Studio Sex.

A Novel.

Liza Marklund.

Author's Note.

Sweden is an odd little country close to the north pole. There are fewer than nine million of my fellow Swedes. We experience one of the world's highest standards of living, we live longer than people anywhere else, and we enjoy the greatest gender equality of any country in the world. Nonetheless, our suicide rate is high, we're way up near the top in the taxpaying league table, and men still beat their women to death regularly.

This is the place where my novels are set. It's a society full of contradictions. It is strange and very ordinary at one and the same time. Since 1932, Sweden has been run almost continually by the Social Democratic Worker's Party. (The liberals and conservatives have ruled in short terms for a total of nine years over this period.) This has, not surprisingly, created some arrogance among the people in power. The Social Democrats started bending the rules early, and then making up their own.

One of the rule-bendings resulted in the illegal espionage organization called the IB. Party spies worked both inside and outside Sweden for decades. Tens of thousands of Swedes were registered and defined as "security risks," which meant they might lose their jobs and their elective offices. The crimes these "security risks" were alleged to have perpetrated included parking their car too close to the wrong political meeting.

The truth about the IB organization was revealed in May 1973 by two young reporters, Jan Guillou and Peter Bratt, who wrote for the small, alterantive magazine FiB. Both journalists were sentenced to a year in prison for the article, making them two of very few political prisoners in modern Swedish history. (Everything turned out fine for the journalists. Today, Peter Bratt is an investigative reporter at the biggest and most prestigious Swedish morning paper, Dagens Nyheter. Jan Guillou is the chairman of the Swedish Publishers Club, and also a bestselling author. Together we own one of Sweden's biggest publishing houses, Pirat. Ha ha!) Everything describing the IB affair in this novel is true, up until the conclusion. But since Sweden is an arms-exporting country, who knows? Sweden is militarily neutral. Squeezed beween the NATO member nations Denmark and Norway on one side and Finland and the former Soviet Union on the other, this seemed like the smart thing to do for a long time. Not having any allies during the cold war forced us to maintain a strong national military defense. It also made us build an advanced weapons and arms production infrastructure, and the Swedish parliament has agreed to a limited and controlled export of this materiel.

In 1986, the Indian government closed a deal with the Swedish company Bofors, worth 8.4 billion Swedish kronor. The Social Democratic government was deeply involved in the agreement. Prime Minister Olof Palme talked the whole deal through in several meetings with Indian prime ministers Indira Gandhi and, later, Rajiv Gandhi.

It became clear that Bofors got the order after 300 million kronor of bribes. The scandal dominated the Indian election campain in 1989 and actually caused Rajiv Gandhi to lose his office. (There have been several deaths in the aftermath of this deal, which might be quite coincidental. Olof Palme was shot dead in Stockholm on February 28, 1986. The man in charge of controlling the Swedish export of war materiel, Carl Algernon, was killed in a strange accident in the Stockholm subway January 15, 1987. A Swedish journalist who investigated the Bofors affairs, Cats Falck, was found dead in her car on the bottom of the ocean, and Rajiv Gandhi was murdered in 1991.) The role of the Swedish government in this affair is still not clear. The Social Democrats have promised, again and again, to publicly "wash their dirty laundry" in this matter.

We're still waiting.

Our society is well regulated. We don't mind that Big Brother is watching. Every citizen is given a personal number at birth. This number follows you everywhere: bank accounts, taxes, phone bills, car registration, stocks, employment records, and so on. Everybody's number is published (with few exceptions, which I will explore in my novel The Paradise Trust) and can be located through the tax office. Using this number, you can find out a man's income, his wealth, his previous wife's maiden name, and his kids' grades in math. Everything is on the official record about us Swedes, but also about the people in power. Every piece of paper lodged with our authorities is public, as well as all the bills and receipts turned in by our officials. Anyone can check every expense by our politicians, union leaders, and other authorities.

Still, they cheat. In the 1990s, an endless line of powerful people were caught going to gambling clubs, brothels, porno theaters, and on exotic vacations at taxpayers' expense. In July 1994, I found a limousine bill that proved that Bjorn Rosengren, the leader of a huge union cartel, had lied about a visit to a porn club during the 1991 election. Rosengren had to resign, and the cartel made it no secret that they thought this was my fault.

These events inspired me to write the novel Studio Sex. Oddly enough, the members of this very union selected me Author of the Year for this book. And everything worked out for Bjorn Rosengren as well. His pals in the party made him governer of Norrbotten, my home region. Today he's the minister of industry in the Social Democratic government.

All of these affairs have, of course, been brought to the attention of the Swedish people by the media. The Swedes read more newspapers than those of almost any other nationality, probably because all nongovernmental broadcasting was forbidden until the late 1980s. Until then, we had two state-run TV channels and three state-run radio stations. Broadcast news programs have always been strict, official, and uncontroversial. Investigative journalism and groundbreaking news have usually been found in the tabloids.

The Swedish evening papers blend the serious and the popular in a way I haven't seen anywhere else: investigative work sits next to celebrity scandals. The papers have a true love-hate relationship with their readers. Swedes love to discuss and question the tabloids and cuss at them too. Lately, a debate has centered on a mentally disturbed drug addict who was convicted of the murder of Prime Minister Olof Palme in 1986. Later, he was acquitted by the appeals court and is, therefore, a free man. In the last ten years, the man has received 1 million Swedish kronor from the tabloids and the new commercial TV stations, mainly for giving interviews. This is still not acceptable practice in Sweden and has been strongly condemned by sections of the public. The murder of Olof Palme remains unsolved to this day.

I wish you exciting and thoughtful reading.

Liza Marklund.

Avarua, Rarotonga.

New Year's Day, 2002.

A Few Words Before You Begin To Read.

The events in this book take place nearly eight years before those of my previous novel, The Bomber.

Chronologically, Studio Sex is the first in the series about the crime reporter Annika Bengtzon. When we meet her here, she has just started work as a young freelancer at the tabloid Kvallspressen.

Have a good read!

Liza Marklund.

Halleforsnas, July 1999.

Prologue.

When she saw the salmon-pink panties hanging from a bush, her first reaction was one of outrage. Didn't young people respect anything these days? Not even the dead were allowed to rest in peace.

She was lost in thought about the decline of society while her dog grubbed around in the undergrowth along the iron fence. It was when she followed the animal past the small trees along the south side of the cemetery that she saw the leg. Her indignation grew even stronger- the impudence! Oh, yes, she saw them walking the streets at night, scantily dressed and talking loudly, openly inviting the men. The heat was no excuse.

The dog took a shit in the high grass next to the fence. She turned away, pretending not to see. No people were around this early in the morning, so she needn't bother with the plastic bag.

"Come on, Jasper," she called to the dog, pulling him toward the exercise enclosure on the eastern side of the park. "Come on, boy, my little darling..."

She glanced behind her as she walked away from the fence. She couldn't see the leg now; it was hidden by the dense foliage.

It was going to get hot again today; she could feel it already. Her brow was beaded with sweat even though the sun was barely up. She panted her way up the hill. The dog was pulling at the leash, his tongue lolling so that it was almost touching the grass.

How on earth could you lie down to sleep in a cemetery, the resting place of the dead? Was this what feminism meant, to be allowed to behave badly and disrespectfully?

She was still upset. The steep hill just made her even more irritable.

I should get rid of the dog, she thought, and was immediately seized by guilt. To compensate for her wickedness, she bent down to unleash the dog and take it in her arms. The dog wriggled free and shot after a squirrel. The woman sighed. Her thoughtfulness obviously wasn't appreciated.

Sighing again, she dropped onto a park bench while Jasper attempted to chase down the squirrel. The dog was soon exhausted and parked himself underneath the fir tree where the little rodent was hiding. She stayed on the bench until she saw that the dog was done. As she got up, she noticed that her dress was clinging to her back. The thought of the dark stains along her spine made her feel self-conscious.

"Jasper darling, little doggy..."

She held out a plastic bag full of treats, and the short-legged bull-terrier came running straight at her. With his tongue dangling out of his mouth, he looked as if he were laughing.

"Oh, you want this, don't you, my friend..."

She gave the dog the bag's contents and put him back on the leash. It was time to go home. Jasper had had his treat. Now it was her turn- coffee and a bun.

But the dog didn't want to go home. He'd spotted the squirrel again, and fortified by the treats, he was ready for another chase. He protested loudly and fiercely, pulling at the leash.

"I don't want to stay out any longer," she moaned. "Come on now!"

They took a roundabout way to avoid the steep, grassy hills that faced her apartment building. She could manage uphill, but going down was hard on her knees.

She was right above the northeast corner of the cemetery when she saw the body. It lay embedded in the lush, overgrown vegetation, licentiously stretched out behind a partly collapsed gravestone. A fragment of a Star of David was next to her head. Only then did the woman begin to feel scared. The body was naked, much too still and white. The dog broke loose and rushed up to the fence, the leash dancing like an angry snake behind him.

"Jasper!"

He managed to squeeze in between two bars and continued over to the dead woman.

"Jasper, come here!"

She yelled as loudly as she dared; she didn't want to wake the people living around the park. Many slept with open windows in the heat; the inner-city stone buildings didn't cool down during the short summer nights. She rummaged frantically in the plastic bag, but she'd run out of things to give him.

The bullterrier stopped next to the body and looked at her attentively. Then he started sniffing, at first searching, then eagerly. When he got to her genitals, the woman couldn't check herself.

"Jasper! Come here this minute!"

The dog looked up but gave no sign of obeying. Instead, he moved to the woman's head and started sniffing at the hands resting next to her face. To her horror, the dog started chewing at the fingers. She felt sick and grabbed the black iron bars. Carefully, she moved to the left, leaned down, and peered in among the gravestones. From a distance of six feet, she was staring into the woman's eyes. They were light-colored and clouded, dull and cold. She had a strange sensation of all sound around her disappearing. She was left with a buzzing tone in her ears.

I've got to get the dog away from here, she thought. I can't let anyone know what Jasper did.

She went down on her knees and reached her hand in as far as she could through the fence. Her splayed fingers were pointing straight at the dead eyes. Her fat upper arms threatened to get stuck between the bars as she reached for the hook of the leash. The dog howled when she pulled at the leather strap. He didn't want to let go of his prey; the hand was firmly wedged in his jaws. She jerked the animal toward her as hard as she could.

"You stupid, stinking dog!"

He hit the fence with a thud, giving a yelp. With trembling hands she forced the animal out through the iron bars. She was holding him as she never had before, both hands in a firm grip around the belly. She hurried down to the street, slipping on the grass on her way, painfully pulling a muscle in her groin.

Only when she had locked the door behind her in her own apartment and saw the scraps of flesh in the dog's mouth did she throw up.

Part One.

July.

Seventeen Years, Four Months, and Sixteen Days.

I thought love was only for others, for those who are visible and who count. My mistake is singing inside me, great shouts of joy. It's me he wants.

The euphoria, the first touch, his fringe falling into his eyes when he looked at me; nervous, not at all arrogant. Crystal clear: the wind, the light, the feeling of absolute perfection, the sidewalk, the hot wall of the house.

I got the one I wanted.

He's the center of attention. The other girls smile and flirt, but I'm not jealous. I trust him. I know he's mine. I see him from the other end of the room, blond hair that gleams, the movement as he smooths it back, a strong hand, my hand. My chest contracts under a band of happiness; I'm breathless, tears are in my eyes. The light clings to him, making him strong and whole.

He says he can't manage without me.

His vulnerability lies just beneath his smooth skin. I lie on his arm and he draws his finger along my face.

Never leave me, he says; I can't live without you.

And I promise.

Saturday 28 July There's a dead girl in Kronoberg Park."

This one had the breathless voice of a heavy drug user. Amphetamines perhaps. Annika Bengtzon took her eyes away from the screen and fumbled for a pen amid the mess on her desk.

"How do you know?" she asked, too much skepticism in her voice.

"Because I'm fucking standing next to it!"

The voice rose to falsetto and Annika held the phone away from her ear.

"Okay. How dead?" she said, realizing she sounded ridiculous.

"Shit! Stone dead! How fucking dead can you be?"

Annika looked around the newsroom uncertainly. Over at the news desk, Spike, the news editor, was talking on the phone. Anne Snapphane was fanning herself with a pad at the desk across from Annika, and Pelle Oscarsson was standing at the picture desk, clicking away at his Mac.

"Yeah, right," she said, and found a pen in an empty coffee mug. She started taking notes on the back of an old wire report from the news agency TT.

"In Kronoberg Park, you say. Whereabouts?"

"Behind a gravestone."

"A gravestone?"

The man started crying. Annika waited a few seconds in silence. She didn't know what to say next. The tip-off phone's official name was The Hot Line, but in-house it was never called anything other than Creepy Calls. The majority of the callers were either jokers or nutcases. This one was definitely a candidate for the latter.

"Hello...?" Annika said warily.

The man blew his nose. He took a couple of deep breaths and told Annika his story. Anne Snapphane was watching from the other side of the desk.

"Where do you find the energy to keep answering that phone?" Anne asked as Annika hung up. Annika didn't respond, but just continued scribbling her notes.

"I've got to get another ice cream or I'll die. Do you want anything from the cafe?" Anne Snapphane asked as she got to her feet.

"I've got to check something first," Annika said, lifting the receiver and dialing the direct number to the emergency switchboard. It was true. Four minutes earlier, they had received a call about a body being found next to Kronobergsgatan.

Annika got up and walked over to the news desk with the wire in her hand. Spike was still on the phone, his feet on his desk. Annika stationed herself right in front of him, demanding his attention. The news editor gave her an annoyed look.

"Suspected murder, young woman," Annika said, and waved the printout in front of him.