Exposed Page 19

  ‘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 gave a description. It didn’t really seem relevant,’ she said.

  ‘Of course it is! Really, I’m surprised at you!’ Berit said.

  Annika gulped. ‘The picture gets so one-dimensional if you bring up the business of the sex club. She just ends up as a whore. There was so much more, so many more nuances, she was a daughter and a sister and a friend and a schoolgirl—’

  ‘And a dancer in a sex club. Annika, of course it’s important,’ Berit interrupted.

  They fell silent.

  ‘I’m thinking of reporting Studio Six to the Broadcasting Commission,’ Annika eventually said.

  ‘But why on earth would you do that?’ Berit sounded almost angry.

  ‘Patricia didn’t know they were going to make that public,’ she said.

  ‘Who’s Patricia?’

  ‘Josefin’s best friend.’

  Berit took a deep breath. ‘Annika, don’t get angry, but I think you’re taking this story a bit too personally. Be careful not to get too involved with the people concerned. It can only turn out badly. You have to maintain your professional distance; otherwise you’ll be no use to anyone, least of all yourself.’

  Annika shut her eyes and felt herself blushing.

  A sense of failure began to creep through her brain.

  ‘I know what I’m doing,’ she said, slightly too shrilly.

  ‘I’m not altogether sure that you do,’ Berit said.

  They ended the call quickly. Annika sat with her hands over her face for a long while, feeling bruised and on the verge of tears.

  34

  ‘Have you finished the article about the flat?’ Jansson yelled from the newsdesk.

  She quickly pulled herself together.

  ‘Yes,’ she called. ‘I’m just putting it in the can … now!’

  She let go of the keyboard and sent the article rushing through the wires. Jansson gave her the thumbs-up when the text appeared on his screen. She quickly gathered her things from Berit’s desk and got ready to go. At that moment Carl Wennergren came galloping in from the lifts.

  ‘Get me a picture byline, because tonight I am immortal!’ he proclaimed.

  All the men over at the newsdesk looked up as the reporter performed an enthusiastic wardance on the floor of the newsroom, armed with a notepad and a camera in his hands.

  ‘The Ninja Barbies tried to set fire to the whorehouse where that stripper worked, and guess who’s got the exclusive rights to the pictures?’

  The men round the newsdesk stood up in unison and went over to slap Carl Wennergren on the back. Annika could see his camera waving like a victory trophy above their heads. She quickly hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and left the newsroom by the back stairs.

  The temperature had dropped a few degrees, but the air felt heavier than ever. They were bound to have an enormous thunderstorm soon, Annika thought.

  She went past the shuttered hotdog kiosk and the bus-stop, deciding instead to walk to Fridhemsplan, and without really thinking about it she found herself at Kronoberg Park.

  All the cordons had been removed, but the mountain of flowers had grown. They were in the wrong place, by the entrance to the cemetery itself, but that didn’t matter. The truth about Josefin didn’t matter, as long as the myth lived on and could act as a lightning rod for people’s emotions.

  She turned away and headed down to Hantverkargatan. Blue lights were twinkling in the summer evening.

  The Ninja Barbies’ arson attack, she thought. Then, a moment later: Bloody hell, Patricia!

  She jogged down the hill, past Kungsholmen High School. The three crowns at the top of the tower of the City Hall shone high above in the last of the sunlight. A group of curious onlookers had gathered, and she could see Arne Påhlson from the rival paper standing next to a fire engine. Cautiously she walked closer. One of the narrow lanes of the road had been blocked off, and cars were creeping past on the remaining open lane. Three fire engines, two police cars and an ambulance were parked in front of the anonymous-looking door of Studio Six. The pavement and façade were black with soot; it looked like war had broken out. She stopped behind a group of young men holding cans of beer and excitedly discussing what had happened.

  Suddenly the door opened and a policeman in plain clothes came out. Annika recognized him at once, even though he wasn’t wearing his Hawaiian shirt this time. He spoke to someone who was hidden by the door, and Annika pushed forward to look. She saw a thin woman pointing at something in the street.

  ‘Where?’ she heard the policeman say.

  Patricia stepped onto the pavement. It took a couple of seconds before Annika recognized her. She was heavily made up and had her hair tied in a tight ponytail at the top of her head. She was wearing a glittering red bra and thong. The men standing next to Annika started shouting and whistling. Patricia started, and turned to look at the group. She saw Annika at once. Their eyes met, and Patricia lit up. She raised her hand in greeting. Annika stiffened. Without thinking, she dodged behind the men and moved back. The men pushed forward and she heard a woman shouting. She rushed into a side street and ran down to Bergsgatan. She ran past Police Headquarters and the car park, and turned into Agnegatan. She took the short cut through the courtyard and found herself outside her own front door, trembling and out of breath. The key in her hand was shaking so much that she could hardly open the door.

  I’m losing my grip, she thought, and bowed her head as she realized how pathetic she had been.

  She was ashamed of Patricia.

  Eighteen years, one month, twenty-five days

  When the deepest trust wins out over anxiety, that’s when genuine faith can develop. Anything less is a failure, I know that.

  He wants me to relive terrible old memories.

  Pushes me into the bathroom to masturbate.

  Keep going until you come, he says. You mustn’t come in, I say.

  He opens the door as I’m sitting there with the shower-head pushed up between my thighs, and his face is white with rage.

  So you can fuck yourself with that bloody thing until you come, but not with me, he screams.

  The hotel corridor. A door locking itself shut. Panic, pulling and tugging, naked and wet. Voices, the pool area, not daring to shout. Lights out, silence, the tiles cold under my feet. Creeping through the plants, treading on a big insect and almost screaming. Hate spiders, hate creepy-crawlies. Crying, freezing, shaking.

  A matter of conquering your fears, coming to terms with your demons.

  I creep back at regular intervals to check the door.

  He unlocks it just before dawn; warm, dry, hot, affectionate.

  We are the most important things

  in the world

  to each other.

  Thursday 2 August

  35

  The Prime Minister caught sight of the press photographers from a distance and let out a deep sigh. The heavily laden journalists had formed an impromptu wall in front of the main government building, Rosenbad. Of course he had been perfectly aware that they would be there, even if he had hoped he was wrong. So far he hadn’t made any comment on the predicament Christer Lundgren was in, and had merely referred enquiries to the Minister for Integration, a young woman who was acting head of government during his holiday. But there was no way he could hold that line now. The small allocation of summer days that were supposed to constitute his holiday had been dwindling until they had finally vanished. He sighed again, and yawned. He always did that when he was nervous. People around him thought it made a rather nonchalant impression, which was no bad thing. Like now, when the other men in the car had no idea of the turmoil going on inside him, the knot forming in his stomach. His guts were churning with anxiety, and he realized he would need the toilet pretty soo
n.

  The press corps noticed the car as it turned into Fredsgatan. They ran towards it like a single entity, pulling out their long lenses. The Prime Minister watched them through the dark glass of the windows. There were radio and television reporters, and people from the press waving small tape-recorders.

  ‘They look like action figures,’ he said to the security agent in the front seat. ‘Like He-Men with ugly clothes and detachable accessories, don’t you think?’

  The agent agreed. Everyone always agreed with whatever he said. He smiled wearily. Imagine if the press and the opposition could be so cooperative.

  The car stopped with a gentle, rocking motion. The security agent was out of the car before the wheels stopped, shielding the Prime Minister with his body at the same time as he held the back door open.

  Questions deluged the Prime Minister like a sticky torrent.

  ‘What do you think of the accusations levelled at the Minister for Foreign Trade?’

  ‘How much damage is this doing to the party?’

  ‘Does this change the direction of the election campaign?’

  ‘Do you think Christer Lundgren should resign?’

  He shuffled out of the car, standing up in all his bulk, and gave a theatrical sigh. Microphones, tape-recorders, cameras and film all recorded this little puff of air. They could all see that the Prime Minister wasn’t terribly concerned by this. He was dressed in a light-blue shirt, open at the neck, crumpled trousers, and he had sandals on his bare feet.

  ‘Well,’ the Prime Minister said, stopping in the glare of a television camera. His voice was slow, relaxed, fairly quiet, and carried a faint tone of resignation. ‘Christer isn’t suspected of anything at all. Of course, this has no bearing on our successful election campaign in any way whatsoever. I sincerely hope that Christer will remain part of the government, both for the sake of the government and for the sake of Sweden and Europe. We need people with passion to drive politics forward in the twenty-first century.’

  End of soundbite one, he thought, and started to head to the doorway. The press followed like a parasitical amoeba, exactly according to plan.

  ‘So why have you broken off your holiday?’

  ‘Who’s going to be at today’s crisis meeting?’

  ‘Do you still have confidence in Christer Lundgren?’

  The Prime Minister took a few more steps before stopping to answer, just as he had practised with his media trainer.

  Time for the killer quote. When he turned to face the group of reporters, he gave them a wry smile.

  ‘Do I look like a man facing a crisis?’ he said, trying to make his eyes twinkle.

  Evidently it worked, because several of the amoebas laughed.

  He walked up to the door, and the security agent was about to open it.

  Time for the finale. He quickly adopted his slightly concerned look.

  ‘Joking aside,’ he said, with his hand on one of the heavy brass door handles, ‘of course I have every sympathy for what Christer is going through right now. This sort of media witch-hunt is always a severe trial. But I can assure you that for the government, and for the party, these exaggerated allegations have absolutely no significance at all.

  ‘You must have seen today’s Evening Post, which explains why Christer has been questioned. He just happens to have a flat close to Kronoberg Park. Even government ministers need somewhere to sleep!’

  He smiled sadly and nodded to affirm the wisdom of his own words before walking through the security doors of the government building. As they closed behind him, more questions poured through the gap:

  ‘… reason to question him several times?’

  ‘… saw anything in particular?’

  ‘… comment on the latest revelations about …’

  He concentrated on walking slowly and nonchalantly up the steps into the entrance hall for as long as the journalists could still see him through the glass door. Bloody hyenas!

  ‘God, it’s hot,’ he said, pulling open a couple more buttons of his shirt. ‘If I’m going to have to spend the whole fucking day in here, you’d better make sure the air-conditioning is working.’

  He stepped into a lift and let the doors close before the security agent got in. Now he really did need the toilet.

  Her shoe-lace snapped and Annika swore. She didn’t have any more at home. With a tired sigh she sat down on the hall floor, pulled off the trainer and tied the two ends together, again. Soon there wouldn’t be enough lace left to tie the shoe at all. She really had to remember to buy some new laces next time she went shopping.

  She ran down the stairs carefully, anxious not to put too much strain on her knees. Her legs felt stiff and clumsy: she’d neglected her running all summer.

  The air in the courtyard was heavy and stagnant. All the windows were wide open, forming black squares in the building’s shabby façade. Their curtains hung like tired theatre dressings, not moving at all. Annika tossed her towel into the shared bathroom on her way out, then jogged slowly out onto Agnegatan.

  The Japanese shopkeeper at the corner of Bergsgatan had already hung up that day’s flysheet for the Evening Post. Carl Wennergren had got the lead again with his Ninja Barbies. She jogged on the spot for a few seconds as she read the headline: SEX CLUB ATTACK: EXCLUSIVE PICTURES, ONLY IN THE EVENING POST.

  Her pulse quickened and she started to sweat. The picture showed the door of the club being blown out, the doorway full of flames.

  I wonder where Patricia was when it went off, she thought. I wonder how scared she must have been.

  From the article it was clear that the club hadn’t been badly damaged. To her surprise, she realized that she was relieved.

  She turned and ran down Agnegatan, towards Kungsholmsstrand. When she reached the water she turned left and quickened her pace. Soon her lungs were hurting; she really was out of condition. She pounded her feet on the asphalt path harder and harder, not caring that it hurt.

  When she saw Karlberg Palace ahead of her on the other side of the water she switched into top gear. Her chest was heaving like a pair of bellows and sweat was running into her eyes. She ran back along Lindhagensgatan and through Rålambshov Park, then up across Kungsholmstorg. By the time she got into the shower she was exhausted almost to the point of collapse. I’ve got to look after myself, she thought. I’ve got to get regular exercise; otherwise I’ll never make it. Her legs were shaking as she climbed the stairs to her flat.

  36

  She arrived at the newsroom just before lunch. Berit still hadn’t got back, so Annika borrowed her desk again.

  Her own contribution to that day’s paper consisted of the article about the minister’s overnight flat. The headline was striking: WE REVEAL WHY MINISTER QUESTIONED.

  She was happy with the opening:

  Christer Lundgren lives next to the murder-scene. He has a secret overnight flat just 50 metres from the cemetery.

  Not even Lundgren’s press secretary knew its location.

  ‘How did you find me?’ the minister asked when the Evening Post visited the one-room flat yesterday.

  There followed a description of the flat, the revelation that everyone in the block had been questioned, and Daniella’s quote: As if he could be a murderer, it’s crazy … He isn’t the violent sort.

  She had left out the bit about him being mean.

  Then came several cryptic lines about the fact that the police were spending more time with the minister than with the other residents. She had kept that bit short, because she didn’t know exactly what the police were after.

  Mariana, the dragon in the suit with the jumped-up surname, had written a short piece about Josefin working in a sex club called Studio Six.

  Berit had a short article about the speaker of parliament denying any knowledge of IB.

  An unfamiliar figure was sitting over at the newsdesk, with Spike’s phone stuck to his ear. Annika switched on her computer, and looked at him over the screen. Did he know who she was
? She knew she was going to have to go over and introduce herself, but hesitated, pushing back her still-damp hair. When he had put the phone down she hurried over. Just as she had taken a deep breath and was about to say something to his back, his phone rang again and he grabbed it. Annika was left standing behind his chair, trying to find something to focus on while she waited. She caught sight of a copy of the rival paper. The front page was dominated by Josefin’s graduation picture. The headline was stark and heavy: SEX CLUB STRIPPER. Annika put her hand on the editor’s swivel chair and leaned over for a closer look. The piece went on in slightly smaller text: Murdered Josefin was a sex worker.

  ‘How the hell did we miss that angle? Perhaps you can explain?’

  Annika looked up and met the frosty gaze of the head of news. She ran her tongue over her lips and held out her hand.

  ‘Annika Bengtzon, nice to meet you,’ she said in a rather subdued voice.

  The head of news looked away, shook her hand quickly and muttered his name, Ingvar Johansson. He picked up the paper and held it in front of Annika.

  ‘You’ve been dealing with this story, from what I understand. How the hell did we miss the fact that she was a whore?’

  Annika felt her pulse racing, and her mouth was bone-dry.

  ‘She wasn’t a whore,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘She was a dancer at her boyfriend’s club.’

  ‘Yes, completely naked.’

  ‘No, she wore a thong. Her boyfriend kept within the law.’

  Ingvar Johansson stared at her.

  ‘So why didn’t you write anything about that, if you already knew?’

  She gulped, her heartbeat thudding in her ears.

  ‘Well, I … I got it wrong. I didn’t think it was important.’

  The phone rang again and the head of news turned away from her. Annika swallowed, feeling close to tears. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That’s it, then. I’m finished.

  She turned and walked back to Berit’s desk, as the floor rolled beneath her. It was obvious that she couldn’t do anything right on this paper!

  Berit’s phone was ringing insistently, and she hurried to answer it, quickly clearing her throat.

  ‘Yes, hello, this is Lisbeth,’ a mature woman’s voice said.