He writes up the report, addresses it to the prosecutor, places it in the outgoing mail, checks that his pistol is safely locked away, and leaves police headquarters in his car.
When he reaches Fridhemsplan, Joona hears his cell phone ringing, but it’s slipped through a hole in the lining of his pocket and he has to pull over in front of the Hare Krishna restaurant to shake it loose.
“Joona Linna.”
“Oh, good,” says police officer Ronny Alfredsson. “We have a problem. We don’t really know what to do.”
“Did you speak to Evelyn’s boyfriend?”
“Sorab Ramadani. That’s the problem.”
“Did you check where he works?”
“It’s not that,” says Ronny. “We located him easy. He’s right here in his apartment, but he won’t open the door. He doesn’t want to talk to us. He keeps shouting at us to clear off, that we’re disturbing the neighbors, and we’re harassing him because he’s a Muslim.”
“What have you said to him?”
“Fuck all, just that we needed his help on a particular matter. We did exactly what you told us to do.”
“Good,” says Joona. “Is it OK if we force the door?”
“Just leave him alone for the time being. I’ll come over.”
“Should we wait?”
“Yes, please. Outside in the car.”
Joona signals, swings the car around in a U-turn, and makes his way onto Västerbron. All the windows and lights of the city are shining in the night, the sky a gray, misty dome up above.
He thinks once again about the crime scene investigation. There’s something odd about the pattern that is emerging. Certain elements are simply irreconcilable. While waiting for a light to change, Joona opens the folder on the passenger seat and flips through the photographs from the soccer field. Three showers, with no partitions between them. The reflection of the flash from the camera shines on the white tiles; in one picture he can see the shower scraper and the large pool of blood, water, and dirt, strands of hair, bandages, and a bottle of shower gel.
Next to the drain in the floor is the father’s arm; the white ball joint is surrounded by ligaments and severed muscle tissue. The hunting knife with its broken point lies on the floor.
Nils Åhlén found the point with the help of computer tomography; it was embedded in Anders Ek’s pelvic bone.
The mutilated body is on the floor between the wooden benches and the battered metal lockers. A red tracksuit top hangs on a hook. Blood is everywhere: on the floor, on the doors, the ceiling, the benches.
Joona drums his fingers on the wheel. A locker room, of all places. The technicians have obtained hundreds of partial and complete fingerprints, thousands of fibers and strands of hair. They are dealing with DNA from hundreds of different people, much of it contaminated, but so far nothing can be linked to Josef Ek.
Joona asked the forensic technicians to concentrate on looking for blood from Anders Ek on Josef. The large amounts of blood covering his entire body from the other crime scene mean nothing. Everyone in the house was smeared with everyone else’s blood. The fact that Josef had his little sister’s blood on him was no stranger than the fact that she had his blood on her. But if they can find the father’s blood on his son, or traces of Josef in the locker room, then he can be linked to both crime scenes. If they can just link him to the locker room, they can begin proceedings.
When Josef was initially taken to the hospital in Huddinge, a specialist was instructed by the national forensic lab in Linköping (which carries out DNA analysis in Sweden) to ensure that all biological traces on Josef’s body were secured.
When he reaches Högalid Park, Joona calls Erixon, a very fat man who is the crime-scene investigator responsible for the investigation in Tumba.
A tired voice answers. “Go away.”
“Erixon? Still alive?” jokes Joona.
“I’m asleep,” comes the weary response.
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s OK, I’m actually on my way home. If they still recognize me there.”
“I’ll make it quick. Did you find any trace of Josef in the locker room?” asks Joona.
“No.”
“You must have.”
“No,” replies Erixon. “Really. Not a trace of him.”
“Have you put any pressure on our friends in Linköping?”
“I’ve leaned on them with my considerable weight,” he replies.
“And?”
“They didn’t find any of the father’s DNA on Josef.”
“I don’t believe them either,” says Joona. “I mean, he was fucking covered in—”
“Not a drop,” Erixon interrupts.
“That can’t be right.”
“They sounded very pleased with themselves when they told me.”
“LCN?”
“No, not even a microdrop. Nothing.”
“But … we just can’t be that unlucky.”
“I think you’re going to have to give in on this one,” says Erixon. “We’ll see.”
They end the conversation. Joona thinks that what can seem like a mystery is sometimes simply a matter of coincidence. The perpetrator’s method appears to be identical in both places: the frenzied blows with the knife and the aggressive attempts to chop up the bodies. It is therefore very strange that the father’s blood has not been found on Josef, if he is the attacker. He should have been covered in so much blood he would have attracted attention, thinks Joona, and calls Erixon back.
“I just thought of something.”
“In twenty seconds?”
“Did you examine the women’s locker room?”
“Nobody had been in there; the door was locked.”
“Presumably the victim had the keys on him.”
“But—”
“Check the drain in the women’s shower,” says Joona.
thursday, december 10: evening
After following the road around Tantolunden, Joona turns onto a path and parks in front of a block of flats facing the park. He wonders where the police car is, checks the address, and considers the possibility that Ronny and his partner have knocked on the wrong door. He grimaces. That would explain Sorab’s reluctance to let them in, since in that case his name probably wasn’t Sorab.
The evening air is chilly, and Joona walks briskly toward the door. If Josef’s account matches with what really happened, he did nothing to hide the crime at the time; did not protect himself. He had no thought for the consequences, he simply allowed himself to become covered in blood.
Joona thinks it’s possible that under hypnosis Josef Ek was merely describing how he felt, a confused, enraged tumult, while in fact his behavior at the time was much more controlled. Perhaps he acted methodically, wore a waterproof covering, and showered in the women’s locker room before he went to the house.
He needs to speak to Daniella Richards, to find out when she thinks Josef will be strong enough to cope with an interview.
Joona walks in through the door. The lobby walls are tiled in black and white like a chessboard, and he sees his reflection in the black tiles: pale, frosty face, serious expression, blond, tousled hair. He takes out his cell and calls Ronny again, jabbing at the button for the elevator. No reply. Perhaps they gave it one last try, and Sorab let them in. Joona heads up to the sixth floor, waits for a mother with a stroller to take the elevator down, then rings Sorab’s doorbell.
He waits for a while, knocks, waits for a few more seconds, then pushes the mail slot open. “Sorab? My name is Joona Linna. I’m a detective. I need to talk to you.”
He hears a sound from inside, as if someone has been leaning heavily against the door but is now quickly moving away.
“You’re the only one who knew where Evelyn was.”
“I haven’t done anything,” says a deep voice from inside the apartment.
“But you said—”
“I don’t know anything!” the man yells.
“OK,” says Joona. “But I want
you to open the door, look me in the eye, and say that to me.”
“Go away.”
“Open the door.”
“What the fuck. Can’t you just leave me alone? This has nothing to do with me. I don’t want to get involved.”
His voice is full of fear. He falls silent, breathing heavily, and slams his hand against something inside.
“Evelyn’s fine,” says Joona.
The mail slot rattles slightly. “I thought—” He breaks off.
“We need to talk to you.”
“Is Evelyn really OK? Nothing’s happened to her?”
“Open the door.”
“I don’t want to.”
“It would be helpful if you could come to the station.”
There is a brief silence.
“Has he been here more than once?” Joona asks, all of a sudden.
“Who?”
“Josef.”
“Who’s Josef?”
“Evelyn’s brother.”
“He’s never been here,” says Sorab.
“So who did come here?”
“Why can’t you understand? I’m not going to talk to you!”
“Who came here?”
“I didn’t say anyone came here, did I? You’re just trying to trap me.”
“No, I’m not.”
Silence once again. Then Joona hears the sound of a tearing sob behind the door.
“Is she dead?” asks Sorab. “Is Evelyn dead?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
Joona hears footsteps moving away, down the hallway, then the sound of a door closing. Loud music starts up. As Joona is walking down the stairs, he thinks someone must have frightened Sorab into telling him where Evelyn was hiding.
Joona emerges into the chilly air and sees two men wearing Pro Gym jackets waiting by his car. When they hear him coming, they turn around. One sits on the hood, his cell phone to his ear. Joona assesses them rapidly. They’re both in their thirties; the one sitting on the hood has a shaved head, while the other has a schoolboy haircut. Joona guesses that the man with the boyish hair weighs over 220 pounds. Perhaps he practices aikido, karate, or kickboxing. Probably on steroids, thinks Joona. The other one might be carrying a knife, but probably not a firearm.
There is a thin layer of snow on the grass.
Joona turns away, as if he hasn’t noticed the men, and heads for the well-lit path.
“Hey, you!” shouts one of them.
Joona ignores them and heads toward the steps by a streetlamp with a green trash can.
“Aren’t you taking your car?”
Joona stops and glances quickly up at the building. He realizes that the man sitting on the hood is talking to Sorab on his mobile, and that Sorab is watching them from his window.
The man with the boyish haircut is approaching cautiously, and Joona turns and walks back toward him.
“I’m a police officer,” he says.
“And I’m a fucking monkey,” says the man.
Joona takes out his mobile and calls Ronny again. “Sweet Home Alabama” begins to play in the man with the boyish hair’s pocket; he smiles, takes out Ronny’s phone, and answers.
“Officer Pig here.”
“What’s this all about?” says Joona.
“You need to leave Sorab alone. He don’t want to talk.”
“Do you really think you’re helping him by—”
“This is a warning. I don’t give a fuck who you are, you just keep away from Sorab.”
Joona realizes the situation could become dangerous, remembers that he locked his pistol away in the gun cupboard back at the station, and looks around for something he can use as a weapon.
“Where are my colleagues?” he asks in a calm voice.
“You hear me? Leave Sorab alone.”
The man with the boyish hair runs one hand rapidly through it, begins to breathe more quickly, turns sideways, moves a little closer, and lifts the heel of his back foot an inch or two from the ground.
“I used to train when I was younger,” says Joona. “If you attack me I will defend myself and I will take you.”
“We’re shitting our pants,” says the one leaning against the car.
Joona doesn’t take his eyes off the man facing him. “You’re intending to kick my legs,” he says. “Since you know you can’t manage high kicks.”
“Asshole,” mumbles the man.
Joona moves to the right to open up the line.
“If you decide to kick,” Joona continues, “I will not move back, which is what you are used to; instead, I will move in, against the back of your other knee, and when you fall backward, this elbow will be waiting for the back of your neck.”
“Fuck me, he talks bullshit,” says the one leaning on the car.
“He does.” The other grins. “And what an accent.”
“If your tongue is sticking out, you’ll bite it off,” says Joona.
The man with the boyish hair sways slightly, and when the kick comes it is slower than expected. Joona has already taken a first step when the man’s hip begins to twist. And before the leg extends and meets its target, Joona kicks as hard as he can at the back of the knee of the other leg, the one on which the man is resting all his weight. He is already off balance and falls backward just as Joona swings around and hits the back of his neck with his elbow.
friday, december 11: morning
It is just 5:30 a.m. when the knocking begins somewhere in the apartment. Simone perceives the noise as part of a frustrating dream, in which she has to pick up different shells and porcelain lids. She understands the rules but still does the wrong thing. A boy knocks on the table and points out the wrong choices she has made. Simone twists and turns in her sleep, whimpering; she opens her eyes and is immediately wide-awake.
Someone or something is knocking inside the apartment. She tries to locate the noise in the darkness, lying perfectly still and listening, but the knocking has stopped.
She can hear Erik snoring beside her. There is a tapping sound in the pipes. The wind blows against the windowpanes. The sound of a car outside roars through the window.
Simone just has time to think that she must have exaggerated the noise in her sleep when the knocking suddenly begins again. Someone is in the apartment! Erik has taken a pill and is out cold. His snoring quiets as she lays a hand on his arm, but he doesn’t wake up, only turns over, puffing. As quietly as possible, she creeps out of bed and slips through the bedroom door, which is ajar.
A light comes from the kitchen. As she moves through the hallway she sees a glow hanging in the air like a blue cloud of gas. It’s the fridge light. The fridge and the freezer are standing wide open. The freezer has begun to defrost and water is running onto the floor. Drops of water from the thawing packs of food are landing on the plastic edging with a gentle tapping noise.
Simone becomes aware of how cold it is in the kitchen. There is a smell of cigarette smoke. She looks out into the hallway.
Then she sees that the front door is wide open.
She rushes to Benjamin’s room. Fast asleep. For a little while she just stands there, listening to his regular breathing.
As she walks toward the front door to close it, her heart almost stops. There is someone standing in the doorway. He nods to her and holds out an object. It takes a few seconds before she realizes this is the paperboy and he’s handing her the morning paper. She says thank you and takes the paper from him; when she finally closes the door, she notices that her entire body is shaking.
She switches on all the lights and searches the entire apartment. Nothing seems to be missing.
Simone is on her knees mopping the water from the floor when Erik walks into the kitchen. He fetches a dish towel, throws it on the floor, and starts to push it around with his foot.
“Someone leave the fridge door open? I must have done it sleepwalking,” he says.
“No,” she says wearily.
“The fridge is a classic, after all. I must have been hungry.”
“I’d know. I’m such a light sleeper, I wake up every time you turn over in bed or stop snoring. I wake up if Benjamin goes to the toilet. I can hear when—”
“Then you must have been sleepwalking.”
“Erik, this isn’t funny. Something woke me up and the front door was open.”
She falls silent, not sure she should have told him this.
“I could definitely smell cigarette smoke in the kitchen,” she says eventually.
Erik laughs.
Simone’s cheeks are stained with an angry flush. “Why are you laughing?”
“Come on, Sixan. One of the neighbors probably smoked a cigarette standing by the exhaust fan in their kitchen. I mean, the whole building shares a ventilation system. Or some terrible person had a cigarette on the stairs without thinking—”
“Can you be a little more patronizing?” Simone interrupts.
He tries to reassure her. “Simone—”
“Why don’t you believe someone was here?” she asks angrily. “After all that crap about you that was in the papers? The crank calls? It’s hardly surprising if some lunatic tries to get in here and—”
“Just stop. This is not logical. Who on earth would come into our apartment, open the fridge and the freezer, smoke a cigarette, and then just leave?”
He tosses the wrung-out dish towel back on the floor and begins swabbing with his foot again.
“I don’t know, Erik! I don’t know, but that’s what somebody has done!”
“Calm down,” says Erik irritably.
“Calm down?”
“Stop making such a fuss. I’m sure we’ll find a simple explanation.”
“I could feel there was someone in the apartment when I woke up,” she says, in a subdued voice.
He sighs and leaves the kitchen. Simone looks at the dirty gray towel he was using.
Benjamin comes in and sits down in his usual place.
“Good morning,” says Simone.
He sighs and sits there with his head in his hands. “Why do you and Dad always lie about everything?”
“We don’t,” she says.
“Yeah, right.”
“What makes you think we do?”