They sit in silence next to each other. Want to save their words, pull them out newly washed and clean later. For now, this silence is all that is needed. And what would they say?
What do you think about this?
We’ll have to see.
Has she been raped, or did the blood come from somewhere else? And the smell of bleach? The whiteness? The cleansed wounds?
The door opens and Doctor Sjögripe comes in, wearing a white coat.
She’s maybe fifty-five years old, cropped grey hair clinging to her head, making her cheeks, nose and mouth look sharper than they really are.
A pair of reading glasses with transparent plastic frames hangs around her neck. The cheap sort, for a pair of twinkling eyes. Intelligent, aware, self-confident, like only the eyes of someone who has had everything from the very start can be.
Both Malin and Zeke practically leap out of their chairs. Anything else was unthinkable.
Sjögripe.
The most blue-blooded family in the whole of Östergötland. The family estate at Sjölanda outside Kisa is a significant employer, one of the largest and most profitable agricultural businesses in the country.
‘Louise Sjögripe.’
Her handshake is firm, but not hard, feminine but with a certain pressure.
Doctor Sjögripe lets them sit down before taking her own seat behind the desk.
Malin has no idea what position Louise Sjögripe occupies in the family, but can’t help wondering. Doesn’t want to wonder. Gossip, gossip, think about why we’re here instead.
‘Considering the circumstances, Josefin Davidsson is doing fairly well now,’ Louise Sjögripe says. The way she says the words makes her voice sound hoarse.
‘What can you tell us? I’m assuming you conducted the examination?’
Zeke sounds slightly irritated, but not so as most people would notice.
Louise Sjögripe smiles.
‘Yes, I examined her and documented her injuries. And I’ll tell you what I think.’
‘Thank you, we’d be grateful, I mean pleased, if you could,’ Malin says, trying to look the doctor/aristocrat in the eyes, but the self-awareness they exude makes her look towards the window instead.
‘In all likelihood she has been abused. She couldn’t have caused the wounds on her arms and legs herself, and they weren’t caused in self-defence. Those don’t usually look, how can I put it, quite so regular. It’s as if someone has inflicted the injuries with a sharp object and then washed and cleaned them carefully.’
‘What sort of object?’ Malin wonders.
‘Impossible to say. A knife? Maybe, maybe not.’
‘And the bleeding from the vagina?’
‘Her hymen was broken by penetration, and the blood vessels on the inside of the vagina were damaged. Hence the bleeding. But that’s normal with a first penetration, so it’s likely that a relatively soft object was used, with a degree of caution.’
Louise Sjögripe takes a deep breath, not because what she has just said seems to trouble her, but to emphasise what she’s about to say.
‘There are no traces of sperm inside her. But the perpetrator doesn’t seem to have used a condom, because I found no sign of any lubricant. What I did find, however, were some very small, almost microscopic traces of something resembling blue plastic, as if Josefin Davidsson was penetrated by an object of some sort rather than a male member.’
‘And . . .’
Zeke tries to ask a question, but Doctor Sjögripe waves her hand in front of her face dismissively.
‘I’ve already sent the traces to National Forensics. I know the routine. I’ve also taken blood samples from the blood on her thighs. Nothing apart from her own.
‘And you don’t have to worry. I haven’t said anything about the girl’s injuries to her parents. They’re the details of a crime, so I’ll let you deal with that. I just discuss the medical situation with them.’
Malin and Zeke look at each other.
‘So she couldn’t have caused the injuries herself?’ Malin asks.
‘No. That would be practically impossible. The pain would be too great. The penetration? Probably not.’
‘And the blood tests?’ Malin wonders. ‘Was there anything unusual about them? Could she have been drugged?’
‘Our initial analysis didn’t show anything. But I’ve sent samples to the central lab for a more detailed examination, and that’s when we’ll find out if she had any foreign substances in her blood. But a lot of substances disappear quickly.’
‘What about the fact that she looked like she’d been scrubbed clean? She smelled of bleach.’
‘Someone’s washed her very carefully, you’re right. As if they wanted to make sure she was completely clean. There were no strands of hair or anything that could be linked in any way to the perpetrator by DNA testing, nothing on her entire body.’
‘Is it possible to isolate traces of any disinfectant that might have been used on her body?’
‘Probably. I took epidermal samples from her back and thighs. Those have gone off to the National Lab as well.’
‘So how is she now? In your opinion? Is she talking? At the crime scene she hardly said a word.’
‘She’s talking. Seems OK. And she genuinely doesn’t seem to remember anything about what happened.’
‘She doesn’t remember?’
‘No. Mental blocks aren’t unusual after a traumatic experience. And it’s probably just as well. Rape is one of the worst curses of our times. This spreading absence of norms. The lack of cultural respect for another person’s body, usually female. I mean, here in Linköping alone we’ve had two gang rapes in three years.’
You sound like you’re reciting an article, Malin thinks, and asks: ‘When did she start talking?’
‘While I was examining her. It hurt and she said ouch and then the words were somehow back. Until then she had been silent. She said her name and looked at the clock in the room. Then she wondered what she was doing in hospital and said that her parents were probably worrying.’
‘Is there any way of getting her to remember what happened?’
‘That’s not my area, Inspector Fors. I’m a doctor, not a psychologist. A specially trained psychologist spoke to her about an hour ago, but Josefin couldn’t remember anything. She’s with her parents in room eleven. You can go and see her now. I think she can cope with a few questions.’
Doctor Sjögripe opens a file, puts on the glasses hanging around her neck, and starts to read.
Room eleven is the embodiment of whiteness, lit by clear, warm light. Motes of dust drift through the air, dancing gently back and forth in the single room.
Mr and Mrs Davidsson are sitting on the edge of the bed on either side of Josefin, who is wearing a red and white flowered, knee-length summer dress with white bandages on her wounds, her skin almost as white as the bandages.
It could have been me sitting in their place, Malin thinks.
The three of them smile towards her and Zeke as they enter the room after knocking first. Josefin’s cheerful voice a moment before: ‘Come in!’
‘Malin Fors, Detective Inspector.’
‘Zacharias Martinsson, the same.’
The parents stand up. Introduce themselves.
Birgitta. Ulf. Josefin remains seated, smiling at them as though the previous night’s events hadn’t happened.
I’ve been like you, Malin thinks. Gone out on a warm summer’s evening, all alone. But nothing bad ever happened to me.
Fifteen.
Only one year older than Tove.
It could have been you on the bed, Tove. Me and Janne, your dad, beside you, distraught, me wondering what monster had done this and how I could get hold of him. Or her. Or them.
‘We’re looking into what happened to Josefin,’ Malin says. ‘We’ve got a number of questions that we’d like to ask.’
Nodding parents.