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 was like family.
"I see." The administrative officer hesitated. "It's not completely straightforward," she said in the end. "The commission would have to receive a complaint and then consider the case. There is the public interest to take into account."
Annika gave up. She felt she wouldn't be getting any further. She thanked her and hung up.
But I'm not completely talking through my hat, she thought. There might be a privacy case to be made.
The lunchtime Eko started. Annika put her feet on the desk and listened absentmindedly to Berit's transistor radio. They headlined five stories: the Middle East, the prime minister's comment on the Christer Lundgren affair, and three other things that Annika forgot about as soon as she'd heard them. She let her thoughts roam free while they droned on about the Middle East. When they announced the prime minister, she turned up the volume.
The familiar voice sounded mischievous: "Do I look like it's an emergency?"
The reporter described the prime minister as having been relaxed and in excellent spirits when arriving at Rosenbad this morning. He wasn't the least worried about the accusations against Foreign Trade Minister Christer Lundgren, but was looking forward to the forthcoming election campaign with confidence. He did feel sympathy for his colleague, however, and knew what he was going through.
The prime minister again: "Naturally, I feel for Christer at a time like this. This kind of unwarranted media attention is always a trial. But I assure you, for the government- and the party- this business is of no consequence whatever."
That was the end of the report. The next item was about some official report from the Association of Local Authorities. Annika turned the radio off. If one thing really bored the pants off her, it was Local Authorities' reports.
"Is it you who's been talking all this rubbish?"
Patricia blinked sleepily at the strip of light between the curtains. She tried to sit up straight on the mattress and moved the receiver to the other ear.
"Hello."
"Don't try to get out of it. Just tell me the truth!" The shrill voice broke.
Patricia coughed and rubbed her eyes, wishing the pollen season would soon be over.
"Is that you, Barbro?" she said cautiously.
"Of course it's me! Who else would it be? One of your porn friends, perhaps!"
Josefin's mother was raging down the phone, a rant so inarticulate and incoherent Patricia hadn't even recognized her voice at first. Patricia took a deep breath and tried to collect her thoughts. The words entwined, mixed up, and blurred. Spanish took over, as it sometimes did when she was under stress.
"No entiendo..."
"Do you understand what you have done?" Josefin's mother yelled. "You've blackened her memory forever. How could you?"
Patricia's mind cleared- something was wrong. "What's happened? What are you talking about?"
The voice on the phone dropped to a whisper. "We know what you are. You're a greaseball whore. Do you hear that? And as if that weren't enough, you had to drag Josefin down with you!"
Patricia stood up and shouted back, "That's not true! Not at all! I didn't drag Josefin into anything!"
"Now listen to me," Barbro Liljeberg Hed hissed. "I want you out of my apartment today. Pack your dirty things and go back to Africa or wherever you came from."
"But-"
"I want you gone before six o'clock."
Click. The line went dead. Patricia listened to the empty noise for a while. Then she slowly put the phone down and sank down on the mattress. She sat down with her chin on her knees, her arms around her legs, and began rocking slowly back and forth, back and forth.
Where would she go?
The phone rang again. She flinched, as if from a slap. Without thinking she grabbed the phone, ripped the cord from the socket, and hurled it out in the hallway.
"Fucking bitch!" she screamed, and started to cry.
Annika let it ring for a long time. Patricia ought to be home by now. Maybe she was asleep, but she should still hear the telephone.
What if something had happened to her?
Worry mingled with the shame that lingered from the day before. First for being associated with the woman and then for her betrayal.
She walked restlessly around the newsroom, had a cup of coffee, and watched CNN for a while. When she came past the news desk, she realized that she had forgotten to tell them about the demonstration at the murder scene.
"You'll have to do it," Ingvar Johansson said curtly. "All the other reporters are busy."
She walked over to Picture Pelle and booked a photographer for 14:15.
"Pettersson will go with you," Pelle said. "He's on his way in."
Annika smiled nicely but groaned inwardly. The clapped-out VW again.
"I'll wait outside," she said, and went to pick up her bag.
She took the elevator down, walked outside, and sat down on one of the concrete foundations outside the multistory garage. The air was boiling and electrically charged; her lungs crackled as she breathed. She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the city; they might not be hers for much longer.
When she opened her eyes, she couldn't make sense of the image at first. The woman walking into the entrance looked familiar, but it took her a second to recognize her.
"Patricia!" Annika called out, and ran after her. "What on earth are you doing here?"
Confused, the woman looked around and saw Annika. She walked outside and nearly got caught between the automatic sliding doors. Tore Brand yelled something and Patricia stopped.
"What's happened?"
"They're throwing me out."
Annika breathed freely again. "But that's just as well. You'll soon find a new job."
Patricia looked at her, taken aback. "Not the club. The apartment."
"Josefin's parents?"
Patricia nodded and wiped away the tears. "Jossie's mother's a real bitch. A racist bitch."
"Where will you go?"
The young woman tossed her hair back defiantly and shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe I'll shack up with some guy. There's plenty of sugar daddies around."
Without really thinking about it, Annika rummaged around in her bag. "Here." She put her keys in Patricia's hand. "Thirty-two Hantverkargatan, across the yard, top floor. Have you got any money? Make some copies, my boyfriend has my extra set."
"What?"
"I've got an extra bedroom. It's an old maid's bedroom behind the kitchen. You can have it. Do you have a mattress?"
Patricia nodded.