Will the articles make the killer angry? Furious?
Daniel looks along the road.
Malin.
Standing some thirty metres away.
He sees her take out her phone and answer a call she seems to have been waiting for.
46
The aid agency. Everything, all at once. But at least they’re calling back.
Why isn’t Tove herself calling?
Daniel’s standing over there. He’s spent a long time sitting in his car, presumably writing an article. She can take a look at it online later.
Karin called her over just now. She’d removed the earth from Suliman Hajif’s mouth, revealing an empty space. His tongue has been cut out and removed, and so far they haven’t found it.
Göran Möller has arrived at the scene now.
They’ve let Douglas Harrysson go. The bread and milk can’t wait.
She clicks to take the call.
‘Malin Fors.’
The body in the ditch is covered in yellow plastic now, an ambulance has turned up, and Malin recognises the two paramedics, friends of Janne’s, they nodded at her when they arrived.
‘Yes, hello. My name is Lisa Jansson. I’m calling from the aid agency.’
‘Did you get my message?’
Silence on the line. Lisa Jansson evidently doesn’t know about any message, and nausea starts to rise from Malin’s stomach.
Then Lisa Jansson starts talking, and Malin wishes she could vanish from this moment, but the voice goes on relentlessly, rasping out its fucking noise: ‘I’m afraid I have to tell you that Tove’s missing. She was travelling with a shipment from Kigai to Bale, and somewhere along the way we lost contact with the vehicle.’
Words.
They make their way inside her, then escape, and she doesn’t want to let them back in again. But she knows what they said.
‘What the fuck are you saying?’
The words are repeated.
‘What the …?’
I’m getting angry, Malin thinks. Is that what’s supposed to happen?
Tove, missing in the Democratic Republic of Congo. And she sees the faces of rapists, snakes, spiders, amoebas, forcing their way inside Tove, rotting her body.
‘The Foreign Office has been informed.’
And Malin realises that there’s going to be a lot of media coverage. There always is with disappearances of this sort.
Why the hell am I thinking about that?
I don’t want to think about that now.
‘Your daughter has been officially reported missing,’ Lisa Jansson says. ‘I can assure you that we’re using all the resources at our disposal to locate her and the two other girls who were with her. The most likely explanation is that the vehicle has broken down and they’re stranded in the jungle. Machinery isn’t very reliable down there in the heat and humidity.’
‘What about me?’ Malin shouts. ‘What can I do? What the fuck can I do?’
Daniel.
He’s dodged beneath the cordon and is rushing towards her.
‘There’s nothing you can do.’
‘You fucking idiot,’ Malin roars. ‘Why did you send them there?’
‘They’re volunteers,’ Lisa Jansson says. ‘And I don’t think that tone of voice …’
One of the uniforms is chasing after Daniel. Tries to stop him, but he slips away, he’s only five metres away from her.
‘Are you going to find her?’
Silence on the line.
‘Are you going to find her?’
‘I can’t …’
‘You can go to hell,’ Malin screams, and then she feels Daniel’s arms around her, he takes the phone off her and clicks to end the call, and moves with her as she sinks onto the rough surface of the road.
He realises what’s happened, Malin thinks. He always understands everything.
‘She’s gone,’ she whispers. ‘Tove’s missing,’ she goes on, and starts to cry.
47
They’re sitting in the back seat of the Correspondent’s car. Malin is leaning against Daniel and looking out at the forest road. The leaves seem to want to pull her into their vanishing perspective, and she feels like throwing the door open and running away, running all the fucking way to Arlanda and catching the first plane to the Democratic Republic of Congo.
How do you get to the Democratic Republic of Congo?
Tove travelled from Kigali to Nairobi, then on to Kinshasa.
And now she’s missing.
In a country where rape, murder, and lethal diseases are everyday occurrences.
Fucking bloody hell.
‘Try not to worry,’ Daniel says. ‘Their vehicle’s probably just broken down in the jungle. She’ll turn up again before tonight.’
‘Don’t worry?’ she yells. ‘What a stupid thing to say! Of course I’m worried.’
‘What do you want me to say, Malin?’
‘Sometimes it’s best to keep your mouth shut.’
‘OK.’
They sit beside one another in silence. Malin lets her anger settle in as her panic fades.
‘There’s nothing I can do,’ she says. ‘But I have to phone Janne.’
‘You can keep up the pressure on them,’ Daniel says. ‘Both of you.’
Malin nods.
‘You won’t write about this, will you?’
‘Someone else can do that if the news gets out, if things don’t get sorted out quickly.’
She takes some deep breaths, and he kisses her on the forehead. His lips feel soft and warm.
Then her phone rings.
Janne’s number.
‘Have you heard?’
His voice is weak, frightened.
‘They just called.’
A panicky conversation follows, in which they speak without really hearing, and Malin feels like blaming Janne for encouraging Tove to go, but holds back, because no one would have been able to stop their daughter.
In the end the line falls silent. Malin looks at Daniel, who’s staring out of the window and doesn’t seem to want to intrude.
‘I’ll fly down,’ Janne says.
‘Don’t be stupid.’
She hears him take a deep breath.
‘We’ll speak again when we know more,’ he says, and hangs up.
Daniel strokes her cheek, and she takes hold of his hand.
Work, Malin thinks. She knows that’s the only thing that can keep her together now.
She gets out of the car. Daniel makes no attempt to hold her back, and as she heads towards the other detectives, all gathered around Suliman Hajif’s plastic-covered body, the feeling of unreality becomes almost overwhelming. It feels as if she’s moving through a film of her own life, as if the trees, the ground beneath her feet, are merely artfully constructed pieces of scenery, as if the people up ahead of her are actors, and that she is going to have to play herself rather than actually be herself, because how, how on earth am I going to be truly present in a moment like this?
She forces herself to focus.
Where are you, Tove?
Nadja?
Where are the girls? If I find you alive, Nadja, Tove will be OK. That’s right, isn’t it?
I have to find you now.
Zeke, Elin, and Göran Möller are standing close together a few metres away from Karin Johannison. The treetops are moving above them, shading their faces in turn. The shifting light gives them a speckled appearance, and Malin can’t help thinking that they look overwhelmed, that they don’t seem to have any idea of where to start.
‘I’m so sorry, Malin,’ Elin says.
But Malin cuts her off.
‘It’s a private matter.’
‘Calm down,’ Göran says. ‘Are you in a fit state to work, Malin?’
She looks at him. With her very darkest stare.
‘OK,’ Göran Möller says. ‘Your decision.’
‘Where do we go from here?’ she asks.
In a small, cramped, third-flo
or flat in Berga, Suliman Hajif’s parents are informed of his death a few hours later.
They scream out loud in the mint-scented living room. They insisted on offering the detectives tea before letting them explain why they were there.
Unsuspecting, hospitable.
Now that they have been told, Suliman’s mother is howling, and Elin Sand knows that the howl will haunt her dreams for months to come.
The grief at its core.
She has Waldemar Ekenberg with her, and all he wants is to get out of the flat, leave this meagre dwelling, these alien people whose thoughts and grief he doesn’t believe himself capable of or willing to understand.
He gives in to the impulse and leaves Elin alone with Hajif’s parents, leaves her there with the crying and the panic, the questions she has to ask. When she emerges ten minutes later to find him standing in front of the block of flats, she marches over to him and says: ‘You bloody coward.’
‘Is that it?’
‘That’s it.’
And they set off, back into the May day, back into their investigative work, which – for everyone apart from Johan Jakobsson – means fruitless interviews with people close to Suliman Hajif, with his friends, with his presumed enemies. One of them is sitting in a cell in the custody unit in the bowels of the old barracks, wondering: Will it be my turn next?
The custody officer has told her about the latest murder, and Julianna Raad is suddenly pleased that she’s where she is. At least I’m safe here, she thinks, because she knows it could easily be her next time.
She makes herself comfortable on her bunk. Pulls her knees up under her chin. Suliman Hajif.
I knew what he was up to.
Saying one thing in public whilst doing something completely different in private.
I hated him. I hate everything he stood for. But at least he stood for something real. However stupid it may have been, at least he took it seriously.
And soon he’ll be buried. When his relatives are allowed to have the body.
I didn’t want him to come to this sort of an end. No matter what he’d done. Human beings have to be better than that. Because what’s to become of us otherwise?
Malin leans her head against the car window. Sees Linköping pass by outside. The uneven grey and white façade of Folkungavallen sports ground, the blocks of flats by the river, the former St Lars school, even greyer, and the petrol station at Braskens bridge.
She and Zeke are on their way to the mosque, to talk to the imam again. Malin called him a short while ago, and he told her he’d left Suliman in the mosque around ten o’clock, that Suliman used to lock up sometimes, that he’d been happy to trust him to do that.
So the imam could well be one of the last people to see Suliman Hajif alive.
He might know something.
But what?
She’s just checked Max Friman’s Twitter feed. Johan texted to tell her about it. At the top was a new post from Friman: Hajif. Hard to say the world is a poorer place.
They need to talk to him again. He’s not telling us all he knows. Did he know that Peder Åkerlund’s opinions hadn’t really changed? Probably.
Waldemar can deal with him. They need his bluntness now, if they’re to make any progress with this.
They drive past Johannelund.
Children are running to and fro in the playgrounds, sitting on swings or digging in sandpits, and the football pitches down by the Stångå River are busy, there must be some sort of tournament today.
Life goes on, in spite of everything that’s happening.
She’s trying not to think about Tove, but fails. She takes her mobile out and thinks about calling the aid agency, that Lisa Jansson woman, then wonders if she might hear something from the Foreign Office. Could things be that bad?
Because if they do contact her, things would have to be bad.
But the Foreign Office are completely useless, aren’t they? They haven’t managed to do a thing for Dawit Isaak. Now he’s rotting in a stinking prison, and no doubt there are plenty of civil servants in the FO who think he’s only got his big mouth to blame.
Good, Malin.
Let your mind wander.
She knows how Nadja’s parents must feel. They’re probably sitting at home now, frightened, worried, impotent. She feels like calling them, but what could she say?
She calls Göran Möller instead.
He answers.
‘Have you seen Max Friman’s latest tweet?’ she asks.
‘I’ve seen it.’
‘Perhaps Waldemar should have a word with him?’
‘He’s on his way,’ Göran Möller says. ‘He might already be there.’
48
Waldemar Ekenberg parks outside the block of flats on Ladugatan.
The pale beige stucco is coming loose from the corners.
He hopes Max Friman is at home.
He can write whatever the hell he likes about Suliman Hajif, Waldemar thinks. And it’s not as if what he’s written isn’t true. But that’s not the point.
What does he know, and how can we find out?
Waldemar has found his way back to brutality. It livens him up again now. A year or so ago he felt tired of his own violent tendencies, but not any more. He skipped lunch today so his blood sugar should be low, just right for a job like this.
The flat is on the second floor. So this is where Peder Åkerlund spent his last evening alive, drinking beer and vodka.
Fair enough.
He rings the bell. Hears footsteps inside the flat.
Then silence.
And he shouts: ‘Police. Open up.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To talk to you. Open up. Otherwise I’ll break the door in.’
Scare the bastard, Waldemar thinks. And the door opens a crack, revealing Max Friman’s face, and a pair of frightened eyes.
The security chain is still on.
‘Can I see some ID?’
Waldemar shows his ID.
The chain comes off. The door opens fully.
‘You can’t be too careful,’ Max Friman says, and Waldemar closes the door behind him. Then he clenches one fist, swings, and feels a crunch under his knuckles as his fist connects with Max Friman’s nose.
The imam, Samid Samudra, is sitting with his legs crossed on the floor of the large prayer room. He’s wearing a white kaftan, and Malin can’t help finding the contrast of the white fabric against the patterned carpet beautiful.
Malin and Zeke are each sitting on a low stool. The imam looks at them, waiting for their questions, doesn’t seem to want to say anything.
‘Did you notice anything unusual when you went home last night?’ Malin asks.
‘Nothing at all. He said he was going to stay for a while. Look at the Internet.’
‘And you went straight home?’
‘I live just around the corner. I didn’t see anything odd on my way home either.’
‘Did Suliman have any enemies? Any that you were aware of?’
‘No. He was very well-liked here. He was good for the younger boys.’
‘Had anyone threatened him?’
The imam holds his arms out.
‘He wouldn’t have told me if they had.’
Malin looks for grief in Samudra’s eyes, and believes she can see it. This was an older man trying to help a younger one find his way in life. That’s all it was, isn’t it?
‘Can you think of anything we should know that might help our investigation?’
‘No.’
‘What about the recruitment of terrorists that he’s said to have organised?’ Zeke suggests.
‘Those were just malicious rumours.’
‘The recruitment of fighters and suicide bombers? Could there have been any truth in that at all?’
‘Lies. As far as I’m aware,’ Samid Samudra says, and the look in his eyes changes. Becomes defensive, almost aggressive. ‘Anyway, what does that have to do with anything?’
Zek
e, irritated: ‘Let us be the judge of that.’
And now Malin leans forward and says: ‘Two young men have been murdered, one of them Suliman. A young girl is missing. We don’t yet know what might be relevant or not, but we’re trying to find out. We want to catch whoever murdered Suliman. So please, tell us what you know. Is it true that he was recruiting suicide bombers? Was that newspaper right?’
‘I don’t know,’ the imam says. ‘If he was, they would never have told me. They understand that I have to remain absolutely neutral on any issue that isn’t strictly in accordance with Swedish law.’
‘They?’ Malin asks. ‘So he was involved in something, along with a number of others?’
The imam smiles. And holds his mouth in that stiff smile.
‘You were supposed to give them your tacit blessing?’
‘I wouldn’t have been able to do anything.’
‘So it did really happen? What about those terrorism-motivated trips?’
‘I know that Suliman went to Yemen once. Some sort of training camp.’
‘Tell us,’ Zeke says.
‘That’s all I know.’
Malin looks around the room. It must have once been the storeroom of the business that used to occupy the premises. It’s well-maintained, the white walls look freshly painted. She can feel that they’re fumbling for clues: what would terrorism-inspired travel have to do with the murderer’s game? Or should that be murderers? She has no idea, but everything is connected to everything else somehow or other. One connection could lead to another, and they have to take whatever they can find in the deepest wells of emotion.
That’s always where the truth is hiding.
The imam scratches his beard as Malin changes position on her stool.
‘Did he travel alone?’ she asks.
The imam sits silently.
‘There was someone with him, wasn’t there?’
The imam stands up and leaves the large prayer room. A couple of minutes later he returns.
He hands Malin a note.
‘I never gave you this,’ he says, and walks out again.
Waldemar Ekenberg prefers to pay his violent visits on his own.
That way there aren’t any witnesses.
And his ‘victims’ are always more scared when he’s alone, when they realise that they’re on their own with a man who loves violence.
Earth Storm_The new novel from the Swedish crime-writing phenomenon_Malin Fors Page 17