelong glance.

  ‘Josie’s really smart,’ she said. ‘She gets As in practically every subject. Swedish is her best subject, she writes really well. You think she’s stupid just because she’s done a bit of exotic dancing, don’t you?’

  In spite of the gloom in the hall, she could see the journalist blushing.

  ‘I spoke to her headmaster. He didn’t seem to think her grades were that good,’ she said by way of explanation.

  ‘So? He’s probably just a bigot,’ Patricia said.

  ‘Did she have many friends?’

  ‘At school, you mean? Hardly any. She was a bit of a swot.’

  They shook hands and Annika opened the door. She paused in the doorway.

  ‘Why did you move in here?’ she asked.

  Patricia looked at the floor.

  ‘Josie wanted me to,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she was scared.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  Patricia could see from the reporter’s eyes that she understood anyway.

  17

  Annika emerged into the sunshine on Dalagatan, blinking against the light. It was a relief to get out of the dark, dirty flat. Black curtains, it was all a bit macabre. She didn’t like the sound of what she’d heard. She didn’t like the place Josie had lived in. And she couldn’t help being deeply sceptical of her choice of career. How could anyone become a stripper of their own free will?

  If it was of her own free will, she reflected.

  There was an underground station right on the corner, so she travelled the two stops to Fridhemsplan. She came out of the exit on Sankt Eriksgatan, close to the gym where Josefin and Patricia had first met. She turned right, up towards the scene of the murder. There were two small bunches of flowers by the entrance, and Annika guessed that there would soon be many more. She stood by the railings for a while. It was at least as hot as yesterday, and she soon felt thirsty. Just as she had decided to leave, two young women, one fair, one dark-haired, approached on foot from the Drottningholm road. Annika made up her mind to wait. They were both wearing short skirts and high heels, chewing gum and clutching cans of Pepsi Max.

  ‘A girl died in there yesterday,’ the fair one said, pointing at the cemetery as they went past Annika.

  ‘No!’ the dark-haired one said, eyes opening wide.

  The first girl nodded vigorously, waving her hand.

  ‘They found her lying in there, all split open. She was raped after she was killed.’

  ‘That’s really horrible,’ the dark-haired girl said. Annika could see that her eyes were starting to water.

  They stopped a couple of metres away, staring devoutly at the dark green shadows. Within a minute or so they were both in tears.

  ‘We ought to leave a message,’ the fair-haired girl said.

  They dug out an old receipt from one girl’s bag and found a pen in the other. The fair-haired girl wrote the message leaning on her friend’s back. Then they wiped their tears and headed off towards the underground. When they had disappeared round the corner Annika went over and read the note.

  It said: We miss you.

  At that moment she caught sight of a team of reporters from the other evening paper getting out of a car over by the children’s playground on Kronobergsgatan. She turned on her heel and quickly walked off towards Sankt Göransgatan. She had no desire to engage in small talk with Arne Påhlson.

  On her way to the number 56 bus-stop she realized she would be going right past Daniella Hermansson’s door, the young mother who always slept with her windows open. She pulled out her notepad and checked; yes, she had the code for the front door written down next to Daniella’s address. Without thinking any more about it, she tapped in the code and went in.

  The air inside was so cool that it made her shiver. She stopped as the door slammed shut behind her. The hallway was decorated with murals from the 1940s, all depicting the park, probably dating from when the block was built.

  Daniella lived two floors up. Annika took the lift. No one answered her knock. Annika looked at the time, ten past three. Daniella was probably down in the park.

  She sighed. She hadn’t really got much so far today. She looked round the stairwell. There were doors everywhere; the flats must be really small. The names on the letterboxes were spelt out with yellow plastic lettering. She glanced at the closest name: Svensson. There wasn’t really much to think about. She may as well get a few reaction quotes now that she was here.

  The narrow gap of Svensson’s open door let out a sour smell of body odour, making Annika take a step back. A shapeless female figure in a purple and turquoise polyester dress filled the gap. She was squinting shortsightedly, and her grey hair shone with grease and setting lotion. She was clutching a small dog, although Annika couldn’t make out what sort.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Annika said, ‘but I’m from the Evening Post.’

  ‘We haven’t done anything,’ the woman said.

  She looked at Annika through the gap, terrified.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Annika said politely. ‘I was just wondering if you had any reaction to the crime that was committed nearby.’

  The woman started to close the door.

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ she said.

  Annika was starting to think that this was a bad idea.

  ‘Perhaps you haven’t heard. A young woman was murdered in the park up the road,’ she said calmly. ‘The police may have been here and—’

  ‘They were here yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, then they probably asked—’

  ‘It wasn’t Jesper!’ the woman shouted, out of nowhere. Annika dropped her notepad and took two steps back.

  ‘There was nothing I could do to stop him! And I really don’t think the minister’s got anything to do with it!’
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  With a slam the woman shut the door, the noise echoing through the stairwell. Annika stared at the door in amazement. What on earth had just happened?

  A door at the far end of the landing opened up a crack.

  ‘What’s all this commotion?’ an elderly male voice said, clearly irritated.

  Annika picked up her notepad and went down the two flights of steps. Out in the street again she turned right and hurried off, without looking back at the park.

  18

  ‘Thanks for cat-sitting!’

  Anne Snapphane was back, and now she was sitting with her feet up on her desk.

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

  ‘Like an oven. Huge fire, but under control now. So what the hell have you been up to?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Annika said, not understanding.

  ‘You’ve got a nasty cut above your eye!’

  Annika’s hand flew up to her left eyebrow.

  ‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘I hit my head on the bathroom cabinet this morning. Guess where I’ve been?’

  ‘In the murder victim’s flat?’

  Annika grinned and sat down.

  ‘Well, well …’ Anne said.

  ‘Have you had lunch?’

  They went down to the cafeteria.

  ‘So, what was it like?’ Anne Snapphane asked curiously, shovelling another spoonful of pasta into her mouth.

  Annika thought for a moment.

  ‘I like Patricia, her flatmate. She’s an immigrant, or first-generation Swede. From somewhere in South America, I’d guess. A bit crazy, believes in astrology.’

  ‘So what was Josefin like?’

  Annika put her fork down.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I haven’t really got a grip on her yet. Patricia says she was really intelligent, her headmaster says she was a dumb blonde. Her classmate Charlotta doesn’t seem to know the first thing about her. She wanted to be a journalist, and she wanted to help children in need, but she was working as a stripper.’

  ‘A stripper?’ Anne Snapphane said.

  ‘Her boyfriend owns some sort of porn club. Studio Six.’

  ‘That’s a radio programme. Pretentious debate on P3.’

  Annika nodded. ‘Yep. Joachim, the boyfriend, evidently thought that was a good joke. You’re right, though: Studio Six is about as pretentious as you can get.’

  ‘If he was keen to annoy pretentious bastards, that suggests a certain level of intelligence,’ Anne Snapphane said.