Studio Sex - Studio Sex Part 8
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Studio Sex Part 8

"The Jewish Cemetery in Kronoberg Park. She was murdered."

"But that's awful! Do they know who did it?"

"Not yet. Would you like to say something about her, a few words about what she was like, maybe express your feelings about it?"

Martin Larsson-Berg sighed. "Yeah, well... What do you say? She was like most girls that age, giggly and vain. They're all the same. They tend to melt into one, kind of."

So much for the teaching profession, thought Annika. The deputy principal thought about his reply.

"She wanted to be a journalist, on television. Not very bright, to be honest. And she was murdered, you say. How?"

"She was strangled. Did she graduate, then?"

"Yes, she got a pass in all subjects."

Annika looked at the computer printouts in front of her. "Her father's a clergyman. Did that affect her at all?"

"Is he? I didn't know that..."

"And she had a twin brother, Carl Niklas. Did he also go to Tibble School?"

"Niklas... yes, I think he graduated from the natural science program. He had quite a good head on him. He wanted to continue his studies in the U.S."

Annika took notes. "Anything else you remember?"

Jansson appeared at her side, a pleading look on his face. She waved him aside.

"Sorry, no. There are so many students."

"Did she have many friends?"

"Yes, well, I think so. She wasn't especially popular, but she had her friends. She wasn't bullied, or anything."

"You don't happen to have a class register handy?" she asked.

"For Josefin's class?" The deputy principal grunted a bit. "Yes, I have the school register. Do you want me to send it to you?"

"Have you got a fax?"

He did. Annika gave him the crime-desk fax number and he promised to fax Josefin's class photo straightaway.

As she hung up and stood up to go over to Eva-Britt Qvist's desk, the Creepy Calls phone jangled again. She hesitated for a moment but stopped short and picked it up.

"I know who shot Olof Palme," someone slurred at the other end.

"Do you really? Who was it then?"

"What's the reward?"

"We pay maximum five thousand kronor for a tip-off that goes to print."

"Only five grand? That's bullshit! I want to talk to one of the editors."

Annika heard the man gulp and swallow something.

"I am an editor. We pay five thousand, it doesn't matter who you talk to."

"It's not enough. I want more."

"Call the police. Then you'll get fifty million," Annika said, and hung up.

What if the drunk was right, she mused on her way to the fax machine. What if he really did know? What if the Rival had Palme's murderer on tomorrow's front page? She'd be remembered forever as the one who rejected the tip, like the record executives who turned down the Beatles.

The fax was lousy- Josefin and her classmates were just black specks on a gray-striped background. But underneath the photo were the names of all the students, twenty-nine young people who must all have known Josefin. On her way back to her desk, she underlined those with unusual surnames, those she had a chance of finding in the phone book. These kids probably didn't have their own phones, so she'd have to look for the parents.

"Delivery for you," the porter Peter Brand said. He was Tore's son and worked the night shift during July.

Surprised, Annika looked up and received a stiff, white envelope. "Do Not Bend," she read on the outside. She quickly tore it open and emptied the contents onto the desk.

There were three photos of Josefin. The top one was a relaxed studio shot. Wearing her white cap, she was smiling radiantly straight into the camera. Annika felt the hairs on her arms stand on end. This picture was so sharp that they could run it over ten columns if they wanted to. The other two were decent amateur photos, one of the young woman holding a cat and the other of her sitting in an armchair.

At the bottom was a note from Gosta, the police press officer.

"I've promised the parents that the pictures will be distributed to all media outlets who want them," he'd written. "Please have them couriered over to the Rival when you've used them."

Annika hurried over to Jansson and put the pictures in front of him. "She was a clergyman's daughter dreaming about becoming a journalist."

Jansson picked up the pictures and studied them closely. "Fantastic."

"We're supposed to send them over to the Rival as soon as we've finished with them."

"Of course. We'll have them couriered over as soon as they've printed their last edition tomorrow. Well done!"

Annika returned to her desk. She sat down and stared at the phone. There wasn't much to think about. It was half past two, and if she was going to get hold of any of Josefin's friends, she had to get started right away.

She started with two non-Swedish surnames but got no reply. Then she tried a Silfverbiorck and got hold of a young woman. Annika's pulse quickened and she covered her eyes with one hand.

"I'm sorry to call in the middle of the night," Annika began slowly in a low voice. "My name is Annika Bengtzon and I'm calling from the newspaper Kvallspressen. I'm calling because one of your classmates, Josefin Liljeberg, has..." Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat.

"Yes, I've heard," the girl- Charlotta, according to the class register- sobbed. "It's awful. We're all so shocked. We have to support each other."

Annika opened her eyes, grabbed a pen, and started taking notes. This was a lot simpler than she'd imagined.

"It's our biggest fear," Charlotta said. "It's what young women like us are most afraid of. Now it's happened to a friend, one of us. We all have to respond to it." She had stopped sobbing and sounded quite alert.

Annika took notes. "Is it something you and your friends have discussed?"

"Yes, sure. Though no one really thought it would happen to one of us. You never do."

"Did you know Josefin well?"

Charlotta gave a sob, a dry, deep sigh. "She was my best friend." Annika suspected she was telling a lie.

"What was Josefin like?"

Charlotta had a ready answer: "Always kind and cheerful. Helpful, fair, good grades. She liked partying. Yes, I suppose you can say that..."

Annika waited in silence for a moment.

"Will you need my picture?"

Annika looked at her watch. She figured it out: to Taby and back, developing the film- it would be too tight. "Not tonight. The paper's going to press soon. Can I call you again tomorrow?"

"Of course, or you can try my pager."

Annika took the number. She leaned her forehead on her hand and had a think. Josefin still felt vague and distant to her. She couldn't establish a clear picture of the dead woman.

"What did Josefin want to do with her life?"

"What do you mean, 'do'? Have a family, get a job, you know..."

"Where did she work?"

"Work?"

"Yes, which restaurant?"

"Oh, I don't know that."

"She'd moved in to Stockholm, to Dalagatan. Did you visit her there?"

"Dalagatan? No..."

"Do you know why she moved?"

"She wanted to get into town, I guess."

"Did she have a boyfriend?"

Charlotta was silent. Annika understood. This girl didn't know Josefin well at all.

"Thanks for letting me disturb you in the middle of the night," Annika said.

Now there was only one more call to make. She looked up Liljeberg in the phone book again, but there was no Josefin on Dalagatan. She'd recently moved there and hadn't been listed yet, Annika thought, and called directory assistance.

"No, we have no Liljeberg on Dalagatan sixty-four," the operator informed her.

"It could be a very new number."

"I can see all subscriptions that were ordered up until yesterday."

"Could she be ex-directory?"

"No," the operator said. "That information would have showed up on my screen. Could the number be in somebody else's name?"

Annika aimlessly leafed through the printouts. She came across Josefin's mother, Liljeberg Hed, Siv Barbro. "Hed. Check if there's a Hed on Dalagatan sixty-four."

The operator typed it in. "Yes, there's a Barbro Hed. Could that be the one?"

"Yep."

She dialed the number without hesitation. A man answered on the fourth ring.

"Is this Josefin's house?"

"Who are you?"

"My name's Annika Bengtzon and I'm calling from-"

"Damn it, I'm running into you everywhere." Now Annika recognized the voice. "Q!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing there?"

"What do you think? And how the hell did you get hold of this number? Even we haven't got it!"

"It was really hard, you know. I called directory assistance. What have you got?"

"I really don't have time right now." The man hung up.

Annika smiled. At least she had the right number. And she could add the fact that the police had been at Josefin's apartment during the night.

"I've got to know what you've got," Jansson said, and sat down on her desk.

"This is how it'll be," she said, and made a quick outline on a pad. Jansson nodded approvingly and jogged back to his desk.

She wrote the article about who Josefin was- the ambitious clergyman's daughter who dreamed of becoming a journalist. She wrote another piece on her death, mentioning her eyes and the death scream, her gnawed hand and the grief of her friend. She left the silicone breasts out. She wrote about the police hunt, the missing clothes, her last hours, the agitated tipster who had phoned the paper, about Daniella Hermansson's unease and the appeal of the press officer: "This maniac has to be stopped."

"This is pretty good," Jansson said. "Elegantly written, factual, and to the point. You've got some potential!"

Annika immediately had to walk away. She was bad at handling criticism, even worse at dealing with praise. She treasured the magic, the dance of the letters, that which gave her words wings. If she accepted the praise, the shimmering bubbles might burst.

"Let's have a cup of cocoa before you go home," Berit said.

The minister passed Bergnas Bridge. He met a vintage American convertible halfway across, some aging rockers draped over the sides of the car. Other than that, he didn't see a single living soul.

He breathed out when he turned into the side streets behind the green bunker of the social security office. The noises and the whining had accompanied him for over 150 miles. It would soon be over.

After parking next to the rental firm office, he just sat in the car, enjoying the silence. He still had a little ringing in his left ear. He was exhausted. Still he had no choice. He groaned and climbed out of the car with stiff limbs. He quickly glanced about him and then urinated behind the car.