Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed

'Hello? Hello! Damn!'

Annika threw the phone down, which earned her an annoyed look from Spike.

'You're sitting at my desk.'

A woman in a tailored suit was haughtily eyeing her.

Annika looked at her. 'What?'

'Aren't you off today?'

Annika put her feet on the floor, stood up, and held out her hand.

'You must be Mariana. Nice to meet you. I'm Annika Bengtzon.'

The well-dressed dragon had a complicated, aristocratic-sounding surname. Annika knew she was held to be a great talent.

'I'd be grateful if you could tidy up after yourself. It's not very pleasant to be met by this kind of thing when you go on your shift.'

'I agree. I had to clear both the bookshelf and the desk after you when I came in last Thursday.'

Annika quickly grabbed the papers she'd put on the desk.

'I'm getting something to eat,' she said to the news editor, and took her bag and left.

She bumped into Carl Wennergren by the elevators. He was with some of the other summer freelancers, and they all seemed to be laughing at something Carl had just said. Annika had been wondering how she would react when she next saw him. She'd been thinking about what she would say. Now she didn't need to puzzle about it any longer. She resolutely blocked the group's way.

'Could I have a word with you?' she said curtly.

Carl Wennergren pushed out his chest and flashed a smile that sparkled in his tanned face. His hair was still damp from his morning swim, his fringe tumbling onto his forehead.

'Sure, babe. What about?'

Annika started walking down the stairs. Carl, self-assured and relaxed, waved off his friends before he followed her. She waited for her colleague on a landing, her back against the wall, staring hard at him.

'I had an offer last Monday,' she said in a low voice. 'A group calling themselves the Ninja Barbies wanted to sell me a scoop. For fifty thousand in cash they'd let me be present when they carried out some kind of attack against a police official.'

She watched Carl closely. The young man had stopped smiling. A blush spread over his face and out to his ears. He compressed his lips into a thin line.

'What do you mean?' he said, his voice a bit stifled.

'How did that story get into the paper?'

Carl tossed back his fringe. 'What the hell's that got to do with you? Since when are you the editor in chief?'

She looked at him without saying anything. He turned around and started walking upstairs. Annika didn't move. After four steps he turned around and came back down, coming to a stop two inches from Annika's face.

'I didn't pay them a goddamn cent,' he hissed. 'Who the hell do you think I am?'

'I'm not thinking anything,' she said, noticing that her voice was a bit shaky. 'I just thought it was odd.'

'They wanted to spread their message,' Carl hissed, 'but they couldn't sell the scoop. There isn't a paper in the world that's stupid enough to finance a terrorist attack on a police official. You know that.'

'So they gave it to you for free?'

'Exactly.'

'And then you thought it was cool to be in on it?'

Carl spun around and took the stairs two steps at a time.

'Did they wait for you to load the film before they started the fire?' she called after him.

The reporter disappeared into the newsroom without looking back.

Annika continued downstairs. Carl might be telling the truth. It would be pointless to start setting fire to cars if no one knew why they were doing it. The Ninja Barbies could have given him an ordinary tip-off.

But he hadn't known that the offer had been made to her first, she was sure of that. She had caught him off guard.

She walked out through the main entrance hall, pretending not to hear Tore Brand's complaints.

It was hotter than ever. The sun was beating down on the forecourt in front of the entrance and the asphalt was soft. She walked over to the kiosk on Ralambsvagen and bought a hot dog with mashed potatoes and shrimp cocktail, which she ate right there.

***

The early broadcast of Aktuellt didn't mention Josefin's murder, the minister, or the Ninja Barbies in the headlines. Maybe those stories would turn up later on in the program, but for the time being nobody at Kvallspressen was watching. But everything stopped dead when the electric guitar in the Studio 69 signature tune reverberated around the newsroom. Annika sat at Berit's desk, staring at the radio loudspeakers.

'The police investigation into the murder of nineteen-year-old Josefin Liljeberg grows increasingly complex,' the program presenter announced over the music. 'The young woman was a stripper at an infamous strip club, and Minister for Foreign Trade Christer Lundgren has been brought in for further questioning. More on these matters in today's current affairs program with debate and analysis, live from Studio 69.'

Annika could feel the eyes on her from the news desk without even looking up, the gazes burning through the back of her head.

'Wednesday, August first. Welcome to Studio 69 from Radio House in Stockholm,' boomed the voice of the program presenter.

'Josefin Liljeberg was a stripper at the notorious strip club that has taken the name of this radio program, Studio 69. In other media, principally in the tabloid Kvallspressen, she has been portrayed as a quiet family girl dreaming of a journalistic career and wanting to help children in need. The truth is quite different. We will now hear a recording of the woman's voice.'

A tape began rolling in the control room. A young woman, trying hard to sound sensual, invited you to Studio 69, the most intimate club in Stockholm. She gave the opening hours: 1 P.M. to 5 A.M. You could meet gorgeous girls, buy them champagne, watch the floor show or a private show, watch movies or buy them.

Annika had difficulty breathing and hid her face in her hands. She hadn't known the voice was Josefin's.

The program carried on with information about the murder. The minister had been brought in for another interview at Stockholm police headquarters. They started up another tape, a door slamming shut and reporters shouting questions as Christer Lundgren entered the building.

Annika got up, hung her bag over her shoulder, and walked out the back door. The looks burning in her back ate away the oxygen from her. She had to have air before she died.

***

Patricia had set the clock radio for 17:58 on the P3 station. This would give her time to go to the bathroom and drink some water before Studio 69 started. She had slept a deep and dreamless sleep and felt almost drugged when she stumbled back to the mattress. Clumsily, she propped up the pillows against the wall. She listened in the dark behind her black curtains, Josefin's curtains. The man on the radio tore Jossie to pieces, dragging her name through the mud, sullying everything about her. Patricia cried. It was so unfair.

She switched off the radio and went to the kitchen. With trembling hands she made a pot of tea. Just as she was about to pour the first cup, the doorbell rang. It was the journalist.

'The fucking bastards!' Annika exclaimed, and stormed into the apartment. 'How the hell can they make her out to be some kind of prostitute? It's insane!'

Patricia wiped away her tears. 'Would you like a cup of tea? I've just made a pot.'

'Please.' Annika sank down on a chair. 'I wonder if you can do something- report them to the press ombudsman or make a complaint to the Broadcast Commission, or something. They can't do this!'

Patricia took out another cup and put it in front of the journalist. She didn't look well. She was even paler and