She looked at her cell phone as it rang, and finally decided to answer.
“This is Jana,” she said.
“Hi, it’s Henrik.”
“Anything new on the Norberg case?”
“I thought you’d be interested in the information we’ve gathered about Ted. His last name is Henriksson.”
“You thought correctly.” She heard him flip through papers, then listened as he told her it had been easy to find Ted Henriksson. The authorities had been involved in his life since his birth in 1978. First Social Services, then the police, then the penal system.
“At five years old, he was pickpocketing,” Henrik said. “Petty crimes all through his school years, spent time in a juvenile detention center, then he moved on to drugs. He’s been previously convicted of felony domestic violence. In the verdict, eight separate offenses are described. He allegedly threatened his live-in partner, hit her in the face, pulled her hair, pressed a pillow to her face, threw boiling water on her, grabbed her by the throat, spit on her and called her whore, cunt, useless, worthless...”
“Thanks,” Jana said. “I get the picture.”
“Eight months in prison,” Henrik said.
“So he’s a repeat offender.”
“Which also means that he should be in the DNA database.”
“Have you brought him in for questioning?”
“Not yet. We’re on our way right now. He lives at Bandygränd 4.”
“Good,” Jana said. “Take him to an interrogation room, but make sure he doesn’t call anyone. I’ll be there shortly. We have to buy ourselves a little time. When his lawyer comes, we probably won’t be able to hold him long.”
“The children can identify him.”
“There’s still no evidence tying him to the murder yet, is there?”
“We’ll have to hope there’s something in the samples from the autopsy.”
“And that we get a confession.”
* * *
When Henrik Levin and Mia Bolander stepped out of the car, the evening air was raw and chilly. They nodded toward the uniformed officers who met them there and began walking across the parking lot. Two men in jackets from the X-Force Factory Fitness gym stood at the other end, watching them.
Both were in their twenties with shaved heads. It looked as if they were weight lifters or kickboxers. They might have been high and carrying knives.
He knew that it was wrong to think like that. He should push away those stereotypes, but lately, violence in the city had escalated. Over the course of six weeks, no fewer than eleven serious knife attacks had occurred, and none of the perpetrators had been over twenty-five years old. The attacks all had some connection to drugs, and the editorials and stories had dubbed Norrköping, “Narco-ping.”
“Fuckin’ white boy,” one said, standing taller as they passed.
Henrik pretended he didn’t hear him, and they continued toward the entrance to Bandygränd 4. He felt the men’s eyes on him but didn’t try to make eye contact, because if he did, the situation would only become threatening.
It was completely backward that he, an officer of the law, chose to look down at the ground and not say anything. But what should he say? It was better to ignore them and focus on what they’d come here to do.
Besides, he had Mia next to him, and he didn’t want her getting upset. She could really go off on guys like this. Not a good thing.
The door slid open and, together with the other officers, they went up the stairs to the door with the name “Henriksson” on it and rang the doorbell.
They waited a moment, knocked, then waited again.
“Maybe he’s not home?” Mia said.
Henrik pushed the mail slot open with his hand and called in: “Henriksson? My name is Henrik Levin, and I’m with the police.”
A sound came from inside as if someone were moving across the floor.
“I haven’t done anything,” said a man in a tired voice from inside the apartment.
“That’s fine, but we still need to talk to you.”
“Go away.”
“I want you to open the door and talk to us.”
“Leave me alone, you bastard.”
The voice came closer.
“Open the door,” Henrik said.
“Why should I?”
“We just want to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About Shirin Norberg.”
It was silent for a moment.
“I haven’t got anything to do with that whore. I don’t want to get involved, do you hear me?”
“So you know who she is?”
It sounded as if the man slammed his hand against something in the apartment.
“Did you not get that I don’t want to talk to you?” he said.
“I understand that, but I want you to open the door, look at me and tell me why you don’t want to talk to me.”
“What the hell!”
Footsteps came close. Mia did the same as her colleague—she released her service pistol, stood with her legs apart and got in a ready position.
There was a clattering sound as the door opened. Henrik had time to see white teeth in a confused face and a pair of broad shoulders before the door quickly began to close again. But Mia was ready with her foot; she stuck it in the doorway and stopped the man from closing it. At the same time, Henrik got a hold of the door and pushed it forward.
“Let go of the door,” Mia said, pointing the mouth of the gun toward the man. “Let it go!”
He looked at her, looked at the gun, swore loudly again and let go.
* * *
The traffic on Södra Promenaden moved slowly due to road construction. Anneli Lindgren sat in the driver’s seat with one hand on the steering wheel.
Next to her sat her son, Adam, with his huge headphones and his blue-and-white tracksuit. He yawned loudly, having allowed himself to be lulled to sleep by the car’s forward movements.
“Are you excited for the game?”
He didn’t answer, and Anneli poked him in the side.
“What do you want?” he said, irritated, pulling his headphones back.
“Are you excited for the game?”
“No.”
“I’m sure it’ll go well,” she said.
She slowed down and looked to the right, toward the avenue and public library.
“Grandma is going to pick you up.”
“Why Grandma?”
“I have some work I have to do.”
“What about Dad?”
“I don’t know.”
Adam sighed and leaned his head against the window.
“How long are we going to live with Grandma, really?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Not too long.”
“But why don’t you live with Dad anymore?”
“Have you been thinking about that?”
“I’ve been thinking about a lot of things,” he said loudly, too loudly.
“You don’t have to yell.”
“Forget I said anything.”
Anneli looked at him with heavy eyes and wished that they had talked soccer, German or English leagues, instead.
She had avoided talking to him about the separation; instead she’d managed the day-to-day, tried to find a normal routine, but maybe she hadn’t realized the impact, the huge change this had meant for him. She had had the impression that his nonchalance came from his acceptance of the situation. Now, her heart pounded in her chest when it started to become clear to her that Adam had been hiding behind a facade.
“Dad and I are just taking a little break,” she said.
“You’ve said that.”
“But I truly believe we’ll find our way back to each other.”
“Oh, really.�
�
“Why do you say that? Has Dad said something...”
“No, he hasn’t.”
She reached her hand out to touch his cheek, but he turned his head away.
“Is there anything else you’ve been thinking about?” she asked.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Seriously, Mom, can’t I just listen to my music now?”
“Of course...”
The car behind her honked, and she began rolling forward. She couldn’t let her life go on like this. It was obvious that Adam was affected by the separation, that he was truly sad because of it.
But what else was he thinking?
What was he feeling? How did he experience it?
She tried to get his attention again, but he had turned his gaze out of the window. Her throat was so tense it hurt, and tears welled up in her eyes. She didn’t want it to be like this.
She had to talk to Gunnar and make him understand that she really wanted to become a family again, that she’d do anything for that to happen.
Anything, in all honesty.
“It will all be fine,” she said, quietly.
* * *
A fluorescent bulb flickered above her. Jana Berzelius was approaching the interrogation rooms at the police station when she saw Mia Bolander leaning against a wall, chewing gum.
“So you have him now?” Jana said, mostly just to have something to say.
“As if you didn’t know,” Mia said.
Jana smiled stiffly at her. “That was quick,” she said.
“We usually work quickly.”
“But not when it’s Danilo Peña.”
She surprised herself that she had allowed her irritation with Mia Bolander to sweep over her.
“Why do you care about him?” Mia said. “That’s not your case, is it?”
“No.”
“Well then.”
“Well then, what?”
“Then you needn’t worry about it.”
“You’re right,” Jana said. “It was silly to show an interest in what happens here. A person can risk being seen as competent.”
Mia stopped chewing, instead letting an irritated smile spread across her face.
Jana nodded curtly at her and went into the room.
* * *
It was a standard four-by-six photograph. Color. Glossy paper. Henrik Levin held it between his thumb and forefinger as he displayed the large bruises visible on the dead woman’s body to Ted Henriksson.
Jana Berzelius sat next to him, ready as usual with a legal pad and pen.
“Can you explain how Shirin got these bruises?” Henrik said.
Henriksson’s eyes darted toward the camera that was pointed at him from the corner of the ceiling. He was ordinary-looking, with black curly hair. But there was something unpleasant about him. His voice was low and gruff.
“How would I know?” he said, breathing heavily.
“You’ve admitted to knowing her,” Henrik said.
“I only said I knew who she was.”
“So have you met her?”
“Once. Maybe twice. Maybe three times. Who knows?”
“What is it, then?”
“Okay, we’ve been seeing each other for a while...actually a few years.”
“So you had a relationship?”
Henriksson sneered.
“Yes, we had a relationship, Commissioner.”
“For how many years?”
“Three, four, five.”
“And when did you last see her?”
He smiled and tilted his head to the right, then to the left.
“Last weekend.”
“Where did you get together?”
“At T3.”
“Where?”
He smiled again.
“The bar at Trädgårdsgatan 3.”
“How long were you there?”
“One hour, maybe two.”
“And what did you do next?”
Henriksson looked at Henrik, then at Jana.
“How much detail do you want?”
He held his gaze fixed on Henrik, laid both hands on the table and let them rest there. Henrik reached for a few papers and said: “Can you read what’s written here?”
Henriksson looked down at the papers that Henrik held out to him and then shook his head.
“Why would I do that? Don’t you think I can read?”
“Yes, I think you can,” Henrik said. “But I want to hear you read this aloud.”
“Forget it,” Henriksson said.
Henrik pulled the papers toward himself and read: “‘People like you have nothing to give. People like you need people like me. See you tonight, you whore.’ Did you write this?”
“You don’t know, do you?”
“No, that’s why I’m asking. Did you write this?”
Henriksson looked up.
“You took my cell phone. Haven’t you checked it?”
“Do you have more than one cell phone?”
“No.”
Henrik pushed the papers away from him and scratched his nose before continuing.
“What were you doing yesterday morning?” he asked.
“I was at Vitamex.”
“You work there?”
“Yes, I do. My colleagues and I produce food supplements and such.”
“What time do you start in the morning?”
“I don’t start in the morning. I work overnight.”
Henriksson raised his chin.
“Have you ever been to Shirin Norberg’s home?” Henrik continued.
“No.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“That’s funny,” Henrik said. “We have witnesses who say that you’ve been seen at her place.”
It was silent around the table. Henrik looked at Ted, who looked like he was about to react, but something made him stop.
“I’ll ask you again, have you spent time at...”
“I haven’t spent time at...”
“But we have witnesses who...”
“They’re lying!”
Henriksson’s voice thundered through the room. The outburst came without warning.
Henrik looked at Jana, who gave him a calm look.
“Who’s lying?” she said.
Henriksson stared down at the table, looking different now as his lower lip hung slack. He had clenched his fists and mumbled almost inaudibly: “They’re just lying, they’re just lying, they’re just lying...”
“Who is it that’s just lying?” Jana repeated.
Henriksson looked up and examined Jana up and down.
“Say it again,” he said.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
“Say it again.”
“Why?”
“I like hearing your voice.”
She held him riveted with her gaze.
“Because it reminds you of Shirin’s?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “She had a much softer voice.”
“You say ‘had.’”
“Yes? She had a softer voice.”
Henriksson wrinkled his forehead. “So that’s why I’m here?” he said. “You think that I did something to her. But I would never do something so stupid. I admit that I may have become bored with Shirin. But I am not a killer. I’m a nice person. People like me. I’m sure that you would, too—just let me come to your place and show you how nice I am. I can come to your place and...”
“Don’t do that,” Jana interrupted him.
“I know how to make you feel really special...”
“That’s enough,” Henrik said sharply.
“I’m not dangerous. I won’t hurt you, I
promise.”
“Just answer the questions, nothing else,” Jana said.
A bubble of saliva had formed in the corner of his mouth.
“I’m absolutely not dangerous,” Henriksson said.
“I can guarantee you, you are going nowhere,” Henrik said, his voice raised in anger.
“Maybe not today, but,” he said, looking at Jana, “I’ll take care of you later. Caress you. Would you like that?”
Henrik was having a hard time sitting still, he was so embarrassed by the words that had just come out of the suspect’s mouth.
“Or maybe you wouldn’t want me to be nice to you. Maybe you like rougher treatment.”
“Did Shirin?” Jana asked.
“Yes...” he said. “She liked it. Begged for it.”
“Have you ever been violent toward her?” Henrik said.
“Once. Maybe twice. Maybe three times. Who knows?”
* * *
A small lamp shone behind the drapes in the window. Philip Engström stood in the dim room and looked at his reflection next to the beam of light.
He held his phone in his hand. He’d called Katarina four times, but she still hadn’t answered.
From the kitchen he could hear Lina and Sandra laughing, and he knew that he should go back to the dining room table and the pasta with chanterelles and pork chops. He should take part in the conversation they were having, should discuss TV series, gossip about celebrities and laugh at jokes like he used to.
But he had no desire to talk with either of them right now. He felt tired of his wife tonight, tired of his colleague Sandra. There wasn’t a single person he really wanted to talk to, that he wanted to be with right now—except Katarina.
In the middle of his thoughts, he heard footsteps approaching.
“Oh, is this where you are?” Sandra said as she pushed open the door. “What are you doing in here? It’s so dark in here,” she continued, turning on the ceiling light.
The brightness made Philip squint.
“I just wanted to say goodbye,” she said.
“Are you going already?” he said, hearing that his voice sounded a little too pleased, almost happy, but he didn’t have the energy to care, couldn’t be bothered to be fake, ingratiating. He didn’t have the energy for anyone but himself right now.
“Thanks for tonight,” she said. “See you at work.”
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