Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed

apartment,' the reporter whispered excitedly. 'Up to a few days ago, no one knew about it, not even his press secretary, Karina Bjornlund. But there was one thing the minister failed to reckon with: the neighbors.'

A sound effect faded in, shoes walking up marble steps.

'I'm on my way up to the woman who was to become a key witness in the investigation into the murder of the stripper Josefin Liljeberg,' the reporter said, slightly out of breath.

The elevator must be out of order again, Annika thought.

'Her name is Elna Svensson, and it was her early-morning routine and razor-sharp observations that were to nail the minister.'

A doorbell rang; Annika recognized it. He was at 64 Sankt Goransgatan, no doubt about it. The door opened.

'He was coming into the building when Jasper and I were on our way out,' Elna Svensson said.

Annika immediately recognized the whining voice. The fat woman with the dog.

'Jasper likes to play in the park for a while before I have my morning coffee. Coffee and a plain bun, that's what I have for breakfast.'

'And this particular morning you met Minister for Foreign Trade Christer Lundgren on your way out?'

'Yes, as I said.'

'And he was on his way in?'

'He came in, looking agitated. He nearly stepped on Jasper, and he didn't apologize either.'

Agitated? Annika noted the word down on her pad.

'What time was this?'

'I rise at five o'clock, every day of the week. It was just after that.'

'Did you see anything strange in the park?'

The woman sounded more nervous. 'Absolutely not. Nothing at all. Neither did Jasper. He did his business and we came back in.'

The studio reporter returned, now with the commentator in the studio. They discussed when the minister would resign, the impact on the election campaign, the future of Social Democracy. They even touched on national security. No issues were too important for Studio 69 on a day like this.

'It pisses me off,' Anne Snapphane said.

'What does?' Annika said.

'That it had to be them of all people that found the receipt. Why didn't I go up to the Ministry for Foreign Affairs and ask to see it?'

'The question is how they knew it was there to be asked for.'

'We have tried to get hold of Christer Lundgren for a comment,' the studio reporter said, 'but the minister has gone underground. Nobody knows where he is, not even his press secretary, Karina Bjornlund, who claims not to have known about the strip club visit either.'

Karina Bjornlund's nasal voice streamed out of the radio: 'I haven't got the slightest idea where he was that night. He told me he was having an informal meeting with some foreign representatives.'

'Could that have been the German union leaders?' the reporter insinuated.

'I couldn't say,' she said.

'And where is he now?'

'I've been trying to get hold of him all day.'

Anne Snapphane rolled her eyes. 'She doesn't sound like the sharpest knife in the drawer.'

Annika shrugged.

'The prime minister has declined to comment on our latest disclosures,' the studio reporter said. 'Instead he referred us to a press conference at Rosenbad, tomorrow at eleven A.M.'

'Do you think Lundgren will resign then?' Anne asked.

Annika frowned. 'It depends,' she said thoughtfully. 'If the Social Democrats want an end to the discussion, they'll drop him like a hot potato. They'll appoint him county governor or vice president of some bank or something else equally boring up in the tundra.'

Anne wagged her finger at Annika. 'Watch it, you, you're talking about my backyard.'

'Provincialist,' Annika retorted. 'That, however, would mean that the government would be admitting the minister was a murderer, even if he's never convicted. So if all Social Democrats have a clear conscience, the minister should stay.'

'Despite the receipt from the strip club?'

'I bet my boots they'd come up with a great excuse. It was all probably his driver's fault.' Annika grinned.

The radio hosts were now ready to sum up and did so with authority. Annika reluctantly admitted to herself that the new disclosures were both sensational and well presented. They'd done a good job.

'A minister in the Social Democrat cabinet takes seven German union leaders to a strip club,' the reporter said. 'A busty, blond stripper rings up the check at half past four in the morning. The minister signs it and carefully notes down the names of his German guests on the reverse. Half an hour later he returns to his house, agitated, and nearly steps on his neighbor's dog. The stripper is later found murdered fifty yards from the same house. She died between five and seven A.M. that same morning. The minister has been interviewed by the police on several occasions and has now disappeared…'

The last words hung in the air when the electric guitar music began. Annika switched off.

The senior editors had gathered over by the news desk. She saw Spike and Jansson; Ingvar Johansson; Picture Pelle and the sports editor; Anders Schyman and the editor in chief. Their backs were turned to the newsroom.

'Check that out for an image,' Annika said. 'They're in the process of sinking the paper with that damned wall of backs.'

'Whatever they're talking about, we're not involved,' Anne Snapphane said. 'It'll be golden boy who gets this treat.'

And true enough, the group moved as one in Carl Wennergren's direction.

'Does Jansson work all the time?'Annika wondered.

'Three ex-wives and five kids on the installment plan,' Anne replied.

Annika slowly ate her wilting salad. Maybe that's where you end up in this job, she thought. Maybe it's just as well I'm out before I've become like those guys, a bunch of addled old hypocrites with brains that can only think in 72-point Bodoni.

'You take care of Creepy Calls,' Spike said to her when he walked past.

One and a half weeks left, Annika thought, held her tongue, and walked off to return her plate to the cafeteria.

'I could do with a quiet night,' she said when she returned to her desk.

'Ha!' Anne said. 'That's what you think. Look at the weather. All the loons will be calling.'

Anne was right.

'Immigration's gone too far,' a voice said. It resonated with testosterone and the southern suburbs.

'Do you think?' Annika said. 'In what way?'

'They're taking over. Why the hell can't they solve their own problems wherever it is they come from instead of bringing all their shit over here?'

Annika leaned back in her chair and sighed soundlessly. 'Could you be a bit more precise?'

'First they rape and kill each other at home, then they come over here and strangle our girls. Take that dead girl in the park, for example.'

At least there was someone who didn't listen to Studio 69.

'Well,' Annika said, 'I'm not so sure the police share your suspicions.'

'See! That's what really pisses me off. The cops are protecting the fuckers!'

'So what do you think should be done about it?' Annika asked in a silky voice.

'Throw them out. Just send them all back to the jungle, goddammit!'

Annika grinned. 'I find it a bit hard to share your opinion as I'm black myself.'

The man on the phone went quiet. Anne stopped writing and looked up at her, and Annika had problems keeping a straight face.

'I want to talk to someone else,' the man said when he'd collected himself.

'Sorry, there's no one else here.'