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Then they ask about Theresa Eckeved.

‘So you don’t have any idea where she might have gone?’

‘No idea.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘About a week ago.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Had an ice cream on Trädgårdstorget.’

‘Did she seem different? Did you notice anything odd, anything unusual?’

‘No, not that I can think of.’

Nathalie Falck is making an effort to speak in a deep voice.

Sweat on her forehead. Down Malin’s back.

‘Are you worried?’ Malin asks.

‘No. Why should I be?’

‘She’s missing.’

‘She can look after herself.’

No anxiety in her voice, but her eyes? What are they saying?

‘I’m just going to have a fag,’ Nathalie says.

‘A bit of smoke doesn’t bother us,’ Zeke says. ‘And I’ve always thought the eighteen-year age-limit is silly.’

The packet of cigarettes emerges from her camouflage shorts.

A gesture in their direction: do you want one?

Hand gestures turning down the offer. Instead Malin asks: ‘Are you good friends?’

‘No. I wouldn’t say that.’

‘So did you meet at the dance? Like Peter and Theresa?’

‘What dance?’

‘One of the joint ones organised by Ekholmen school and Sturefors.’

‘There’ve never been any dances like that. Wherever did you get that idea?’

Malin and Zeke look at each other.

‘So how did you meet?’ Zeke asks.

‘In town. I don’t remember exactly where or when.’

In town.

Of course. Hundreds of youngsters drifting about in packs on Friday and Saturday evenings. Drifting, flirting, fighting, drinking.

On the third stroke it will be 10.00 p.m. precisely. Do you know where your child is?

No.

No idea.

‘So you don’t remember?’ Zeke says. ‘Was it long ago?’

‘Maybe a year or so ago. But I like her. We can talk about stuff.’

‘Like what?’

‘Most things.’

‘And you and Peter are in parallel classes at Ekholmen school?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re friends?’

‘Sort of. We talk at breaks. Have coffee sometimes.’

‘Do you know if Theresa had any other friends? Someone she might have gone to visit?’

Nathalie Falck takes a drag on her cigarette. Says: ‘Nope. But what do I know? Everyone has secrets, don’t they?’

‘She’s hiding something,’ Zeke says as he starts the car. ‘It’s obvious.’

The car hot as a blast furnace again.

‘So far everyone seems to be hiding something.’

‘A tough girl, that Nathalie. More like a bloke.’

‘Not particularly feminine, I’ll give you that.’

‘And Peter Sköld is lying through his teeth.’

‘Let’s get Theresa’s computer to Forensics before we do anything else,’ Zeke says. ‘There could be any amount of information on there. Emails. Websites she’s visited.’

‘And Josefin Davidsson?’

‘They should have finished the door-to-door now,’ Zeke says, putting his foot on the accelerator.

10

‘The door-to-door in the area around the park hasn’t turned up anything,’ Sven Sjöman says. ‘No one saw anything, no one heard anything. The few people who were home, that is. As we know only too well, the city’s empty in July. And I’m afraid no witnesses have come forward, and our caller hasn’t been in touch again, so we can’t do much more except wait for Karin Johannison’s report and the results of the more detailed tests, and see if the bicycle turns up somewhere.’

The clock on the wall of the staffroom in the police station, just inside the detectives’ open-plan office, says five past five, the red second-hand moving in rheumatic slow motion up towards the top, and the whole day seems flat and tired of itself.

Seeing as there are only the three of them, they’re having their meeting in the staffroom.

It’s been a long day, Malin thinks as she watches Sven drink his coffee in deep black gulps. His mobile is switched off beside him, the message to reception abundantly clear: no more calls from the media. That was the first thing he said to Malin and Zeke when they got back to the station.

‘They’re completely mad. Since Högfeldt wrote that first piece they’ve been calling like crazy. I’ve spoken to Aftonbladet, DN, Expressen, Svenska Dagbladet and I don’t know how many others. Both local television news teams have been here, wanting an interview.’

‘Summer drought,’ Zeke says. ‘They can get a lot of mileage from a violent rape and a disappearance at the same time. Throw in the forest fires and their summer is saved.’

‘Did you mention the bicycle?’

‘Yes, I told the Correspondent that we’re looking for a red, three-gear Crescent. They’re publishing the details.’

‘When did Karin say the tests would be finished?’ Malin asks.

‘Tomorrow at the earliest. At least that’s what she said when I called a little while ago. No fingerprints on the wood in the summerhouse.’

‘Christ, she’s taking her time,’ Zeke says.

‘She’s usually always so quick,’ Malin says.

‘Karin knows how to do her job. We know that,’ Sven says. ‘So, what have you two managed to come up with about Theresa Eckeved?’

‘No one seems to have any ideas about where she could be,’ Malin says. ‘We’ve spoken to her supposed boyfriend and the only friend we’ve managed to get hold of, and they don’t know anything either.’

‘Supposed boyfriend?’ Sven says.

‘Yes, we can’t be too sure of that,’ Malin says. ‘These youngsters are hiding something from us. And the boyfriend’s lying.’

‘So how do you plan to find out what they’re hiding? And why he’s lying?’

Sven is suddenly authoritative, as if he wants to know the answers now, and not hear a plan for the investigation.

‘We’re working on it,’ Zeke says. ‘This heat isn’t helping.’

‘The heat’s the same for everyone.’

Then Sven softens slightly.

‘Well, so far it’s nothing but an ordinary missing person report.’

‘But she could have been missing for a week now. We really have to find more people who know Theresa and talk to them. And bring in the boyfriend, Peter Sköld, for questioning,’ Malin says. ‘He’s at his parents’ place in the country, near Valdemarsvik. We’ll have to get his father to bring him in.

‘And we’ve asked for a list of calls made from Theresa’s mobile. She hasn’t taken any money out of her bank account since the day her parents set off for Paris; they’ve already checked.’

‘Did she have a computer?’

‘Forensics have got it.’

‘Good. Kids spend half their lives online these days.’

Not Tove, Malin thinks. Not so far as I know.

‘And the attack and rape of Josefin Davidsson?’ Sven says. ‘What do you make of that? That has to be our main priority at the moment.’

‘We’re going to check if any known sexual offenders in the area have been released from prison or any care facility recently, they could have become active again,’ Zeke says. ‘We’ll have to look at old cases as well, see if there are any similarities.’

‘Good. What about gang rape, is that a possibility? Even if nothing at the crime scene suggests that?’

‘We don’t even know if she was attacked in the Horticultural Society Park at all,’ Zeke says. ‘As far as we know, she could have been attacked somewhere else entirely and just dumped there, couldn’t she?’

‘True,’ Sven says. ‘I forgot to say that the lab prioritised their detailed analysis of Josefin Davidsson’s blood test. Completely normal. No sign that she’d been drugged. But there are a number of substances that disappear from the blood in a matter of hours. And the skin samples didn’t give any clear results, apart from standard bleach and washing powder. The washing powder is probably from her clothes, and the bleach was used to clean her, so presumably the perpetrator was trying to erase any possible evidence. Karin’s examining the microscopic blue fragments that Doctor Sjögripe found inside Josefin Davidsson.