Summertime Death

by Mons Kallentoft

  It’s happened again.

  They found Josefin on Thursday, Theresa on Sunday, and now, two days later, it’s time for another girl. Dead?

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘As bad as it could be.’

  Malin clenches the fist that isn’t holding the phone.

  ‘This is fucking well not going to happen again.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ Zeke says. ‘It’s time we got this bastard now.’

  It’s only two hundred metres from Malin’s flat to the latest crime scene.

  She makes her way there along the shady side of St Larsgatan. Dragging her feet, doesn’t want to see what she knows she’s going to see.

  No smell of smoke, the wind must be coming from a different direction again today. But Malin can still sense it somehow, the smoke, she can detect its resonance, a new tone settling over the city.

  The heat.

  The implacability of this summer.

  Fear.

  The awareness that something malevolent is on the loose.

  Stay indoors, girls. Don’t go out. Go in groups, only in the light, be on your guard, cheat death, it could be anywhere, anywhere at all.

  Violence like a suffocating arm around Linköping, this city of knowledge, a snake twisting around its proud industries, IT companies, university and hospitals, around its inhabitants, each one more remarkable yet also more scared than the last.

  Fear is a parasite, expressing itself in violence, which will slowly, slowly consume the city’s joy in life. Unless, Malin thinks, we put a stop to this now.

  She walks past the Correspondent’s offices on St Larsgatan.

  Daniel almost certainly down in the Railway Park already.

  Frimis.

  Zeke said that both the victim and the lad who found her had summer jobs there.

  The hotel’s façade like a faded medieval castle. And in there was where those ridiculous freemasons held their meetings. Karim is a member. And Zeke’s son, Martin, has given a talk to the old men about what it’s like being a top sports star.

  Malin wants to think about anything at all apart from the sight that greets her when she turns the corner down towards the park: two patrol cars, uniformed police officers, cordons, journalists and photographers.

  Low-growing bushes in tight clusters around the gravel paths.

  An attractive grove of what, rhododendrons?

  No, rowan bushes, maples, an oak.

  Karin Johannison inside the grove.

  Malin can just make out the red and orange flowers of a lovely dress that she’s seen Karin wear before.

  Karin is crouched over the body.

  ‘Her name’s Sofia Fredén.’

  Malin can hear the tiredness even in Karin’s voice. Not indifferent or despairing, more like sympathetic and involved, in a way that she’s never heard Karin before.

  ‘Another one,’ Karin says as she stands up and looks at Malin, her eyes full of sympathy as well, but also anger.

  ‘Another one,’ she repeats.

  And Malin nods, looks down at the body, its eyes closed, and the scrubbed skin is glassy, almost transparent white, with deep gashes across the chest, neat in spite of the blood, but not the same as the injuries to Theresa or Josefin. The blood that’s poured from the wounds makes the body look oddly peaceful; the contrast between the white skin and the red has that effect.

  A smell of bleach is in the air.

  ‘It almost looks like she’s glowing,’ Malin says. ‘Have you got any thoughts about the wounds? They’re different from before. And there’s more blood.’

  ‘The wounds?’ Karin says. ‘They’re different. They look like they were made by some sort of claws. A small bird, a guinea pig, maybe a rabbit or a cat. As to why there’s more blood? Maybe the killer didn’t have time to wash her or wait for the wounds to stop bleeding. We are in the middle of the city, after all.’

  In Karin’s voice there’s none of the superiority that’s usually there, and it makes her more pleasant, humble.

  Rabbit claws.

  Are you still finding your way? If you can just get it right, then all this will sort itself out, all your wishes will be fulfilled?

  The cages at Lollo Svensson’s farm.

  ‘It’s like he or she is still trying things out,’ Malin says to Karin. ‘Seeing as the wounds look different each time.’

  ‘Maybe, Malin. But what do I know?’

  In the distance she can hear Daniel Högfeldt’s voice: ‘Malin, is it the same perpetrator?’

  And Karin answers his question, albeit quietly, to Malin.

  ‘Particles of blue paint in the vagina, the body scrubbed clean, strangled. I can guarantee you that we’re dealing with one and the same perpetrator.’

  Malin looks Karin in the eyes. She blinks slowly in response.

  ‘It could have been one of us, Malin, if we were younger.’

  ‘What about the lad who found her?’

  ‘He’s sitting in the Volvo with Zeke over in the car park.’

  Patrik Karlsson is sitting terrified in the back seat of the car.

  Seems to believe that they’re going to think it was him.

  ‘We don’t think you had anything to do with this, Patrik. Not for a second.’

  The air conditioning in the car is roaring, one of the commonest and most welcome sounds of the summer.

  ‘We’ve already checked your alibi,’ Zeke says. ‘And we know that you worked together. Right now we’re just wondering if you can tell us anything about her that we ought to know?’

  ‘I only spoke to her a couple of times.’

  His soft teenage cheeks move up and down.

  ‘She was always busy with the dishes. Used to say she wished she’d taken the job in the café at Tinnis instead, where she worked last summer.’

  Tinnis.

  What wouldn’t I give to go swimming right now?

  ‘I didn’t really know her. Sure, I thought she was pretty. But like I said, I was on my way to work and just happened to go past on my bike.’

  Sofia, Malin thinks.

  Just on her way home from work.

  Did she just happen to walk past the perpetrator?

  ‘Do you know where Sofia lived?’

  ‘In Mjölby. She must have been on her way to catch the train.’

  ‘Mjölby?’

  Malin closes her eyes.

  We’re way behind, she thinks.

  34

  It’s the sort of day when she feels like drinking one, two, three, four beers for lunch, then carrying on drinking all afternoon with the help of a large bottle of tequila. But it never happens, because she never gives in to that sort of impulse. Instead: delayed morning meeting at the station.

  An intent Karim Akbar at the head of the table, the whiteboard behind him giving off a dull glow, lit up by the daylight seeping in through the gaps in the lowered, tilted Venetian blinds.

  Sven Sjöman is sitting to the left of Karim, bags under his eyes, his bulging stomach tight under a washed-out yellow cotton shirt and Malin knows he’s suffering in the heat, knows it’s much harder for him than other people to get through days like this. She noticed him getting more and more tired during the spring, but didn’t want to ask why, didn’t want to vocalise what was obvious, not wanting to think the thought of what would happen if he went off on sick-leave or if his heart somehow packed up.

  Mentor.

  You’ve been my mentor, Sven.

  His mantra: Listen to the voices of an investigation, Malin. Hear what they’re trying to tell you. Which she has gradually, over the days, weeks, months and years, translated into: See the images, feel the clues, notice the patterns.

  Zeke opposite Sven.

  Ready to pounce again, his back straight, ready to deal with whatever shit gets thrown at him. Nothing can break me! A hungry look in his eyes, nothing to hide, an unveiled human being.

  Their colleagues from Motala and Mjölby are taking part in the group meeting for the first
time.

  Sundsten. Per.

  A younger, child-free version of Johan Jakobsson, slim and sinewy, sitting there with an open face beneath flaxen hair, wearing a crumpled white linen suit. A guileless but watchful look in his eyes, a sharp nose curving slightly towards his thin lips. He looks intelligent, Malin thinks.

  Waldemar Ekenberg.

  Long and faithful service.

  A time-twisted police officer with an infamous weakness for excessive force. Cigarettes have left deep lines in his face and he’s thin, looks older than his fifty years. His hair is a lifeless grey, but the look in his grey-green eyes is still strangely vibrant: We’re going to get this bastard.

  Karim begins: ‘Karin Johannison has confirmed that the traces of paint match the other victims. We’ll be getting a more detailed forensic report later today, tomorrow at the latest. So, we’re dealing with the same perpetrator. Or perpetrators.’

  ‘Well,’ Waldemar Ekenberg says, and his voice is thin and rattling. ‘We can hardly expect to find the perpetrator among her close acquaintances. There don’t seem to be any natural connections between the girls, do there?’

  ‘Hardly,’ Zeke interjects.

  ‘I’ve had time to get a good look at the case now,’ Per Sundsten says. ‘It’s like we’re dealing with some sort of shadow. Someone who exists, yet somehow doesn’t.’

  Sven nods.

  ‘What do you think, Malin?’

  The expectation that she’s going to say something wise, something that takes them a bit further.

  ‘There’s a pattern here. I just can’t see it yet. Have Sofia Fredén’s parents been told?’

  Theresa Eckeved’s mother sinking to the hall floor, screaming.

  Her father, some of his wits still about him, his whole being radiating the realisation: I’m only at the start of this nightmare.

  ‘Persson and Björk in Mjölby have taken care of that,’ Waldemar Ekenberg says. ‘They’re good, they’ll do it as well as anyone could. It’s an impossible task. And they’ll be questioning Sofia’s parents about her as well. Just the essentials.’

  Task.

  Malin tastes the word, twists and turns it, the way it creates a professional distance in an attempt to make this most human encounter bearable.

  Then a quick overview of the situation from Per Sundsten.

  The latest door-to-door inquiries around the villas of Sturefors had turned up nothing, and the convicted sex offenders that he and Ekenberg had had time to check out all had watertight alibis. Ten people on the list, five checked. ‘We’ll carry on with the others today. But I don’t really expect it to give us anything.’

  ‘We haven’t got hold of the owner of the kiosk yet,’ Malin says. ‘Seems to be away. All three kiosks are shut, in the middle of high season.’

  ‘The fuss with the football team has died down,’ Karim says. ‘That’s one advantage when things move so fast, no one has time to linger over things that don’t matter. But it was clumsy of me.’

  A team-building confession, a bit of rhetoric for the officers on the case. One tiny little mistake, but you’ll forgive me, respect me again. Won’t you?

  I respect you, Karim. You’re a better police chief than most.

  Sven speaks up.

  ‘Still nothing from Yahoo! or Facebook. Evidently they’re very restrictive when it comes to giving out information. Yahoo! claim they need an American court order. Facebook haven’t even replied. And Louise Svensson’s computer was completely clean. She could have cleared it out, seeing as she was expecting us to turn up.’

  Sven takes a deep breath.

  ‘We’re still trying to identify possible manufacturers of the dildo, but so far we’ve haven’t got anything definite.’

  Then he rubs a hand over his head.

  ‘How do you suggest we proceed?’

  Sven is head of the preliminary investigation, but it feels as if responsibility for the case is fluid, snaking to and fro across the room like hot, hot tar, so hot that no one wants to burn their fingers on it.

  The air-conditioning unit groans.

  Shudders.

  And falls silent.

  ‘Shit! Just when it had started working at last! Things are going to heat up again,’ Zeke says.

  And they all wait for Sven to make a proposal, lead them further, and he starts to speak.

  ‘Sundsten and Ekenberg. You take the door-to-door around Frimis, and talk to Sofia Fredén’s colleagues at the hotel. Malin and Zeke, get hold of the kiosk owner, and maybe you could check if Josefin Davidsson has remembered anything by now? Just some quick questions? And we’ll have to hope that a witness turns up, someone who saw or heard something, or that they come up with something about Sofia Fredén in Mjölby that can move us on. Otherwise we’ll just have to wait for Forensics to give us something. Well, those are the lines I see ahead of us. Anyone else?’

  Silence around the table.

  ‘Right then,’ Karim says. ‘Let’s get to work.’

  ‘A shadow.’

  Zeke standing beside Malin’s desk. Trying out the word.

  ‘Something like that,’ Malin says. ‘A shadow of a person. Or a person driven towards utter transparency.’

  ‘Or a lack of transparency,’ Zeke says.

  ‘Then there are the different sorts of wounds that were inflicted on the girls,’ Malin says.

  ‘Seems almost like a sort of curiosity about violence,’ Zeke says.

  ‘Cleanliness. All that scrubbing.’

  ‘As if the killer wanted to purify them.’

  ‘Is Josefin Davidsson still in hospital?’

  ‘We’ll have to check. Otherwise she’s probably at home.’

  Zeke waits by Malin’s desk as she rings.

  Waits until she hangs up and says: ‘She’s at home.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll be able to remember anything now?’

  ‘No,’ Malin says. ‘But we’ll give it a try.’

  Malin thinks of Maria Murvall, who must be able to remember being attacked in the forest, but who has squeezed her whole being into a corner, letting her consciousness act as the basis for a life that’s been stripped down, a life that’s really no better than most animals’.

  Is that what evil can do to a person?

  Apparently.

  Then Malin’s phone rings.

  Ebba in reception.

  ‘There’s someone who wants to talk to you, Malin. Says he wants to be anonymous, he’s got a very strong accent. Says it’s about the girls.’

  ‘Put him through.’

  The voice, the accent, the prejudices that arise at once. He sounds, even though Malin doesn’t want to think it, stupid, speaking in scarcely intelligible Swedish: ‘You know that fucker Behzad Karami, he hasn’t got a fucking alibi, his family are just lying, he was somewhere that night, and last night too, I know. You have to check him again, they’re lying to you. He often does strange things at night, he just disappears.’

  How can you know that? Malin thinks, and says: ‘What’s your name?’

  No number on the display, the man, or rather the youth, is probably ringing from a public phone.

  ‘I don’t have a name.’

  ‘Hang on . . .’

  Click.

  Malin turns towards Zeke. A questioning look in his eyes.

  ‘Behzad Karami just reappeared in the case. We should check him out again.’

  ‘OK, but where do we start? With Behzad Karami, Slavenca Visnic or Josefin Davidsson?’

  Malin throws up her hands.

  ‘Which one do you think would have air conditioning at home?’

  ‘Let’s start with Josefin,’ Zeke replies. ‘Besides, Visnic is proving rather difficult to get hold of, to put it mildly.’

  35

  ‘Doesn’t Karim live out this way?’ Zeke asks, wiping the little beads of sweat from his upper lip. They look like tiny, burned blisters.

  ‘Yes, they’ve got a villa here somewhere,’ Malin replies, thinking tha
t Josefin Davidsson was incredibly lucky to get away with her life.

  They park by the school. Josefin Davidsson lives with her parents in one of the terraced houses in Lambohov.

  The red-painted wooden houses are small, unassuming family dreams, clinging together in rows, with neatly tended front gardens and hedges that have grown tall over the years since the houses were built.

  ‘I think Karim’s son goes to school there,’ Malin says as they walk slowly towards the houses. They stop outside number twelve, go into the little garden and ring the bell, but hear nothing from inside. So Malin takes hold of the ring hanging from the mouth of the gilded lion adorning the green front door instead, and just as she knocks the door opens and Josefin peeps out through the gap.

  ‘Hello. Oh, it’s you. What do you want?’

  ‘We’d like to ask you some questions,’ Malin says. ‘We want to see what you remember. Or if you can remember anything else?’

  ‘Come in.’

  Josefin opens the door.

  She’s wearing a loose, pale-pink dress that hangs limply about her body, her hair wet after what Malin assumes must have been a shower. The bandages on her arms and legs are dry and clean.

  She walks into the house ahead of them, leading them past a kitchen with white cupboards and on into a living room where two burgundy-coloured Chesterfield sofas sit facing one another. Outside there’s a patio with a hammock and plastic garden furniture. The room is hot and smells faintly of smoke and sweat and freshly made caramel.

  Malin and Zeke sit down beside each other and Josefin settles down opposite them. You look older here at home, Malin thinks, as if the ornate furniture and cheap Wilton rugs are stealing life from you.

  ‘I can’t remember anything,’ Josefin says. ‘And, really, why would I want to?’

  She knits her hands in her lap, they go white and she turns away to look at the garden.

  ‘Are your mum and dad out?’ Malin asks.

  ‘They’re at work.’

  She looks back at them.

  ‘They could be here, get compassionate leave if you’d rather not be alone.’

  ‘Then they’d get less money. And they’d probably rather work.’