Exposed (24 page)

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

She was ashamed of Patricia.

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 soon.

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: S
EX CLUB ATTACK: EXCLUSIVE PICTURES, ONLY IN THE
E
VENING
P
OST
.

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.

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: W
E REVEAL WHY MINISTER QUESTIONED
.

She was happy with the opening:

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: S
EX 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.

Annika sat down, closed her eyes, and tried to stop herself hyperventilating.

‘Who?’ she said, momentarily confused.

‘Lisbeth, the counsellor.’

The voice sounded reproachful.

Annika sighed inaudibly. ‘Oh, of course,’ she said. ‘The youth centre in Täby. What can I do for you?’

‘The youngsters are holding their protest against violence today,’ she said. ‘They’re setting off from here in three coaches at two p.m. They should get to the scene of the murder at about two thirty.’

Annika swallowed and rubbed her forehead.

‘Two thirty,’ she repeated.

‘Yes, I thought you’d want to know,’ Lisbeth said.

‘Thanks, that’s great,’ Annika said, and hung up.

She went out to the toilet and splashed her face and wrists with cold water. Gradually her panic subsided.

It’s hardly that big a deal, she thought. I really must try to keep things in proportion. So what if everyone thinks I got it wrong?

She tidied her hair, then went to the cafeteria and got a sandwich. Anyway, maybe she got it right, at least as far as press ethics were concerned.

It was worth looking into.