Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed

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'You take these,' she said, handing the printouts to Annika. 'Try to get hold of someone who knew her.'

Annika went back to her desk. The subs were engrossed in their work. Jansson was shouting into the phone. The glow from the computer screens made the news desk look like a floating blue island in the newsroom's sea. The image made her aware of the dark outside. Night was falling. She didn't have much time.

Just as she sat down, the Creepy Calls phone rang. She grabbed the phone in a reflex action. The caller was wondering whether it was true that the early-twentieth-century Swedish writer Selma Lagerlof had been a lesbian.

'Call the Gay and Lesbian Switchboard,' Annika replied, and rang off.

She pulled out the pile of Stockholm telephone directories, heaved a sigh, and looked at the covers. In her hometown, Katrineholm, there was one single book for the whole of the province of Sodermanland; here there were four for one single area code. She looked up 'Liljeberg, Hans,' in Runslingan in Taby Kyrkby. Vicar was his title. She took down the telephone number and stared at it for a long time.

No, she thought in the end. There had to be other ways of getting the facts she needed.

She took out the business and services directory and looked in the section for local-government information. There were two high schools in Taby: Tibble and Ava. She called the switchboard numbers; both forwarded the calls to a municipal switchboard. She gave it a few seconds thought and then tried dialing the direct numbers. Instead of 00 at the end, she dialed 01, then 02 and 03. She got lucky with 05, where a voicemail message informed her that the deputy principal, Martin Larsson-Berg, was on holiday until 7 August. She found him in the phone book with the title BA. He lived in Viggbyholm and was both at home and awake.

'I'm sorry to call you this late on a Saturday night,' Annika said after introducing herself, 'but it's about a serious matter.'

'Is it my wife?' Martin Larsson-Berg anxiously asked.

'Your wife?'

'She's out sailing this weekend.'

'It's not about your wife. A girl who might have been one of your students was found dead today in Stockholm,' Annika said, closing her eyes.

'Oh, I see,' the man said with relief in his voice. 'I thought something had happened to my wife. Which student?'

'A girl called Josefin Liljeberg, from Taby Kyrkby.'

'Which program was she in?'

'I'm not even sure she went to Tibble School, but it seems most probable. You don't remember her? Nineteen, pretty, with long blond hair, big breasts…'

Now the deputy principal was with her. 'Oh, yes, Josefin Liljeberg. Yes, she graduated from the media program in the spring, that's right.'

Annika breathed out and opened her eyes. 'Do you remember her?'

'Dead, you say? That's horrible. What happened?'

'The Jewish Cemetery in Kronoberg Park. She was murdered.'

'But that's awful! Do they know who did it?'

'Not yet. Would you like to say something about her, a few words about what she was like, maybe express your feelings about it?'

Martin Larsson-Berg sighed. 'Yeah, well… What do you say? She was like most girls that age, giggly and vain. They're all the same. They tend to melt into one, kind of.'

So much for the teaching profession, thought Annika. The deputy principal thought about his reply.

'She wanted to be a journalist, on television. Not very bright, to be honest. And she was murdered, you say. How?'

'She was strangled. Did she graduate, then?'

'Yes, she got a pass in all subjects.'

Annika looked at the computer printouts in front of her. 'Her father's a clergyman. Did that affect her at all?'

'Is he? I didn't know that…'

'And she had a twin brother, Carl Niklas. Did he also go to Tibble School?'

'Niklas… yes, I think he graduated from the natural science program. He had quite a good head on him. He wanted to continue his studies in the U.S.'

Annika took notes. 'Anything else you remember?'

Jansson appeared at her side, a pleading look on his face. She waved him aside.

'Sorry, no. There are so many students.'

'Did she have many friends?'

'Yes, well, I think so. She wasn't especially popular, but she had her friends. She wasn't bullied, or anything.'

'You don't happen to have a class register handy?' she asked.

'For Josefin's class?' The deputy principal grunted a bit. 'Yes, I have the school register. Do you want me to send it to you?'

'Have you got a fax?'

He did. Annika gave him the crime-desk fax number and he promised to fax Josefin's class photo straightaway.

As she hung up and stood up to go over to Eva-Britt Qvist's desk, the Creepy Calls phone jangled again. She hesitated for a moment but stopped short and picked it up.

'I know who shot Olof Palme,' someone slurred at the other end.

'Do you really? Who was it then?'

'What's the reward?'

'We pay maximum five thousand kronor for a tip-off that goes to print.'

'Only five grand? That's bullshit! I want to talk to one of the editors.'

Annika heard the man gulp and swallow something.

'I am an editor. We pay five thousand, it doesn't matter who you talk to.'

'It's not enough. I want more.'

'Call the police. Then you'll get fifty million,' Annika said, and hung up.

What if the drunk was right, she mused on her way to the fax machine. What if he really did know? What if the Rival had Palme's murderer on tomorrow's front page? She'd be remembered forever as the one who rejected the tip, like the record executives who turned down the Beatles.

The fax was lousy- Josefin and her classmates were just black specks on a gray-striped background. But underneath the photo were the names of all the students, twenty-nine young people who must all have known Josefin. On her way back to her desk, she underlined those with unusual surnames, those she had a chance of finding in the phone book. These kids probably didn't have their own phones, so she'd have to look for the parents.

'Delivery for you,' the porter Peter Brand said. He was Tore's son and worked the night shift during July.

Surprised, Annika looked up and received a stiff, white envelope. 'Do Not Bend,' she read on the outside. She quickly tore it open and emptied the contents onto the desk.

There were three photos of Josefin. The top one was a relaxed studio shot. Wearing her white cap, she was smiling radiantly straight into the camera. Annika felt the hairs on her arms stand on end. This picture was so sharp that they could run it over ten columns if they wanted to. The other two were decent amateur photos, one of the young woman holding a cat and the other of her sitting in an armchair.

At the bottom was a note from Gosta, the police press officer.

'I've promised the parents that the pictures will be distributed to all media outlets who want them,' he'd written. 'Please have them couriered over to the Rival when you've used them.'

Annika hurried over to Jansson and put the pictures in front of him. 'She was a clergyman's daughter dreaming about becoming a journalist.'

Jansson picked up the pictures and studied them closely. 'Fantastic.'