Exposed (12 page)

Berit nodded and took a sip from her bottle of lemon-flavoured mineral water.

‘You have to be really careful when you do that,’ she said. ‘Some want to talk, but a lot don’t. You must never trick anyone into talking. Did you call the parents?’

Annika folded the paper and shook her head. ‘I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It felt too awkward.’

‘That’s not a good way to judge things like this,’ Berit said seriously. ‘Just because it feels awkward to you doesn’t mean the relatives will feel the same. Some of them find it a comfort to know that the papers are interested.’

‘So you think everyone in the media should call a family when their child dies?’

Annika could hear how aggressive she sounded.

Berit took another sip of water and thought for a moment.

‘Well, no two cases are the same. All you can know for certain is that people react differently. There’s no definitive right or wrong way to handle it. You just have to be very, very careful, to make sure you don’t hurt anyone.’

‘Well, I’m glad I didn’t call,’ Annika said, getting up to fetch some coffee.

When she got back with her steaming plastic cup Berit had gone back to her own desk.

I wonder if I’ve upset her, Annika thought. She could see Berit leaning over another paper on the far side of the newsroom. She quickly picked up the phone and dialled Berit’s internal number.

‘Are you annoyed with me?’ she said, meeting Berit’s gaze from across the room.

‘Not at all. You’ve got to work out what’s right for you.’

The Cold Calls phone rang, and Annika switched phones.

‘How much do I get for a really good tip-off?’ an agitated male voice asked.

Annika groaned silently and told him.

‘Okay,’ the man said. ‘Listen to this. Are you taking notes?’

‘Yep,’ Annika said. ‘So what is it?’

‘I know all about a television personality who dresses up in women’s clothes and goes to dirty sex clubs,’ the man said, sounding ready to burst.

He mentioned the name of one of Sweden’s most popular and admired TV presenters. Annika could feel her anger radiating, right to her toes.

‘Bollocks,’ she said. ‘What makes you think that the
Evening Post
would be interested in publishing malicious crap like that?’

The man at the other end lost his confidence.

‘But it’s a huge scandal,’ he said.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Annika said. ‘People can do whatever the hell they like. And whatever makes you think this is true?’

‘I got it from a reliable source,’ the man said.

‘Sure you did,’ Annika said. ‘Well, thanks for calling.’

She hung up.

The other evening paper had pretty much the same articles and picture about the murder as the
Evening Post
, but Annika thought that the
Post
had done a better job all the way through.

The other paper didn’t have the graduation photograph of Josefin, for instance. Their pictures of the crime scene were tamer, their texts flatter, they had interviewed more boring neighbours and they hadn’t made the link to the old Eva murder. They had no teacher, and no friends. The
Evening Post
had short interviews with both Josefin’s friend Charlotta and the headmaster, Martin Larsson-Berg.

‘Good work,’ Spike said above her. She looked up and saw her boss looking at her.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

He sat down on the edge of her desk. ‘So what are we doing today?’

A strange warmth ran through her. She was one of them now. He had come to her to find out.

‘I thought I might go and see her flatmate, the girl who identified her.’

‘Do you think she’ll talk?’

‘Maybe. I’ve tried to establish contact with her,’ she said.

Instinctively she knew that she shouldn’t mention her encounter with Patricia in the park. If she did, Spike would only be cross with her for not coming back and writing an article about it straight away.

‘Okay,’ the head of news said. ‘Who’s covering the police?’

‘We’re sharing that between us,’ she said.

‘Good. What else? Do you think the mum and dad are ready to shed a few tears?’

Annika squirmed on her chair.

‘I don’t think it’s the right moment to intrude on them,’ she said.

‘He’s already spoken to the press,’ Spike said. ‘What did he say when you called?’

Annika could feel herself blushing.

‘He … I … didn’t think I could disturb them so soon after—’

Spike stood up and walked off without a word.

Annika wanted to call him back, to explain how wrong it had felt, that you couldn’t behave like that. Her mouth was open but no sound came out, and her raised arm did no good. She just had to get on with it; it wasn’t her decision to make.

Spike’s broad shoulders glided away, and he slumped onto his chair over at the newsdesk. Annika could almost feel his weight hit the chair even from a distance.

She quickly put her pen, notepad and tape-recorder in her bag and headed over to the picture desk. There were no photographers there, which meant no cars. She called for a taxi.

‘To Vasastan. Dalagatan.’

She wanted to know how the dead woman had lived.

*   *   *

He woke up with a start to find his wife gently shaking his shoulder.

‘Christer,’ she whispered. ‘It’s the Prime Minister.’

He sat up with a general feeling of disorientation. The bed seemed to be rocking, and his whole body felt exhausted. With a groan he stood up and headed towards his office.

‘I’ll take it in here,’ he said.

The Prime Minister’s voice sounded calm and neutral. He’d evidently been up for hours.

‘Well, Christer, did you get home okay?’

The Minister for Foreign Trade sank into the chair next to the desk and ran a hand through his hair.

‘Yes, fine,’ he said. ‘It took quite a while to drive up here, that’s all. How’s everything with you?’

‘Fine, just fine. I’m out at Harpsund with the family. So how did it go?’

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.

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 supposed 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.