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 understanding, 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.’
‘I want to talk to her mother,’ Malin says.
Sven dubious.
‘Do we really want to upset an elderly lady because her daughter’s name has cropped up in a murder investigation?’
‘We need to find out what happened. It might lead to something. Viveka Crafoord said . . .’
Sven.
The way his face crumpled as he gave in to her.
‘OK. Zeke and Malin. Go and talk to her mother. Straight away. We need to look under that stone while it’s still warm. Look back in time.’
Sven didn’t realise how oddly he had expressed himself.
‘What about the hypnosis?’ Malin had asked. ‘We’re supposed to be doing that at seven.’
‘Can we do it later?’
‘It’ll be too late then.’
‘Yes, it will.’
‘And I’m picking Janne and Tove up from Nyköping just after midnight.’
Sven’s face then, she would have given her year’s wages for that look, how happy he seemed on her behalf, how he seemed to understand her anxiety and the way her l
oss had slid over into an inexplicable sense of grief.
Malin gets up from the toilet.
Pulls down her skirt.
Looks in the mirror.
Pale, in spite of all the sun this summer.
Tove and Janne.
Soon.
Soon you’ll be home again.
45
Zeke raises the can of Coca-Cola to his mouth and drinks before taking a huge bite of his flatbread roll. The prawn salad trickles like thick magma down the outside of the bread. Down by the river beside the Scandic Hotel two black Saab limousines stop and men in black suits get out and are guided into the hotel.
Zeke and Malin are standing at the hotdog kiosk by the fire station, near the roundabout leading out to Stångebro. Eating, recharging their batteries before their interview with Lollo Svensson’s mother, and Malin before her drive to Nyköping later that evening.
‘See them over there?’
Zeke points at the men in suits.
‘Bound to be representatives from some damn company or government here to look at another weapons system.’
‘Maybe they’re here to buy JAS fighters?’
‘I doubt it. No one wants that type of plane. They cost billions, and are already obsolete.’
‘I daresay you’re right.’
The owner of the kiosk, a swarthy man in his fifties, is brushing down his grill and doesn’t seem to be listening to their conversation.
‘All that advanced stuff they do out at Saab, who knows where the hell it ends up, and what damage it does.’
‘But it does good here,’ Malin says. ‘Loads of jobs.’
The kiosk owner evidently has been listening to their conversation, his voice sharply accented: ‘Excuse me. I overheard. My wife,’ he says from behind the counter, ‘she died in a missile attack in Fallujah. No one knows who fired it. Maybe there was something from Saab in the explosion, but what difference does it make? Saab, or someone else. Everyone makes their own decisions about what job they want to do.’
Zeke throws the last of the roll in the bin by the door.
‘Would you sell hotdogs to men like that?’ he asks the kiosk owner.
‘I’ll sell hotdogs to anyone who’s prepared to pay.’
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