– I can hear you’ve got a lot to think about, Jenny, she said as Jennifer stood up, her hand resting on the doorknob. – But I’m so happy with the work you’re doing. That you’re so involved.
Jennifer could feel herself blushing.
– I wish I could ask more of you, Lydia went on. – If you had the time. This project needs you.
This research project of yours is all you live for, thought Jennifer, but then regretted it. Lydia was easy to work with. And she obviously accepted that not everyone had the same passion.
– There’s talk of expanding the field. It would be particularly interesting to look at younger women who miscarry. Compare them with those over thirty.
– Is there any money?
– Someone up there is interested in what we’re doing. Lydia nodded in a vaguely upward direction, as though such matters were decided on the next floor up. – Childlessness is something that affects everybody.
A lot of people with life-threatening and painful conditions are further back in the queue because they don’t have anyone to plead their case, thought Jennifer, but didn’t want to contradict her. It wasn’t her job to moralise about the ordering of priorities.
– If you want to, you can work closer to the area I’m dealing with.
Jennifer glanced at her, forgetting for a moment that it wasn’t Lydia’s right eye that was crossed. It must be strange for her, being practically blind in one eye, with people seeming to stare straight past her.
– Genetics has never been a speciality of mine, she pointed out.
– You’ve learnt an incredible amount in a very short time.
Jennifer liked hearing that kind of thing a little too much, and made no protest.
– Someone of your ability picks things up at once. And our lab technicians are actually very skilled.
– I’ll think about it, Lydia. And have a chat with my departmental head.
– She thinks it’s an interesting idea. I already mentioned it to her.
Jennifer didn’t quite know what to make of this. She was glad to feel needed. But she wasn’t going to be staying. The time to break camp was approaching.
She managed a quick trip to the canteen, picked up a bagel, as they called the roll with sweaty cheese. Back in her office she called Roar Horvath. He sounded stressed. Not hard to understand why.
– I had a quick look at the newspaper, she said, as though that might calm him down.
– They’ve turned everything upside down, he groaned. – We invited them to a press conference, but those rats got in ahead of us.
– Funny they didn’t get hold of it even sooner. Loads of people around the hospital know what happened to that patient.
– That’s what I told them. We should have let the press have it straight away.
He was hardly the sort of leader who always got his own way.
– And now we’ve got people from the NCIS here, he sighed. – Not that we asked for them. We’re going to be treading on each other’s toes the whole time.
Her concern for his logistical problems was less than minimal, and she was even less interested in being his confidante.
– I’ll be sending a preliminary post-mortem report some time this afternoon.
– You’ve always been quick on the draw, Jenny. I like that.
– It’s going to interest you, she told him, determined to stick to the matter at hand.
– I am all large wet ears.
– Ugh. You need a prescription for eardrops?
– Ha ha. Let’s hear what you have.
She pushed away the plate with the thing that was supposed to be a bagel, couldn’t sit there chomping away into his already wet ear.
– We talked about the modus operandi. The more I study the murders, the more alike they seem.
– The knife?
– Not impossible it was the same weapon. Very pointed, very sharp. But there’s something about the way the cut was made, at a slight angle to the left. If our theory is correct, that the victims were attacked from behind, there’s a lot to suggest that in both cases the perpetrator was left handed.
– Excellent. Thanks for that, Jenny.
She smiled to herself. – Of course, the cut on Marita Dahl’s neck was much longer. The artery and the jugular on one side have been severed.
– Making it messier.
– And a quicker death. You’ll get pictures of the throats. And an assessment of the murder weapon. Whoever did this knew exactly where to cut. And how. Clinical precision, to coin a phrase. It makes you wonder what he practised on. Or who.
– Excellent, Roar Horvath said again. – Any biological traces?
– Sent for DNA analysis. Particles of skin beneath the nails, blood, hair.
A phone rang; she heard him take the call and give a message. One or two short sentences and he was back again.
– What about the Iranian? she asked.
– What about him?
– How is he?
– Do you know the guy?
– Only that he works here. I’m curious by nature, you know that.
He chuckled; it sounded strained, but he didn’t end the conversation.
– We’ve taken a long and confused statement from him. For the moment at least it looks as though he’s able to cope with being held in a security cell. Sits there staring at nothing. At least he isn’t any trouble.
– Has he said anything about what happened?
Roar Horvath didn’t answer for a few seconds, as though wondering how much he could tell her.
– It looks as if he confesses to having been at the scene. Claims he was attacked by a person with a knife and had to run away naked through the forest.
– Was he hurt?
– He claims he was shot.
– That’ll need treatment.
– Not as far as we can see. He’s covered in scratches and small cuts. The deepest is one across his wrist, and that must be self-inflicted. We got a doctor to stitch it up.
Jennifer spun her coffee cup round on the table, watched the wave motions from the centrifugal force. Suddenly she said:
– I can take a look at him.
– The Iranian?
– He says he was shot. What if I have a look at it? Maybe the doctor who sewed him up doesn’t have much experience of gunshot wounds.
In her mind’s eye, she could see Roar Horvath, the deepening wrinkles in his brow, like three seagulls in flight. Even if he had his doubts, he would agree to it. He was the type to give in. People change, she thought, but the personality stays the same. How does that add up? Why would that be?
24
As the light through the living-room windows grew sharper, Sigurd sat in his chair and studied a withered plant on the windowsill. Katja was lying curled up on the sofa, a blanket over her, her face half covered by her black hair. The outside door was ajar; the owl could no longer be heard, but other birds had woken up now. Somewhere behind the trees, the breaking of the waves. The distant drone of traffic. A deep note that sounded as if it came from a ship. Now and then human sounds. Children laughing, people talking on the track along the side of the field.
He took a walk. Followed a path through the forest that emerged on to a road with a petrol station a few hundred metres away. He bought rolls and cheese, a Pepsi Max, instant coffee and some fruit. As he came back in through the veranda door, she opened her eyes. An almost imperceptible smile when he put the rolls and some spreads on the table in front of her, but she didn’t touch any of it.
He poured her a glass of Pepsi, ate half a roll.
– How long are you planning to stay here?
She turned slightly, looked up at the ceiling. – Don’t know.
– Is this because of the man who died?
She nodded.
– Does being here help?
She glanced across at him. – You don’t understand.
– Perhaps you could help me out. So I understand some of it at least.
<
br /> Abruptly she sat up. – I don’t understand it either. Why they killed him.
He waited for more.
– There’s someone I must get hold of. Can’t leave here until I know it’s safe.
– Has somebody threatened you?
Without answering, she stood up, wrapped in the blanket, took her phone from the table and let herself into the toilet. He heard her speaking to someone, but not the words; her voice was low. When she came back, she was wearing the red dress but was still barefoot, her hair tangled.
She grabbed the bottle of Pepsi and drank.
– I’m trying to get in touch with a member of his family, she said once she’d put the bottle down. Her voice was stronger now, maybe a sign that she was ready to talk about it.
– Do they live here too?
– Who?
– The family of the man who’s been killed.
She nodded, and again he felt a jab. But he was in a different place now. He was not a killer; he wasn’t the one who had killed the man she was sitting there thinking about.
He eased down beside her on the sofa. – Does Ibro have relatives in Malmö?
He’d crossed the line, it was something that had to happen, but she answered without looking at him.
– An uncle.
For a moment he thought he’d got away with it. But then she pulled away and turned towards him.
– How do you know his name?
He felt himself turn cold, and then hot.
– I found out.
She stood up. – They came to your house. They came to your house and asked, right?
– Which they?
– You know. You know who I’m talking about.
He was about to protest, but it was as if the breath had gone out of him.
– You’re lying, she shouted.
He slumped back. All he could manage was a shake of the head.
– If you lie to me, I don’t ever want anything to do with you again, nothing. She was bent over him, every word screeched down into his face.
– What are you talking about? he managed to say at last.
– I’m talking about you ratting him out. I’m talking about you helping them to find him. I’m talking about you killing him.
She raised her hand, and for a moment he thought she was going to hit him.
– How did you know his name?
– Calm down, he said feebly. – I checked up on it.
She launched herself at him, scratching his face, pulling his hair. Not until he felt the pain did he twist round and trap her wrists and hold her down on the sofa.
– You mustn’t, Katja, do you hear, you mustn’t do that.
– Fucking Judas, she sobbed, and tried to break free. He kept her pinioned. Kept on holding until he felt the strength drain from her arms. When he let go, she sank to the floor.
He sat on the table. Sat there watching as the sobbing took hold of her, first a couple of gasps, and then waves that looked as if they might rip her apart.
It was midday. She still lay curled up on the floor. He tried to think a step ahead. He had lost her. Had never had her. But he needed to know. If there had been anything at all. Why she’d come to him, why she’d stayed.
– I’ll tell you what I know, he said.
She didn’t respond.
– If you tell me everything else.
– None of your fucking business, she snarled.
He squatted down beside her. – I’ve been an idiot. But it’s not my fault that he’s dead. I had nothing to do with what happened to him at the hospital.
He caught her gaze. Forced himself to hold on to it while he told her. Decided as he was talking not to gloss over anything, not even the thing he was most ashamed of. He would look at her the whole time, make it impossible for her to get up and leave before he had finished. Didn’t know what he was seeing in those dark eyes. Fear still, disbelief maybe, anger, contempt again, but not for an instant did he take his eyes from hers.
– You hit him.
– I was defending myself.
– You ran off.
– I picked up his phone. Called the emergency number.
– You left him lying there.
– I waited in the car until I saw the ambulance arrive.
– He died.
– Not because I hit him. He wasn’t badly injured. Concussion. Minor injuries.
– And how do you know that?
– I … I know someone at the hospital. I talked to them.
– Your mother.
He hesitated. – Ibro was killed after he was admitted.
– You spy on me, you lie to me. Why should I believe you now?
– Someone followed him to the hospital, Katja. They managed to get inside and they stabbed him. It’ll be in the newspapers.
When she didn’t protest, he carried on.
– I think it’s some kind of gang feud or something.
He saw again the black Audi, Ibro Hakanovic in his leather jacket and shades behind the wheel, her beside him.
– What the hell do you mean by that? she snarled.
– Mean?
– Just because he was Bosnian, he was in a gang and doing drugs and trafficking, and that’s why he was killed, is that what you’re trying to say, something like that? Are you actually a tiny little bit fucking racist?
She sat for a long time with her face turned to the ceiling. He saw her eyes move behind the lids, tiny sideways jerks.
Finally he said: – Now I’ve said everything. If you do the same …
– I don’t owe you anything, she spat.
He didn’t answer. Said nothing about how she had moved in with him without so much as a by-your-leave. Nothing about how he had never asked her for a single krone; on the contrary, it had been his pleasure to buy her all the things she needed, as well as a lot of small things she didn’t need.
– I’m not going to ask what you did together. Those times you didn’t come home until the middle of the night.
– Good. Don’t ask.
– But I want you to tell me.
Now she looked at him. – He was my first boyfriend, she said.
– But he ended it?
She shook her head. – We never ended it. Not him and not me.
As though someone had started a drill, pushed the bit into his chest, pressed deeper and deeper. So painful he squeezed his lips together.
– I never promised you anything, she said. – I never said I belonged to you.
He stood up suddenly, upending the Pepsi bottle. A brown puddle spread across the smooth tabletop. She looked up at him, and it occurred to him that she was waiting for something. She stared into his eyes for a long time. As though she were silently mocking him. Then she stood up too, went into the bedroom.
He found a cloth, dried up, drank the last flat mouthful that remained in the bottle.
– Are you leaving? he asked when she reappeared.
Without answering, she stepped across to the veranda door. It slammed shut behind her so the glass shook. A dead leaf fell from the plant on the windowsill. He followed its slow descent to the floor.
25
Jennifer had been inside a security cell many times before. In her first years as a doctor she earned extra money by taking blood samples from suspected drunk drivers.
This particular security cell was not all that different from the others. A small air vent and a camera high up below the ceiling. A zinc toilet in one corner, a mattress against the wall.
Arash wasn’t lying on it, but next to it, on the stone floor. He didn’t look up as the guard let her in; he stared at the wall, barefoot, unshaven, longish hair hanging down over his eyes and a bandage around one wrist.
– I am Jennifer Plåterud, she said. – I work at the hospital. I’ve seen you a few times. I’m a doctor in the pathology department.
Now he looked up at her, large black pupils. No sign of recognition.
– I am a good friend of Zoran�
��s, she added, and she could hear herself how feeble it sounded. Zoran is my lover, she could have said. And the best friend I’ve had. And so much more than that.
– I’ve talked to the police. They’ve told me what happened. What they think happened, she added. – I’m here because you’ve harmed yourself.
She thought she saw him nod, turned to the guard.
– You can wait outside.
The guard’s eyes narrowed. – Are you sure?
– It’ll be fine. I’m just going to take a look at some of his injuries.
A tiny break in her voice as she said this. She didn’t know if it would be fine. Knew almost nothing about this man. It was not unlikely he was psychotic. Not impossible that within the last forty-eight hours he had cut the throats of two people. But she put her faith in what Zoran had said.
The guard shut the door, opened it again. – I’ll be here, right outside. He pointed to the window on to the corridor. – Watching.
Once he was gone, Arash sat up.
– I know who you are, he said in a clear voice. – You are Zoran’s girlfriend.
She was surprised. – So he told you that.
– I’ve got eyes.
She held his gaze, but not for long. He still looked frightened. She knew that fear was a more common motive for murder than anything else.
– Zoran says hello, she said, her voice low. It struck her that was the kind of thing she shouldn’t say. She was there as a medical expert, to help the investigators. – He is thinking of you.
The Iranian leaned his head back. Something else appeared in his eyes, like something forcing its way forward that had to be blinked away.
– No matter what you’ve done, Arash …
Again he glanced up at her, and beneath the long lashes the expression in his eyes changed again, hardened. For an instant she thought of calling the guard.
– I have not done what they say.
She didn’t reply to this. – You let yourself into the cold room yesterday evening, she said instead. – Even though you weren’t supposed to be at work. You were looking for the dead woman, the one who was found in the forest.
Certain Signs that You are Dead Page 19