She had tried reading up on the subject. It was impossible to avoid it. On 1 July, the national immigration authority would change its name to Migrationsverket. The idea was to enable a general oversight of migration and the movement of people, as well as the country’s immigration, integration and return policy. The latter was something new. Provisional refugee was a concept that had only recently emerged, above all in connection to the Yugoslav wars. Simply put, the Swedish government let people stay for a while, until it was safe for them to return home, and when they did eventually go back, it gave them a small contribution for not becoming the burden on the state they would otherwise have become if they’d stayed. In doing so, they gave the whole business an aura of voluntariness. An idea which was a pure fiction.
The essence of this new migration concept was – if Sara had understood correctly – that returning was viewed as an equally crucial moment as integration. You could infer a great deal about contemporary society’s attitudes from that, she thought.
The old Volvo had reached Slagsta, which lay squashed up like an artificial idyll against the shore of Lake Mälaren before you came to places like Fittja, Alby, Norsborg and Hallunda – names synonymous with a high immigrant population. In any case, it was home to the ugly Norrboda Motell, a long, five-storey building of classic seventies architecture. Both detectives stood speechless for a moment, each of them longing for a glimpse into the mind of the architect. That was, in all likelihood, precisely what they got the moment they set foot in its uniform corridors, clad in urine-coloured carpets and matching, age-faded institutional material on the walls and ceilings. So this was the first image that Swedes-to-be were given of their future homeland.
It was probably a deliberate part of the national return policy.
Just past the deserted reception, they found the manager’s office; it was nothing more than a motel room among others. Jörgen Nilsson met them with a nervous heartiness. Sara thought she recognised the type immediately. An idealist from ’68, someone who had wanted to fundamentally change society but instead found himself transformed into something resembling a prison guard-cum-bureaucrat. The grimace of bitterness writ plain on his face.
Perhaps that was unfair. He was probably doing his best.
Jörgen Nilsson gestured for them to sit down in his utterly anonymous office. He perched on the edge of the desk and began speaking with the energy of a self-righteous man.
‘Four rooms have been emptied. There were two women in each. Eight missing asylum seekers.’
‘What does “missing” mean?’ Sara Svenhagen asked innocently.
‘That they should’ve reported to me this morning,’ Jörgen Nilsson replied, looking at her with a surprised expression, ‘but didn’t. I went to their rooms – they’re next to one another – and realised they were gone.’
Kerstin Holm felt obliged to explain.
‘We’re from CID,’ she said. ‘We don’t normally get involved in immigration cases.’
‘CID?’ Jörgen Nilsson blurted out, his face turning noticeably pale. ‘It’s just a few… women who’ve gone underground. It happens every day somewhere in Sweden.’
‘But it’s happened a few too many times here, hasn’t it?’
‘I’ve been completely cleared of all those allegations. They were bitter, rejected refugees, those people who filed reports against me. Completely baseless. You know that full well.’
Sara Svenhagen shifted in her seat and said: ‘What were you planning on saying just then, instead of “women”?’
Jörgen Nilsson stared furiously at her.
‘What? For God’s sake, haven’t you got anything better to do?’
‘You were planning on saying something other than “women”. You paused like you were swallowing some kind of ill-thought-out word. What was it?’
From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of an appreciative look from Kerstin. It gave her encouragement.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Nilsson said, getting up from the edge of the desk and pacing around the tiny room. It seemed slightly laboured.
Kerstin Holm pushed another portion of snus tobacco under her lip. She took a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it with malicious slowness. Reading it, she eventually said:
‘You moved here in September last year. In October, a Russo-Lithuanian cigarette smuggling group was uncovered. In December, it was the illegal movement of Coca-Cola from Turkey. In February, a couple of Gambians were stopped with large amounts of brown heroin. And in March, we had reports of prostitution. It was the word “whores” you were trying to stop yourself from saying, wasn’t it?’
Jörgen Nilsson continued his pacing. Despite his highly strung state, he seemed to be busy weighing up the pros and cons of talking. He came to a decision, paused, and returned to the edge of the desk.
‘Yes,’ he said, his eyes fixed on Kerstin Holm. ‘You’ve got to understand how hard it is. These people seeking asylum are locked up for months. Years, sometimes. Obviously they’ve got to have sex lives of some kind during that time. The whole thing’s a powder keg from the very start, and trying to control their sex lives would be like putting a match to it. I admit, the number of partners does get a bit much sometimes, if you see what I mean, but reporting them for it would be the same as sending them straight back home. I try to be tolerant. And yes: sometimes I might’ve looked away a bit too often. Let’s call it my form of civil disobedience. I won’t be a concentration camp guard, for God’s sake.’
‘You’re not the one we’re after,’ Holm said, feeling sudden sympathy for the exasperated man in front of her. ‘But we’re worried something might’ve happened to these women. Why else would they go underground if – with your blessing – they’ve been able to go about their business relatively undisturbed here? They didn’t have any rent to pay, after all.’
‘Though it’s entirely possible they were paying in one way or another,’ Sara Svenhagen said, looking at Holm, who pulled a disapproving face. It was plain it was the thought she disapproved of, not what Sara had said.
Jörgen Nilsson’s diatribe was preceded by a brief shifting gaze. Then it came:
‘Am I accused of anything here? Just come out and tell me exactly what it is you want. Are you seriously accusing me of sexually exploiting asylum seekers? Just spit it out! Do you think I’ve chopped eight women up into pieces and eaten them or something like that?’
Sara felt like she might – though only might – have gone a step too far. She had taken on the role of ‘bad cop’ voluntarily, without thinking it through. It had just happened.
‘Like we’ve said, you aren’t the one we’re after,’ she said courteously. ‘But it’s important you aren’t sloppy when you think it through – because that’s what you’ve got to do now. Has anything unusual happened, anything at all, the past few days? What about yesterday evening, last night, this morning? Could any of the neighbours have seen anything? Who knows about the prostitution? Do you know any of the johns? Is there a pimp?’
Kerstin waited until Sara was finished. Then she stood up, pushed a pad of paper and a pen over to Jörgen Nilsson and said: ‘Keys to the rooms, please. We’ll go and have a look round while you get your answers to those questions together. And provide us with the most comprehensive information on the missing women you can.’
The keys were placed in her hand, and as they left the manager’s office, they could clearly hear the scratching of pen on paper; frenetic, as though done by a man with a knife to his throat.
Both detectives walked down the corridor with stony faces – right until they turned the corner and reached the stairs. Then they started giggling like schoolgirls. The moment passed. As they climbed the stairs, Kerstin Holm said gruffly: ‘It’s important you aren’t sloppy when you think it through.’