Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed

farther on he saw the sign: Harpsund 5.

He turned left and crossed the railway. The road wound past a church, a school, and farms in a landscape that belonged to another time; manor houses with sunporches and fir hedges drifted past in the mist.

Here the landowners had sucked the working class dry for a thousand years, he mused.

After a few minutes he drove through the massive stone gateposts that marked the entrance to the prime minister's summer residence. A large, well-kept barn lay on the left, and behind it he glimpsed the main house.

He parked to the right of the entrance and sat in the car for a moment, looking at the building. It was two stories high with a mansard roof, built in the 1910s. A Caroline pastiche. He fished out his umbrella, opened the car door, and ran to the door.

'Welcome. The prime minister called. I've prepared some lunch for you.' The housekeeper took his wet umbrella and jacket.

'Thanks, I'm fine. I had lunch on the way. I just want to go to my room.'

The woman didn't express any disappointment. 'Of course. This way, please.'

She walked ahead of him up to the second floor and showed him to a room with a view over the lake. 'Just call if you want anything.'

The housekeeper closed the door without making a sound, and he took off his shirt and shoes. The prime minister was right- they'd never find him here.

He sat down on the bed with the telephone on his lap and took three deep breaths. Then he dialed the number for Karungi.

'It's over,' he said when she answered.

He listened to her for a long time.

'No, darling,' he said. 'Don't cry. I'm not going to jail. No, I promise.'

He stared out the window, hoping he wasn't lying.

***

The afternoon dragged. She didn't get any assignments. She took the hint, which wasn't even particularly subtle. She was taken off everything to do with the Josefin murder and the minister suspect. Carl Wennergren got all those jobs.

In an attack of boredom she called Krim and asked for Q. He actually answered the phone.

'They were hard on you on the radio last Thursday,' he said.

'They were wrong. I was right. They got the wrong end of the stick.'

'I don't know if I agree,' he said genially. 'You can be damned pushy.'

'I'm smooth as a ballet dancer!'

He laughed out loud. 'That's not exactly the metaphor that comes to mind when you call,' he snorted. 'But you can handle that, I expect. You're a tough nut, so you'll take it in your stride. You have to take a few on the chin.'

Amazingly enough, she felt he was right.

'Now listen,' she said, 'I have a few questions about the Ninja Barbies.'

He immediately turned serious. 'What?'

'Did they have any cash on them when they were arrested?'

She heard the police captain draw a breath. 'Why the hell do you ask that?'

She shrugged and smiled. 'Just wondering, that's all…'

He thought about it for a long while. 'Do you know anything about this?' he said in a low voice.

'Maybe.'

'Well, give it to me, baby.'

She laughed coarsely. 'You'd like that, wouldn't you!'

'They didn't have anything on them.'

Annika's heart started beating faster. 'But in the car? At home? In the basement?'

'In the house of one of them.'

'Like around fifty thousand?' Annika said innocently.

He sighed. 'I wish you'd tell me straight.'

'I could say the same to you.'

'Forty-eight thousand five hundred. In an envelope.'

He'd done it, the bastard!

'Maybe you could tell me where it came from,' he said, trying to sound sweet.

She didn't reply.

***

When she heard the signature tune to Studio 69, Annika turned off the radio and went down to the canteen. She'd just finished filling a plate with rabbit food from the salad bar when a counter attendant with a prominent perm called out her name.

'You've got a call,' the Perm said.

It was Anne Snapphane.

'You should listen to this,' she said in a low voice.

Annika closed her eyes and felt her heart sink deep into her shoes. 'Why would I want to listen to them rip me again?'

'No, no. It's not about you. It's about the minister.'

Annika took a deep breath. 'Que?'

'It seems he did it after all.'

Annika hung up and walked toward the exit with her salad plate.

'Hey, you!' the Perm shouted after her. 'You're not allowed to take the plate with you!'

'So call the police,' Annika retorted, pushed the door open, and walked out.

The newsroom was deathly quiet. The voice of the studio reporter resounded from the loudspeakers in the open-plan office, and all the journalists at the paper were leaning forward, taking in the message.

Annika gingerly sat down at her desk. 'What's up?' she whispered to Anne Snapphane.

Anne leaned over toward her. 'They've found the receipt,' she said quietly. 'The minister was at the strip club on the night of Josefin's murder. She rang up his check half an hour before she died.'

Annika went completely pale. 'Jesus Christ!'

'It all adds up. Christer Lundgren attended a conference with German Social Democrats and trade union representatives here in Stockholm on Friday, July twenty-seventh. He spoke about trade and cross-border cooperation. Afterward he took the Germans out on a spree.'

'What a loser,' Annika said.

'The Studio 69 reporters have found the receipt. And he noted down the names of the Germans on the reverse.'

'Has he resigned yet?'

'Do you think he will?' Anne Snapphane said.

'Well, it doesn't look very good. You can picture the headline. 'Social Democrat Spends Taxpayers' Money at Strip Joint.''

A man from the proofreading desk hushed them. Annika switched on her radio and turned up the volume.

'Our reporter found the fateful receipt from the strip club in the archive of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. But by then the police were already on the minister's track.'

The man's voice was full of restrained triumph. He was milking it, speaking slowly in an ominous voice.

'There was, it appears… a witness.'

A reporter began speaking, sounding as if he were standing in an empty hallway. The echo bounced around between the walls.

'I'm standing in the stairwell of the house where Minister for Foreign Trade Christer Lundgren has his overnight