She put the paper back, turned around, and started jogging down Agnegatan toward Kungsholmsstrand. Down by the canal she turned left and increased the pace. Pretty soon her lungs started to ache. She was seriously out of condition. She let her feet slam down on the asphalt with increasing intensity, not minding the pain. When she saw Karlberg Palace ahead on her right, she moved into high gear. Her chest heaved like bellows, and the sweat ran into her eyes. She came back on Lindhagensgatan, through Ralambshov Park and up via Kungsholms Square. When she finally stepped into the shower, she was exhausted.
I have to take care of myself, she thought. I have to get regular exercise. As she returned up the stairs to her apartment, her legs were shaking.
She walked into the newsroom just before lunch. Berit still hadn't returned from Gotland, so Annika used her desk again.
Her own contribution for the day was the story on the minister's overnight apartment. The headline was eye- catching, '
She was happy with the intro: 'Christer Lundgren lives next to the murder scene. He has a secret overnight apartment only 50 yards from the cemetery.
'Not even Lundgren's press secretary knew the apartment existed.
' 'How did you find me?' the minister asked when
Then followed a description of the apartment, the fact that everybody in the house had been interviewed, and then Daniella's words: 'As if he'd be a murderer? It's so silly. He's no killer.'
Annika had left out the part about his being a cheapskate.
Then she'd added a few cryptic lines about the police still taking a greater interest in the minister than the rest of the occupants in the building. She'd kept that paragraph brief as she didn't quite know what the police were after.
The bitch Mariana with the fancy surname had done a short piece on Josefin's having worked in a club called Studio 69.
Berit had a short piece on the Speaker's denial of any knowledge of the IB affair.
A stranger was sitting at the news desk with Spike's telephone receiver glued to his ear. Annika turned on her computer and peeked at him from behind her screen. Did he know who she was? It occurred to her that she should go up and introduce herself. She hesitated for a moment, smoothing down her half-dry hair. When he put down the phone, she hurried up to him. Just when she'd drawn breath to begin speaking behind his back, the phone rang again and he answered it. Annika was left standing behind his chair, looking around her. That's when she saw a copy of the Rival. The picture of Josefin in her white graduation cap dominated the front page. The headline was fat and black: 'A Stripper.' Annika held on to the news editor's chair and leaned over the paper. The caption added, 'Murdered Josefin a sex worker.'
'How the hell could we miss that angle? Maybe you can tell me that!'
Annika looked into the man's cold gaze. She wet her lips and held out her hand. 'I'm Annika Bengtzon, nice to meet you,' she said in a slightly hushed voice.
He released her eyes, quickly pressed her hand, and mumbled his own, Ingvar Johansson. He picked up the Rival and held it out in front of Annika.
'From what I hear, you've been covering this story. How the hell could we miss out on the fact that she was a hooker?'
Annika felt her pulse racing; her mouth was as dry as dust. She knew Johansson was the news editor. Her mind raced.
'She wasn't a hooker,' she said with a trembling voice. 'She danced in her boyfriend's club.'
'Well, she wasn't dancing ballet. She was bare-assed.'
'No, she wore panties. And the boyfriend was strictly legit.'
Johansson stared at her. 'So why didn't you write that if you knew all about it?'
She swallowed hard, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. 'Well, I guess I was… wrong. I didn't think it mattered.'
The telephone rang again and the news editor turned away. Annika swallowed and felt the tears welling up. Shit. Shit. Shit. She'd blown it. She'd fucked up.
She turned around and started walking toward Berit's desk, the floor rolling underneath her feet. She didn't seem to be able to do anything right.
Her telephone was ringing like mad. She hurried up to it, cleared her throat, and picked it up.
'Yes, hello, this is Lisbeth,' she heard a mature woman's voice say.
Annika dropped down on the chair and closed her eyes. She was trying not to hyperventilate.
'Who?'
'You know, Lisbeth the counselor.' The voice sounded reproachful.
Annika sighed soundlessly. 'Oh, yes, of course, the youth club in Taby. What can I do for you?'
'The young people here are going ahead with their protest against violence today. They'll be leaving here at two P.M. in three coaches. They should be at the murder scene around two-thirty.'
Annika swallowed and rubbed her forehead. 'At two-thirty,' she echoed.
'Yes, I thought you might want to know.'
'Yeah, that's great. Thanks.'
Annika hung up and went out to the ladies' room and ran cold water on her face and wrists. Slowly, the feelings of panic subsided.
It isn't that bad, she told herself. I've got to try to get things into perspective. Of course people might think I did the wrong thing- so what?
She smoothed down her hair and then went to the cafeteria and bought a sandwich. From a purely ethical point of view, it could be argued that she'd done the right thing. It was worth looking into.
She took the sandwich and a diet Fanta back to Berit's desk.
The press ombudsman was kind and patient: 'You have to be a relation of the deceased to make a report, or have the consent of the family.'
Annika thought about it. 'This partly concerns a newspaper, partly a radio program. Would you deal with that?'
'We could look at the newspaper article but not the radio program. You'll have to go to the Broadcast Commission for that.'
'I thought they only do impartiality and objectivity.'
'It's true, but they also look at ethical and journalistic issues. The rules are roughly the same as for the print media. What form of publication is this about?'
'Thanks a lot for your help,' Annika said quickly, and rang off.
She called the Broadcast Commission.
'Yes, we could look into that,' said the chief administrative officer who answered the phone.
'Even if I'm the one bringing it up?' Annika asked.
'No, we only look into complaints from the public concerning impartiality and objectivity. When it comes to issues of intrusion into a deceased's family privacy, the complaint has to come from the people concerned.'
Annika shut her eyes and leaned her head in her hand. 'If that happened, what do you think would be your conclusion?'
The officer considered the question. 'The outcome often isn't clear-cut. We've had a few cases, and in a couple of them the family's complaint has been upheld. Could you be a bit more specific?'
Annika drew a breath. 'It's about a murdered woman. She's been depicted as a stripper in a radio program. Her family had not approved making this information public.'
This wasn't strictly true; Annika hadn't talked to Josefin's parents. But as far as Patricia was concerned, she
