The way you think you’ve caught a scent of the truth.
Imagining that it will help you.
That hope is driving us both, isn’t it?
43
Waldemar Ekenberg is sitting at his temporary desk in the Crime Unit’s open-plan office. His longs legs, clad in green linen, are up on the desk and he’s drumming a pen against the arm of his office chair. Opposite him Per Sundsten is randomly surfing various news websites and bringing himself up to date with what’s being written about their murders.
Expressen: City of Terror.
Aftonbladet: What the Killer is Like.
Dagens Nyheter: A Swedish Serial Killer?
The Östgöta Correspondent: The Linköping Killer: Man or Woman?
He skims the articles, nothing new, nothing they don’t already know, interviews with people in the city, young girls swimming at Tinnis.
We’re scared. We don’t go out at night.
There’s a really weird atmosphere in the city.
I’ve got a fourteen-year-old daughter. I worry whenever she goes out.
Per lets the screensaver click in on his laptop, pictures of a beach in Thailand.
God, what wouldn’t I give to be there now? At that moment he sees Sven Sjöman heading towards their desks, from a distance it looks as though he’s shuddering as he makes his way through the office. Am I going to end up like that? Per thinks: so tired, and sort of slow? Sven’s body might be tired, but the look in his eyes is all the more alert, and Per can see that Sven has something important for them.
Two strangers, Sven thinks as he heads towards Per and Waldemar’s desks. Outsiders, even though they belong to the same force. The man of the future and the brute, the rumours that precede them both, Ekenberg a rotten egg who’s been lucky enough to get away with it.
Sven has seen a lot of men like Ekenberg during his years in the police. He’s always tried to keep away from them, or, as a senior officer, to get rid of them.
The ends do not justify the means.
Unless perhaps they do? In a case like this?
Sven recalls the girl’s body in the Railway Park. Her eyes white and blind, like a sightless deer, polished stones that have lost their shine, their beauty.
Sven stops at their desks, two pairs of eyes staring at him, one pair, Per’s, still seem to be somewhere else, but Waldemar’s exude concentration on the task at hand.
‘We’ve heard from Telia. The call has been localised to Mariavägen in Wimanshäll. There’s a Suliman Hajif living there, he cropped up alongside Karami in the gang rape case last winter, although he was never a suspect. The likelihood is that the two of them have fallen out somehow and Suliman just wants to make life difficult for Karami.’
The two outsiders have stood up.
‘We’re on our way,’ Waldemar says, and Sven sees his eyes turn black, the pupils expanding in anticipation of something that Sven would prefer not to express in words.
‘Take it easy now. Be careful.’
Per nods.
‘Who knows,’ he says. ‘We might be getting close.’
Ten minutes later they pull up on Mariavägen, outside a small, white block of flats, two storeys surrounded by a garden with unkempt apple trees.
The heat and light pounce on them as they get out of the car.
‘Sunglasses on,’ Waldemar grins.
The air conditioning just had time to get going, turned up to maximum, and now a difference in temperature of some twenty-five degrees lets the heat get a stranglehold on them, driven on by the light.
They approach the house along a gravel path almost completely covered by weeds.
‘Do you reckon he’s home?’
‘Probably,’ Waldemar says. ‘These lazy bastards usually sleep all day and do their dirty work at night.’
‘Listen, let’s take this a bit more calmly, OK?’
Waldemar doesn’t reply, pressing the buzzer for another flat, not Hajif’s.
No answer.
Four flats.
‘Do you know the postcode?’
‘Sorry, no idea. We can call in and find out.’
Flat number two, no answer, and from behind, Per sees the muscles in Waldemar’s back tense under his jacket as he takes aim at the door and slams into it with full force. The door gives in and Waldemar tumbles into the stairwell but stops himself from falling.
‘Now he knows we’re on our way.’
‘Don’t you just love bad landlords? That door should have been replaced years ago. Come on, quick.’
And they rush up the stairs to the first floor. No doors have opened to see where the noise came from.
Nothing but emptiness and silence and a grey-speckled stone floor and shabby pale-blue walls. Hajif’s front door is painted pink.
They ring the bell.
Sounds from inside the flat.
No peephole.
Steps approaching the door, then disappearing.
‘He’s on his way out,’ Waldemar says. ‘He’s going to run.’
And once again he throws himself at the door and this one too flies open without putting up much resistance, and in the narrow, messy hall stands a young man with a well-toned upper body and black hair in a ponytail. His dark eyes glare at them in surprise as he pulls on a pair of white sports underwear, his cock, pierced with a cock-ring, visible, half erect.
‘Listen, Paki, we need to talk to you. Nothing to get worked up about,’ Waldemar says, and Suliman Hajif pulls up his underwear, runs back into the flat, towards an open balcony door at the back of the building.
‘Get him!’ Waldemar yells, and Per rushes after Suliman Hajif, throwing himself at his legs just as he steps out onto the balcony, and the young man falls forward, headfirst, into the solid grey balcony railings, which give way and his body is dragged out, down, and he screams as he flails above the drop, the yellow grass four metres below.
‘You’re not going to fall,’ Per says as he fights to keep hold of Suliman Hajif on the balcony. He tries with all his strength to pull him up; he could break his neck in a fall like that, and then what good would he be?
Waldemar’s hand on one of Suliman Hajif’s feet.
They pull together, and up he comes, lying on his stomach and putting up no resistance as Waldemar cuffs him and drags him onto the white-lacquered wooden floor in the living room.
‘What the hell was that all about?’
Per is panting, catching his breath, and slaps Suliman Hajif on the back.
‘We just want to talk to you.’
‘Well, maybe not just that,’ Waldemar says.
He’s pulled open the doors of the built-in cupboards. Per turns around, sees piles of magazines, the inside walls of the cupboards covered with porn pictures, serious, hardcore stuff, women shackled to racks, women being whipped.
Sex toys neatly lined up.
Masks.
Whips.
Chastity belts.
And there, in splendid isolation on the bottom shelf of one of cupboards, a blue dildo. The paint flaking off its strangely transparent surface.
44
Interview Room One.
The dark-grey ceiling seems to be falling in on the even darker walls, a tape recorder on a black tabletop, Zeke and Malin on one side of the table, Lollo Svensson on the other, dressed in a white T-shirt with the words ‘Bitch Power’. Her face and the look in her eyes radiate defiance, and she hasn’t asked for a lawyer.
Malin thinks, feels, how best to open this lock, is there any way? She thinks that it’s probably impossible, before saying: ‘So, you like young girls?’
Lollo Svensson glares into Malin’s eyes, full of hatred now, but not towards me, Malin thinks, towards something else, and she thinks: if we can find the core of that hatred we can find the killer, the core of that hatred could be the core of this evil, this violence.
‘Young girls. How come?’
Zeke scratches his shaved head, says: ‘Do you want to look after them?
/> ‘And then things got out of hand with Theresa and Sofia, but Josefin managed to escape? Is that it?’
Lollo Svensson stiff, her mouth a thin line, her lips stuck together with age-old glue.
‘Do you want to be nice to them? Have you got a special flat you take them to? Or a building somewhere on the farm? Nathalie Falck has been out to the farm. Was Theresa out there as well?’
Lollo Svensson clasps her hands.
Beads of sweat on her forehead, her top lip.
How can anyone be so angry?
And Malin asks: ‘Why are you so furious, Louise? What happened to you?’
‘None of your fucking business, Inspector.’
‘What about the report your mother made, the one in our archive? Nothing about that? Nothing you want to tell us?’
‘No, Mum made that up.’
A hissing voice, uneven sound levels on the tape recorder, cold white strings around Malin’s heart.
‘And the rabbits on your farm,’ Zeke says. ‘Do you normally pull their claws out?’
‘What a fucking sick question. I keep rabbits because I like them.’
‘Did you and Theresa email each other about where to meet?’ Malin asks. ‘Via her Yahoo! address?’
‘No.’
‘Did you leave messages on her Facebook page?’
‘I don’t know anything about any fucking book of faces.’
Fury in Lollo Svensson’s voice.
‘Lovelygirl? Is that you?’
‘I’ve already answered that question once.’
‘Take it easy now,’ Zeke says. ‘How many times did you and Theresa have sex?’
‘Am I under suspicion for something?’
‘We’ve got proof of corruption of a minor. Nathalie Falck has told us that she had a sexual relationship with you before her fifteenth birthday. And you know that we know you had a sexual relationship with Theresa Eckeved as well.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘What about the others? Have you found any connection between me and the others?’
‘Why don’t you tell us?’ Malin says. ‘Tell us.’
‘How did you meet Sofia?’
‘I’ve never met Sofia Fredén. Never.’
‘And Theresa. Did you use a dildo? A blue one?’
Malin and Zeke are aware of the find in Suliman Hajif’s flat. Sundsten and Ekenberg are with him in the next room. Putting pressure on the little shit. Who knows, maybe the case is solved now? Karin and her Forensics team must be ecstatic about the dildo. Now they probably won’t have to dig out the right dildo from hundreds of possibilities. If it could even have been done. Maybe the truth will emerge on the other side of that black, depressing wall.
Suliman Hajif’s eyes full of fear.
You’re scared now, you little shit, Waldemar Ekenberg thinks.
And you’re right to be.
Because I don’t mean you well.
Interview Room Two is identical to Interview Room One, albeit its mirror image, and in the corridor outside you can switch between the two rooms, looking in on the confessional spaces through glass windows that appear as mirrors inside the rooms.
‘You raped and murdered Theresa Eckeved and Sofia Fredén. Josefin Davidsson managed to escape. We know it was you, we’ve got the dildo, the one which in all probability was used in these crimes.’
Per Sundsten’s voice amiable, factual.
‘It will feel better if you confess. Easier.’
‘And all that fucking porn. You need treatment, Suliman.’
‘I didn’t have anything to do with all that crap. I want my lawyer.’
‘He can come later on,’ Waldemar says. ‘We have the right to conduct a first interview with you on your own.’
‘What were you doing on the night between Wednesday and Thursday?’
‘I’ve already told you, I was at home taking it easy on all the nights you’re interested in. It’s too damn hot to go out.’
‘But no one can prove that, Suliman.’
The muscles in his arms are bulging under his beige custody shirt, at least two sizes too small.
‘And the porn?’
‘Hell, I like porn, and I like pushing dildos into girls. Fuck, I can get it up three times, at least, but they still want more after that.’
‘Where did you buy the dildo?’
‘None of your fucking business.’
‘You ratted on Behzad Karami. Why?’
Even Waldemar’s voice is factual.
‘He did it.’
‘Probably not. And how would you know? Perjury is punishable by two years in prison.’
‘He goes out at night. So it must be him. It could be, anyway.’
‘What’s gone wrong between the two of you?’
‘None of your business, pig.’
Waldemar gets up, takes two steps around the table before he pretends to stumble, and in his fall he manages to drag Suliman Hajif with him, and his nose hits the black tabletop with a loud cracking sound.
‘Damn, this floor’s slippery.’
And Suliman Hajif screams with pain, blood pouring from his nose, and Per expects to see Karim Akbar or Sven Sjöman come rushing into the room to put a stop to this, but no one comes, and instead Suliman is left sitting opposite them as the blood dripping from his nose stains his custody shirt.
‘We’re expecting the Forensics report on the dildo any time now,’ Waldemar says, back on his chair again. ‘And then we’ll know. So you may as well confess.’
‘I’ve got nothing to confess.’
Waldemar gets up again.
Suliman Hajif jerks back, raising his hands in self-defence.
The passageway between the interview rooms is dark and cool and damp, and the recessed halogen bulbs in the ceiling cast a pleasant glow. Karim and Sven are following the interviews with Suliman Hajif and Lollo Svensson at the same time, letting Ekenberg carry on, as long as he doesn’t go too far over the boundary.
‘What do you think?’
Karim’s face is open, wondering. With every case he has become more humble, more open in his attitude to his detectives’ work. As he has gained confidence in Malin, Zeke, Börje Svärd and Johan Jakobsson, he has relaxed, adopting a softer style of leadership than the one he had when he arrived: the omniscient boor.
Maybe he has realised that the work of investigation is in part a game, where curiosity and complete openness are a must if you want to see results? Maybe he has realised they really do have to work together to accomplish the tasks they are charged with? Or else he has understood that they are on their own, that they are on the front line against evil, that they have to look out for each other if they are to survive.
‘I don’t know what to think,’ Sven says. ‘Forensics are checking the dildo right now, and going through his flat. Karin Johannison is on duty, and she’s usually pretty quick. We’re also checking his computer. But that could take longer.’
‘And Louise Svensson?’
‘She’s about as damaged an individual as I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen before what that sort of damage can lead to.’
‘But do you think she did it?’
Sven doesn’t answer, but says: ‘Maybe we should have a word with her mother. Find out a bit about her background.’
Inside Interview Room One, Lollo Svensson suddenly spits in Malin’s face, but Malin keeps her cool and merely wipes the saliva away.
Obliged to continue the line of questioning.
A strong voice in this investigation.
Once she has wiped away the wet slime Malin says: ‘So asking about your dad is a sensitive issue. Sorry, I didn’t know.’
‘What’s he got to do with this?’
Her voice controlled now after her furious outburst at Malin’s last question.
‘The report I mentioned. Something happened when you were a child. Your dad, did he hurt you?’
‘Did he?’
Zeke trying to sound unders
tanding, sympathetic, and he succeeds.
‘I’m not talking about that. I’ve spent my whole life trying to forget about it.’
Lollo Svensson calm now, as if she’s found a new personality somewhere inside.
‘Who can we talk to?’
‘Talk to Mum.’
Viveka Crafoord’s words, her voice: The key to this is in the past.
‘And how do we get hold of her?’
A name. An address.
‘Do you have to find out?’
‘We have to look into everything.’
‘I admit to having sex with those girls. But I was nice to them. Gentle. Friendly. And I gave them money afterwards. More than they expected.’
‘You don’t expect us to believe you? How many blue dildos can there be in this city?’
Waldemar is sitting down again, after thumping Suliman Hajif’s head on the table for a second time.
On his way back to his chair he looked in the mirror, at the face that seems to be withering away, ageing away from him, a little more each day. A face wearing a mask, and whatever is behind the mask burned out long ago as a result of giving in to instinct, giving in to the most basic urges.
Violence. Sexuality. The same thing. Aren’t they?
Waldemar knows: he’s given in to violence.
And he knows that he will never have the energy to do anything about it.
He’s not suited to therapy.
‘I didn’t have anything to do with this shit.’
Suliman Hajif sniffs, holding his shirtsleeve to his nose to stop it bleeding. He sobs, and says: ‘I’m innocent.’
Waldemar leans towards the tape recorder: ‘Interview with Suliman Hajif concluded. Time 16.17.’
Malin on her own in the toilet.
She’s finished peeing, but still she sits there, feeling the clammy seat against her buttocks.
She shuts her eyes, thinking.
Suliman Hajif will be held until Forensics have finished, until the dildo has been compared to the earlier evidence. And then? Twenty years in prison, in a secure hospital? Or back home to surf for more porn?
They let Lollo Svensson go home.
She had admitted to what they knew about her, but apart from that they had no evidence against her, and, as Sven said in the passageway outside the interview room once both interviews had been concluded: ‘There are limits to how much we can subject a person to with so little evidence. But we’ll be keeping an eye on her.’
Summertime Death Page 26