I see Malin disappear in the direction of the bathroom and living room.
Manfred and Dad sit in silence, as if each is waiting for the other to start talking. Then Manfred mumbles something, but I can’t make out what.
Dad mumbles back.
Steps approach down the hall, and Malin appears in the door. She’s wearing light blue gloves and carries the rifle in her hand.
“I didn’t know you had a gun license,” she says, nodding to Dad.
Dad shakes his head.
“It’s not mine,” he says, slumping into his chair. “I don’t hunt.”
“I thought every bastard hunted around here,” Manfred says.
“Yes,” Dad says.
“Possession of a weapon without a license,” Manfred says quietly, “is illegal according to the ninth chapter, first paragraph of the weapons act.”
Then he says something that I can’t make out. Dad shakes his head violently.
“Yes,” Malin says, and lets her eyes slide over Dad. “You’re coming with us to the station. We’ll talk more there. About the rifle and other things.”
Malin looks up, and her eyes meet mine.
She freezes.
“It’s not my rifle,” Dad repeats tonelessly.
Malin doesn’t answer. Her eyes are fixed on me.
“Hi, Jake,” she says. “Come in.”
I open the door, but stay in the hall. Suddenly I feel very naked in my T-shirt and underwear.
Dad turns around and looks at me. His eyes are red and watery and wide. His mouth trembles.
“Your dad is coming with us to Örebro,” Malin says.
Malin
Svante stands in front of the whiteboard with his legs wide. He nods to me and Manfred as we enter. He’s wearing a Norwegian folk sweater, and he’s stuffed his jeans into his socks. There’s something on his beard that looks a little like scrambled eggs.
I sit down next to Andreas. He moves his chair closer to me, and I immediately move away. It happens automatically, I don’t even think about it. But as usual he gets too close, and I feel a sting of irritation.
“Did you get anything?” Svante says.
We’re in a conference room in the Örebro Police Station. It feels strange to be in a real office again, after freezing in a shack that stinks of mold for more than two weeks.
Even though it’s Saturday, it’s bustling with activity here.
The information that the woman at the cairn is Azra Malkoc has led to completely new theories and questions. And finding the rifle at Stefan Birgersson’s has awakened hopes that we may have identified the perpetrator.
I look around.
Malik sits opposite me. I haven’t spoken to him yet, but I know that he’s been working with Svante for a few years, and that he recently completed a one-year forensic technician course at the National Forensic Centre.
Malik, who appears to be in his thirties, has green eyes, a face like an angel, and the long, narrow fingers of a pianist, the nails shiny and well-kept. His androgynous look is reinforced by the fact that his dark hair is put up in a bun. Around his wrists sit braided leather bands of various colors, and on his left hand a gold ring with an amber stone glitters.
The door flies open and one of the detectives comes in.
Suzette is a muscular woman in her forties with short blond hair, heavy makeup, and long, intensely blue nails. She has a notebook and a pen in hand and walks a little bent over, as if she has a stomachache.
“Damn, you all look serious,” she drawls. “Did somebody die?”
It’s the oldest joke on the force, yet I can’t help smiling.
Rumor has it that Suzette works at her sister’s beauty salon in Örebro in her free time, and that her specialty is Brazilian waxing.
Andreas calls her the Queen of the Brazilian and says she’s damn tough, whether she’s hunting down hooligans or doing that “other thing” at the beauty salon.
Suzette settles down next to Malik, smiles at me, and puts a hand on her notepad.
I wish Andreas hadn’t told me about the intimate waxing, because now that’s all I can think of as her long blue nails drum against the notepad.
I meet Svante’s eyes.
He clears his throat.
“Manfred, you might want to start?”
The pretrial leaders have decided to coordinate the investigations of Peter’s disappearance and the murders of Nermina and Azra Malkoc—and they have good reason to: No one believes these are isolated events.
The new, merged investigative team will be based here, but we’ll keep our small field office in Ormberg. In addition, we’re getting reinforcements from NOD in Stockholm at the beginning of next week.
The purpose of this meeting is to brief Malik and Suzette on the case. And we’ll do so as soon as we’ve related to the group what came out of the interrogation of Stefan Birgersson.
That’s what everyone wants to know, right away.
The news that we have caught him spread like wildfire around here.
Manfred nods quickly, stands up, and goes over to Svante.
“We’ve just done our initial questioning. Stefan Birgersson maintains his story. He says he mixed up the days. That he visited his friend Olle in Högsjö on Saturday. What he did on the night of the murder—that is, on Friday—he doesn’t remember. But he thinks he may have ‘driven around’ in his car.”
Manfred makes air quotes around the last.
“There was a hell of a storm that night,” Svante says, crossing his arms over his chest and balancing them against his large stomach. “Why would he have ‘driven around’ in his car?”
“He couldn’t answer that,” Manfred says. “He also says he may well have been parked for a while between the cairn and the ironworks. But he claims he was never in the woods.”
“And the fact that he worked at the refugee camp in the early nineties—what did he have to say about that?” Svante asks.
“He maintains he forgot that, too,” Manfred says. “And as for the rifle, he claims—”
“He doesn’t remember?” Svante finishes, and chuckles at his own comment.
Manfred nods, without even the slightest hint of a smile.
“I was joking,” Svante says. “You mean he said that? For real?”
“Yep. He did.”
Svante seems confused. As if he can’t decide if Stefan Birgersson is incredibly stupid or a straight-up genius in some sophisticated way that he can’t yet perceive.
Manfred rubs his knee, heads for a chair, and sits down with a quiet thud next to the whiteboard. Then he continues:
“I’m going to call the prosecutor. The plan is to search his house tomorrow. It’s Saturday today, which means the prosecutor has to apply for a warrant from the judge by Tuesday. We’ll try to tie up all the loose ends by then. Sound good?”
Everyone nods, but nobody says anything. The only sound is Suzette’s nails tapping on the table. As I watch her hand move, I remember something.
“Wood,” I say.
Manfred looks confused.
“Wood. Hanne said she remembers boards,” I explain. “And Stefan Birgersson has a hell of a lot of boards in his yard, under tarps.”
Manfred nods in appreciation.
“Well done! We’ll look into that when we search the house. Best case, we might be able to find traces of Hanne at Stefan Birgersson’s house.”
Suzette wets her dark red lips with the tip of her tongue and says:
“So. What happens to his children if we keep him here?”
“I talked to social services,” I say. “They’re sending someone over there tonight.”
Manfred nods.
“And the gun?” he asks.
“On its way to NFC,” I say. “But we don’t have any cartri
dges or empty sleeves to compare it to, so I don’t know how much we’ll find out.”
The room falls silent.
“Do we really believe it was him?”
It’s Malik’s question. Although his tone is tactful, I hear doubt in his voice; it rubs like a small but annoying rock in one’s shoe.
“I don’t believe shit,” Manfred says. “But we’ll have to figure it out.”
He massages his knees, grimaces, and closes his eyes. Then he continues:
“He seems like a very broken individual. I can believe he may have mixed up which day he was in Högsjö. Fuck, I can’t even keep track of the days anymore. And it’s possible he parked his car on the highway that night without being involved in the murder. Honestly, there’s not much else to do in Ormberg other than watch TV or drive around in your car. But I have a much harder time buying the bit about the refugee camp. You forget working at a place on five separate occasions? And he knows sure as shit where that rifle came from. So. He’s hiding something. We just have to find out what.”
“Or maybe he just doesn’t want to tell us,” I say.
“Doesn’t want to?”
Manfred raises his bushy red eyebrows and his forehead wrinkles like an accordion.
I try to figure out the best way to put this.
“People don’t really trust cops in Ormberg. Don’t trust any authorities, actually.”
“He’s only making it harder for himself,” Manfred says.
I observe my colleague from Stockholm—his expensive suit, his large Swiss watch, his perfectly trimmed beard.
How can I explain to him what I mean? Is it even worthwhile to try?
“I know,” I say. “I’m just trying to explain how people think in the village. They don’t trust us.”
For a moment, I think he might start tearing into me again, like when I tried to explain why the people of Ormberg didn’t like having the asylum seekers housed there.
But he doesn’t say anything, just nods.
“Let’s move on from Stefan Birgersson for a while,” Svante suggests. “We need to bring Suzette and Malik up to speed on everything.”
Manfred nods to our new colleagues. Then he stands up, brushes something from his jacket, and walks over to the whiteboard. He picks up a marker and draws a long time line and writes down a number of years.
“Azra and her five-year-old daughter, Nermina, arrive here from Bosnia in the summer of 1993. The fifth of December of the same year, they leave the refugee camp in Ormberg. Everyone assumed they left the residence of their own free will, and no one reported them missing to the police. Azra’s sister, Esma, has stated that she believed they returned to Bosnia, but over the years she became increasingly convinced they were dead because she never heard from them.”
Manfred reaches for a bottle of mineral water standing on the table, takes a gulp, and then continues:
“Nermina Malkoc was probably murdered at the beginning of 1994. We can determine this because she was operated on in mid-November 1993, and the wrist fracture had not completely healed when she died. The cause of death was probably blunt force trauma. The body was hidden under a cairn and first found by a group of teenagers in 2009.”
Manfred nods toward me.
Everyone’s eyes turn in my direction, and I can feel my cheeks burning. I feel uneasy every time that story is brought up.
Manfred turns back, looks at his time line, and puts a cross in the middle.
He continues:
“We came to Ormberg on November twenty-second to investigate the murder of the then still unknown girl in the cairn. On the twenty-seventh of November we made a preliminary identification of her as Nermina Malkoc. Four days later, Friday, December first, Peter and Hanne disappeared. Hanne was found in the forest on Saturday evening, December second, confused and suffering from hypothermia. Peter is still missing. Azra Malkoc was shot to death, probably on Friday, December first. No one saw anything or heard the shot. The body was found on December fifth—a Tuesday. The medical examiner has confirmed that she was shot from the front, in the chest, with a rifle, from about twenty meters away. She was barefoot. And yesterday, we were told she’s most likely Azra Malkoc, Nermina’s mother. One of Hanne’s shoes was found near the scene of the murder. There were traces of Azra Malkoc’s blood on the shoe, which allows us to place Hanne at the scene. Hanne also wore a piece of jewelry that probably belonged to Azra Malkoc.”
“Has it been confirmed that it was Azra’s blood on Hanne’s shoes?” I ask. “Last I heard they only knew the blood type.”
Manfred nods, and sinks down onto his chair with a deep breath.
“Yes.”
“And the medallion,” Malik asks. “Have the technicians looked at it?”
“Hastily, yes,” Manfred says. “They said it probably wasn’t manufactured in Sweden, which makes sense. They also confirmed that it contained human hair. They’re doing a DNA analysis. Apparently the hair did include some roots, which means they’re hopeful that they can make a normal DNA analysis. But if that doesn’t work then they can analyze the mitochondrial DNA. Don’t ask me to explain, but it takes longer and isn’t as precise.”
Andreas shakes his head slowly.
“How in the hell did Hanne end up with that necklace?”
“She had no idea,” I say. “She didn’t remember anything when we asked her.”
Manfred rubs his temples. Then he turns around and looks at the time line, which stretches from 1993 to 2017. There are a lot of notes at the beginning and end of it, but the middle is empty other than a cross at 2009, the year Nermina was found.
“Nermina died in 1994,” he says slowly. “Azra was murdered twenty-three years later. They were found in the same place. It must be the same perp. Stefan Birgersson was twenty-five when Nermina was murdered. And he lived in Ormberg. He could have committed both murders.”
“Yes, but…” Andreas says, and falls silent.
“Peter and Hanne may have been on the trail,” Svante continues.
“Yes, but,” Andreas says again. “Where was Azra Malkoc for over twenty years? Neither the Swedish nor the Bosnian authorities have any information about her.”
“Maybe she went underground,” I say. “But she couldn’t have lived nearby, because then we’d know about it.”
Manfred nods. “Ormberg is too small. Too hard to hide in. But in Stockholm…Well, maybe. Or in the Balkans, definitely. In any case, if no one is looking for you.”
He shrugs.
“But,” Andreas says. “Her daughter was murdered. Why didn’t she go to the police?”
“She may have been afraid of being deported,” says Suzette, who has put her notebook aside and is leaning forward so her breasts rest on the table.
“She surely was,” I say. “But when your child is murdered, wouldn’t you do anything you could? Isn’t it more important that the perpetrator is arrested than that you’re granted asylum?”
“It was already too late,” Malik says carefully. “Her child was gone. Nothing could change that. So she maybe fled. And then she returned to Ormberg to say goodbye. Like visiting a mass grave.”
“It’s possible,” Manfred says. “It even sounds probable.”
“There’s another possibility,” I say. “Suppose Stefan Birgersson isn’t guilty. The most likely perpetrator when a child is killed is a parent. If Azra for some reason killed her daughter, that might explain why she went underground.”
Manfred nods.
“Makes sense,” he says. “But then who killed Azra?”
“Maybe someone was seeking revenge?” Suzette suggests. “Someone who knew she killed her daughter and murdered her seeking some kind of justice.”
“Stefan Birgersson,” Andreas says. “Perhaps he…”
Manfred rolls his eyes, and I sense he’s star
ting to find our reasoning far-fetched.
I clear my throat.
“The sister said she was pregnant. I counted. She would have been in about the fifth month when she disappeared. If her pregnancy was successful, that would mean that she gave birth in the spring of 1994. We should check out the hospitals.”
“Good, Malin!” Manfred says. “Very good!”
His overenthusiastic comment makes me feel like a schoolgirl who just got an A+ on her test.
“Why was she running barefoot through the woods?” asks Svante, who seems to have sunk into his own thoughts.
“Could she have come from a nearby car?” Suzette suggests. “There’s a road nearby.”
“She may have lost her shoes if she was being followed,” Malik says.
Manfred nods and says:
“Doesn’t sound likely, but I guess it’s possible.”
The room is silent for a moment. Svante squirms a little.
“Do we have any other suspects?” Suzette asks.
“Just a few,” Manfred says. “We have a pedophile, Henrik Hahn, who’s currently interned at Karsudden. Hahn was sentenced to criminal psychiatric care in 2014. He had leave on Saturday, but not Friday, so if we think our timetable is right then we have to rule him out. And, ironically, at the beginning of 1994 he was serving in Bosnia as a UN soldier, so he couldn’t have had anything to do with Nermina’s death. Svante, your group had a good talk with his wife?”
Svante nods.
“She gives him an alibi for Saturday and Sunday. I’ve actually visited him on an earlier occasion as well.”
“How was he?” I ask, mostly out of curiosity.
“Nice, social. Convicted pedophiles often are. They need good social skills to get close to their victims.”
“Fucking hell,” Andreas says with a grimace.
“Any other suspects?” Malik asks.
“There’s Björn Falk,” Manfred says. “Convicted of battery, assault, and criminal harassment. He’s had several restraining orders placed against him. We took him in for questioning. We shouldn’t forget that the murderers could have racist or xenophobic motives. I’ll call the Swedish Security Service and see what they have to say.”
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