Exposed (23 page)

‘Would you like a cup of tea? I was just going to have some.’

‘Thanks,’ Annika said, sinking onto a chair. ‘I don’t know what we can do. Maybe report them to the Press
Complaints Commission? They can’t be allowed to get away with this!’

Patricia found another mug for the reporter. She didn’t look well. She was even paler and thinner than last time.

‘Would you like a sandwich? I’ve got some Arctic bread.’

That was Josie’s favourite, with Port Salut cheese.

‘No thanks, I’ve been eating all day.’

Annika pushed the mug away and leaned over the table, looking her right in the eye.

‘Have I misunderstood everything, Patricia?’ she wondered. ‘Have I got it wrong in all my articles?’

Patricia gulped and looked down.

‘Not as far as I know,’ she said.

‘Patricia, be honest with me. Have you ever seen that government minister, Christer Lundgren?’

Patricia bit her lip, her tears welling up again.

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘Maybe.’

Annika leaned back in her chair in despair.

‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘So it could be true … A government minister. Fuck!’

She stood up and started pacing up and down the kitchen.

‘It’s still absolutely unforgivable to make out that Josefin was a whore. And playing that tape of her voice, that’s disgusting.’

‘But that wasn’t Josie,’ Patricia said, blowing her nose.

Annika stopped and stared at her in surprise.

‘What? So who the hell was it, then?’

‘Sanna, she sits on the door. It’s her job to look after the answering machine. Drink your tea before it gets cold.’

The journalist sat down again.

‘So the radio guys aren’t as clued up as they’re making out.’

Patricia didn’t answer. She put her hands to her face. Her own life had vanished when Josie’s was snuffed out, to be replaced by an uncontrollable reality that seemed to be dragging her down to new depths every day.

‘This is all just a terrible dream,’ she said, her voice muffled by her hands. She could feel the journalist looking at her.

‘Have you had any sort of help?’ Annika wondered.

Patricia took her hands away from her face, sighed and picked up her mug.

‘How do you mean?’

‘A psychologist, counsellor – anyone like that?’

She looked at the journalist, surprised. ‘Why should I?’

‘Maybe you could use some help from someone?’

Patricia drank some of the now lukewarm tea.

‘What could they do? Josie’s still going to be dead, isn’t she?’

Annika looked hard at her.

‘Patricia,’ she said, ‘please, tell me what you know. It’s important to me. Was it Joachim?’

Patricia put her mug down and stared at her lap.

‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘It could have been someone else. One of the bigwigs, maybe …’ Her voice faded, and a sudden heavy silence filled the kitchen.

‘What makes you think that?’

Her eyes filled with tears again.

‘I can’t tell you,’ she said.

‘Why not?’

She looked up at the reporter and her tears overflowed, her voice now shrill and aggressive. ‘Because he’d know I was the one who talked! Don’t you get it? I can’t! I won’t!’

Patricia jumped up and ran out of the kitchen, threw herself on her mattress and pulled the duvet over her head. A few moments later she heard the journalist’s voice from the doorway.

‘I’m sorry,’ Annika said. ‘I really didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll try to find out if anyone’s reported
Studio Six
for the crap they said about Josefin. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?’

Patricia didn’t answer, breathing quickly and shallowly under the covers. The air was thick and sweaty, and there was hardly any oxygen under there.

The journalist let herself out and closed the front door gently behind her.

Patricia threw off the duvet. She lay there, looking out through a crack in the black curtains.

It would soon be night-time again.

Jansson had arrived, thank goodness! At least he had a brain, unlike Spike.

‘You look shattered,’ Jansson said.

‘Cheers,’ Annika said. ‘Have you got time for a chat?’

He clicked away from something on his screen.

‘Sure. The smoking bubble?’

They went out to the smoking area, and the night-editor lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke upwards.

‘Christer Lundgren lives fifty metres from the scene of the murder,’ she said. ‘Everyone in the building has been questioned.’

Jansson whistled.

‘That puts things in a different light. Have you found out anything else?’

She looked down at the floor.

‘The boyfriend has an alibi. One of my sources says it could have been some VIP who killed her.’

Jansson carried on smoking and looking at the young temp without saying anything. He couldn’t make her out. She was a combination of smart, impulsive and ambitious, but in a way that wasn’t altogether healthy.

‘Come on, out with it,’ he said. ‘Who are your sources?’

She pursed her lips. ‘You won’t say anything, will you?’

He shook his head.

‘The victim’s flatmate and the detective in charge of the case at violent crime. Neither of them is prepared to talk openly, but they’ve said quite a lot off the record.’

Jansson was aware his eyebrows had shot up.

‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘How the hell did you manage that?’

She shrugged. ‘Just called and kept pestering. I went round to the girls’ flat. Her name’s Patricia. I’m a bit worried about her.’

Jansson stubbed out his cigarette.

‘We’ve got to go harder with the minister today,’ he said. ‘He’s been questioned three times now. There must be more to that than just the fact that he lives close to the scene of the crime. But that’s very interesting; I haven’t read anything about where he lives anywhere else. We’ll do a separate piece on that. How did you find that out, just out of interest?’

She sighed. ‘I was having coffee with one of his neighbours. Then I rang on his door.’

Jansson was taken aback.

‘And he answered?’

She blushed.

‘I needed the toilet.’

The night-editor leaned back in the plastic chair.

‘What on earth did he say?’

She laughed, embarrassed. ‘He threw me out.’

Jansson laughed loudly.

‘Where’s Carl?’ Annika wondered.

‘He got another tip-off, about those Barbie dolls. They’re up to something again.’

Annika stiffened.

‘How did that actually come about yesterday?’ she asked.

‘I don’t really know,’ Jansson said. ‘He just turned up with the pictures at nine o’clock or so.’

‘Did you know he was bringing them in?’

Jansson shook his head and lit another cigarette.

‘Nope,’ he said. ‘It came as a nice surprise.’

‘Do you think it’s ethical, to go along on a terrorist attack?’ she said.

Jansson sighed and put the cigarette out after just two drags.

‘That’s a big question,’ he said, standing up. ‘Can you check with Carl and see if you want to add any extra information to his piece?’

Annika got up as well.

‘Sure thing,’ she said.

Jansson’s phone was ringing madly over on his desk, and he hurried to get it.

‘Hi, Berit, how are you getting on? No? Bastard!’

Annika sat down at Berit’s desk and wrote her articles. The piece about the government minister living close to the scene of the crime was tricky to get right. She didn’t have much to put in it. For a long while she sat and stared at the screen, then she picked up the phone and dialled Christer Lundgren’s press secretary.

‘Karina Björnlund,’ the woman said as she answered.

Annika explained who she was, and said she hoped she wasn’t interrupting anything.

‘Well, I’m actually in the middle of a dinner party here. Could you call back tomorrow, do you think?’

Annika gasped. ‘Are you serious?’

‘I just told you, I’m busy.’

‘Why is the minister being questioned?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Is it because he lives right next to the scene of the murder?’

The press secretary’s surprise sounded genuine.

‘Does he?’

Annika groaned.

‘Thanks for letting me disturb you,’ she said sarcastically. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Karina Björnlund chirped. ‘Have a nice evening!’

Jesus Christ! Annika thought.

She called the exchange and asked where Berit was staying, and was given a number in Visby, on the island of Gotland. She was in when Annika called.

‘No luck with the hunt?’ Annika asked.

Berit sighed. ‘The speaker’s denying all knowledge of IB whatsoever.’

‘What are you trying to find out?’

‘He was very influential back in the sixties, one of the people who was most involved. He did his military service at the Information Bureau.’

Annika blinked.

‘Is that even possible?’

‘Well, the formal description is that he was posted to the defence ministry’s security department, but in practice he just carried on with his political activities. How are you getting on?’

Annika hesitated. ‘Oh, okay, I suppose.
Studio Six
have announced 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 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.

‘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 war-dance 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.