A dildo? Blue?
A lesbian? Lollo Svensson. A sex offender? A damaged man? The football team? Prejudice, prejudice, prejudice. Peter Sköld. Nathalie Falck. The person who made the call about Josefin Davidsson?
Silence. Possibilities, prejudices.
But what else are we supposed to go on? And what about Behzad Karami and Ali Shakbari out in Berga? Sodding bloody family alibis. One of the boys, or more than one, could have crossed a boundary and worked out that you liked it. The owner of the ice cream kiosk?
A thousand possibilities.
Drifting dust thrown into the air, needing to be gathered together to form a clear, black jewel.
The city demands it.
The papers.
The victims and their families.
And me.
But is there only one truth?
And with that thought her consciousness succumbed to sleep, and she slept dreamlessly for an hour before she woke up and a new day of the investigation into the tragic girls of Linköping could start.
29
Monday, 19 July
The last remnants of the previous evening’s alcohol seem to disappear as Malin’s body pierces the water of the Tinnerbäck pool.
Cooler.
The water ought to be cooler, but it would probably cost too much to keep the temperature lower in a summer as hot as this one. Four lengths will have to do, she can feel her body complaining at the effort, how it wants to rest but at the same time enjoy the relative cool.
Better than the boiling hot gym at the station.
Her body wakes up.
You could go mad not being able to go swimming in a summer like this. A couple of lifeguards with long-handled nets are fishing out prematurely fallen leaves from the pool. Malin looks at the lifeguards as she dries herself with her worn pink towel.
She skimmed the Correspondent before she left home.
Six pages about the murder of Theresa Eckeved, statements from Karim Akbar, pictures of the scene of the murder, of her parents’ house, but no statement from them. Photos of Theresa, her body wrapped in plastic, her passport, private pictures. Daniel Högfeldt had had help with the articles from wily old Harry Lavén.
The headline on the front page: Summertime Death.
Beneath it: Evil on the Loose in Linköping.
She was convinced Daniel had written the headlines himself. He must have worked like a madman yesterday, not wanting to take her call, realising that she wouldn’t want to talk about the case, but wanted something else instead.
Cock.
How harsh even the thought of the word sounds.
Malin gathers her things and heads off towards the changing room, feeling the clear, almost scarily blunt smell of chlorine, somehow cleaner than everything else.
You’re right, Daniel, she thinks. It’s come to the city.
Summertime death.
Reporters from what seems like every newsroom of any significance in the country have come to the city, flocking outside the entrance of the police station, journalists clutching notepads, tape recorders, photographers with their extra eyes, cars from Swedish Television and TV4, summertime death a summertime dream for those with papers to sell.
Malin forces her way through the sweaty huddle of reporters, sweaty herself after the bike ride up here, avoiding Daniel Högfeldt as he throws her a longing look and waves, calling: ‘Have you got anything for me, Malin? Have you got anything to go on?’
But Malin ignores him, ignores all of them, some faces familiar from previous cases.
In the entrance she is met by Karim Akbar, dressed in an immaculately pressed beige linen suit and a pale blue shirt that contrasts neatly with the slightly darker tone his skin has turned after all that sunbathing in Västervik.
Malin isn’t surprised to see him, but nor is she pleased. She knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away when there was a top-drawer media storm in the offing.
‘Malin,’ he says. ‘Good that you’re here. I felt I had to come in and manage the press conference, and keep an eye on the investigation.’
‘Welcome home,’ Malin says. ‘But the investigation’s under control. You know that Sven’s one of the force’s most experienced preliminary investigators. Aren’t you supposed to be writing a book over the summer?’
‘Forget the book, Fors. The press conference is at nine o’clock. They’ll have to wait outside until then.’
‘Do you know what you’re going to say, Karim?’
‘It’s quarter past eight. We’ll have to have a meeting right away. Martinsson and Sjöman are already here. Why are you . . .’
Karim stops himself.
Looks Malin deep in the eyes, right into her tiredness, and lets what he was about to say drop.
Instead: ‘How’s Tove getting on in Bali?’
Malin smiles: ‘Fine, last time I spoke to her. Thanks for asking. But it’ll be good to have her home again.’
‘I’m sure it will,’ Karim says.
And Malin knows that he wants to say something about the Islamists on the island, knows that he practically loathes them for making life difficult for anyone whose appearance suggests that they could be Arabic.
It is exactly half past eight.
The air conditioning in the meeting room is grumbling unhappily, the four of them sitting around the table, the blinds in the windows facing the playground pulled down to keep the light out.
Four officers.
A Monday morning, after a weekend at work for three of them. Tiredness is creeping up on her, in spite of the adrenalin that an important case always releases.
One police chief, one preliminary investigator and two inspectors, far too few for a case of this significance, and all four of them know it; and they know that holidays will be cancelled or colleagues from neighbouring districts called in. Or there’s another option.
Sven Sjöman is the first to speak: ‘There are far too few of us to handle this, we know that. My suggestion is that we call in National Crime, to save us interrupting our colleagues’ holidays or calling in people from other districts.’
‘Not National Crime,’ Karim says, and Malin knew that was what he was going to say. ‘I’ve checked with Motala, Mjölby and Norrköping. We can have Sundsten from Motala and Ekenberg from Mjölby. Norrköping is understaffed as it is, so they can’t let us have anyone. But Sundsten and Ekenberg will be here today, tomorrow at the latest. Börje’s in Africa and Johan’s away with his family, somewhere in Småland, I believe.’
‘Ekenberg,’ Zeke exclaims. ‘Do we really want that idiot here?’
Malin knows what Zeke means. Waldemar Ekenberg is infamous for being completely reckless in his work, and he’s also infamous for getting away with it in all the internal investigations that follow. But he isn’t without his admirers and supporters in the force: Waldemar Ekenberg certainly gets things done when they need to be done.
‘We have to take the people that are available,’ Sven says. ‘I shall be keeping an eye on Ekenberg personally.’
‘And Sundsten? Who’s that?’
‘Some bright young thing. He spent a year in crime in Kalmar before moving to Motala. Supposed to be pretty smart.’
‘Good,’ Zeke says. ‘We need all the help we can get.’
‘You’re right there,’ Malin says.
‘The more I think about these two cases,’ Zeke goes on, ‘the messier everything gets, sort of hazy. It’s a bit like looking at a fire, and just when you think you’ve fixed your eyes on a flame, it’s gone.’
Sven takes a deep breath, which makes him cough badly, turning his already red face a shade darker, and Malin worries that this heat is about to mess with Sven’s already hard-pressed heart.