Liza Marklund - Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed

"It's good. Disturbing," Annika said spontaneously.

"Wait until you see this one," Picture Pelle said, and clicked again.

Annika recoiled as the clouded eyes of the woman met her own.

"These are the first few pics," Bertil Strand said. "Lucky I moved, wasn't it?"

Annika swallowed. "Daniella Hermansson?"

Picture Pelle clicked a third time. A tense Daniella with the boy in her arms looking up toward the park with frightened eyes.

"Great," Annika said.

" 'It could have been me,'" Picture Pelle said.

"How did you know that's what she said?" Annika said in surprise.

"That's what they always say," Pelle said smugly.

Annika walked on.

The doors at the editorial end of the office were all shut. She had not seen the editor in chief today. Come to think of it, she had barely seen him all week. The subeditors hadn't arrived yet. The men responsible for the layout of the paper usually turned up after seven in the evening, sunburned and drowsy after a long afternoon in the Rålambshov Park. They would start the night by guzzling two pints of black coffee each, rant about all the mistakes in yesterday's paper, and then set to work. They would try out headlines, cut copy, and clatter away at their Macs until the paper went to print at six in the morning. Annika was a little scared of them. They were loud and brash, but their skill and professionalism were great. Many of them lived for the newspaper; they worked for four nights and had four off, year in, year out. The schedule rolled on over Christmas, Easter, and Midsummer Day, four off, four on. Annika didn't know how they could stand it.

She walked over to the empty sports desk. The Eurosports Channel was showing on a TV in a corner. She stopped in front of the large windows at the far end and stood gazing at the multistory garage opposite. The concrete looked as if it were steaming in the heat. If she put her face right up to the windowpane and looked to the left, she could just make out the Russian embassy. She leaned her forehead against the glass and marveled at how cool it was. Her sweat left a sticky patch on the pane and she tried to wipe it off with her hand. She drank the last of the mineral water. It tasted metallic. She slowly walked back across the newsroom floor, an intense feeling of happiness gradually spreading inside her.

She was here. She'd been accepted. She was one of them.

It's going to work, she thought.

It was after three and time to call the police.

"We don't know enough yet," came the terse answer from a lieutenant at the duty desk of the criminal investigation department, Krim. "Call the press officer."

The police press officer had nothing to say.

The police communications center confirmed that they had dispatched patrol cars to Kronoberg Park, but she already knew that. The emergency services control room reconfirmed that they had received a police call from a private person at 12:48 P.M. There was no telephone subscription at the care-of address the tipster had given.

Annika let out a sigh. She pulled out her pad and leafed through it. Her eyes landed on the fleet number of the Hawaiian detective's car. She gave it a moment's thought, then phoned the police communications center again. The car belonged to Krim at the Norrmalm precinct. She called there.

"That car's out on loan," the officer on duty informed her after checking a list.

"To whom?" Annika wondered, her pulse quickening.

"Krim, the criminal investigation department- they haven't got their own cars. There's been a death on Kungsholmen today, you see."

"Yes, I've heard about that. Do you know anything about it?"

"Not my turf. Kungsholmen's in the Södermalm District. My guess is it's already with Krim."

"The guy who borrowed the car has short blond hair and was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Do you know who that is?"

"That must be Q."

"Q?" Annika echoed.

"That's what he's called. He's a captain in the Krim. There's another call coming in…"

Annika thanked the officer and ended the call. She phoned the switchboard again.

"I'd like to speak to Q in the Krim."

"Who?" the operator said, puzzled.

"A captain called Q who works in the Krim."

She heard the operator groan. It was probably as hot there as it was at the paper.

"One moment, please…"

The signals went through. Annika was just about to hang up when someone answered in a gruff voice.

"Is this the Krim?" she inquired.

Another groan. "Yes, this is the Krim. What's this about?"

"I'm looking for Q."

"Speaking."

Bingo!

"I wanted to apologize. My name is Annika Bengtzon. I ran into you today in Kronoberg Park."

The man sighed. She heard a scraping noise in the background, as if he was sitting down on a chair.

"Which paper are you with?"

" Kvällspressen. I'm covering over the summer. I'm not quite sure how you go about these things, how you communicate with the media. Back home in Katrineholm, I always call Johansson at Krim at three o'clock, he usually knows everything."

"Here in Stockholm you call the press officer."

"But you're in charge of the investigation?" Annika chanced it.

"So far, yes."

Yes!

"No prosecutor?" Annika quickly asked.

"There's no need for that at this stage."

"So you don't have a suspect."

The man didn't confirm it, then said, "You're smarter than you look. What are you getting at?"

"Who was she?"

He groaned again. "Listen, I told you to speak to the-"

"He says he doesn't know anything."

"Then you'll have to content yourself with that for now." He was getting annoyed.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to put pressure on you."

"Yes, you were. Now, I've got a lot-"

"She had silicone breasts," Annika said. "She wore heavy makeup and had been crying. What does that suggest?"

The man stayed silent. Annika held her breath.

"How do you know all that?" he asked. Annika could tell that he was surprised.

"Well, she hadn't been lying there for very long. The mascara was smeared, she had lipstick on her cheek. She must be at the forensic medical unit in Solna now, right? When will you tell me what you know?"

"What makes you think she had silicone breasts?"

"Ordinary breasts sort of float out to the side when you're lying down. Plastic tits point straight up. It's not that common on young girls. Was she a prostitute?"

"No, absolutely not," the police captain said, and Annika could hear him bite his tongue.

"So you do know who she was! When will you publish the name?"

"We're not one hundred percent sure yet. She hasn't been formally identified."

"But she will be soon? And what was wrong with her hand?"

"Sorry, I haven't got time now. Bye!"

Q, the police captain in charge of the investigation, hung up. Not until the tone was in her ear did Annika realize she still didn't know what his name was.

The minister shifted to fourth gear and sped into the Karlberg Tunnel. It was stifling hot inside the car, so he leaned forward and groped for the air-conditioning. The cooling system clicked on and turned to a hushed murmur. He let out a sigh. The road felt endless.

At least it'll cool down toward evening, he thought. He turned onto the North Circular and got in the lane for the tunnel leading to the E4. The different sounds of the vehicle echoed inside the car, becoming amplified and bouncing between the windows: the tires thundering against the asphalt road; the wheezing of the air-conditioning; a whining from a seal that wasn't airtight. He switched on the radio to drown out the sounds. The blaring music on the P3 station filled the car. He looked at the digital clock on the dashboard: 17:53. Studio 69, the news and current affairs program, would be starting soon.