Joona leans over her and feels slight warmth still rising from her naked skin. He takes a closer look at her hands. There’s nothing under her nails. She didn’t scratch her assailant.
He steps to one side and examines her body once more: her white skin, her hands over her face, her crossed ankles. There is almost no blood on her body at all. Only her pillow is drenched. Her panties are white. Her skin is clean.
Joona looks around the room. Behind the door is a small shelf with two hooks. On the floor beneath the shelf is a pair of sports shoes with white socks balled inside. A faded pair of jeans, a black sweatshirt, and a denim jacket hang from one of the hooks. On the shelf, there’s a small white bra.
Joona does not touch the clothes. They do not appear to be bloody. She had most likely undressed and hung up her clothes before she was killed.
But why is her body so clean? Something must have protected her. But what? There’s nothing else in the room.
16
Joona walks back outside into the sunshine. He’s puzzled. Such terrible violence was done to this young girl, but her body was left as pure as a sea-washed stone.
Gunnarsson had warned him that the level of violence was intense, and it was certainly forceful, extremely so, but not aggressive in the sense that her killer lost control. The blows were purposeful and were meant to kill, but in all other respects her body was treated with care.
Gunnarsson is sitting on the hood of his Mercedes, talking on his cell phone.
Unlike almost everything else, a murder investigation does not descend into chaos if left to itself. In most cases, a solution makes itself known eventually. But Joona has never expected a case to solve itself or trusted that order will eventually prevail.
He does know that the killer almost always knows the victim. Often the murderer will turn himself in to the police and confess a short time later. Joona never counts on this, either.
She’s lying on the bed now, he thinks. But the only clothes she was wearing when she died were her panties. None of this could have happened in complete silence. In a place like this there has to be a witness. One of the girls has heard or seen something. Someone must have guessed that something was about to happen, that there was a threat, or was aware of a conflict.
Joona walks over to the smaller house. The dog is barking under a tree. It bites the leash attached to the running line and then starts to bark again.
There are two men talking outside the smaller house. One of them has muttonchops and is wearing a dark blue police sweater. He looks about fifty years old. Joona assumes that he is the crime scene coordinator. The other man does not look like a policeman. He’s unshaven and his face looks compassionate and exhausted.
“I’m Joona Linna, here as an observer from the National Police,” Joona says, extending his hand.
“I’m Åke,” says the coordinator.
“My name’s Daniel Grim,” says the man with the tired eyes. “I’m the therapist in charge here. I got here as soon as I knew there was something wrong.”
“Do you have a moment?” Joona asks. “I would like to meet the other girls and it would be best if you came along.”
“Right now?”
“If you can spare the time.”
Daniel blinks behind his glasses and says, “It’s just that two of the girls have taken off into the forest.”
“They’ve been found,” Joona says.
“Yes, I know, but I have to talk seriously with them first.” He smiles suddenly. “They’re demanding piggyback rides from one of the officers before they’ll come back.”
“Gunnarsson will make sure they get their rides,” Joona says, then continues on his way to the smaller house.
He knows he will have to watch carefully how the girls interact with each other to catch all the undercurrents swirling among them. If someone’s seen something, the others will turn toward her like a compass needle. Joona knows he has no authority to question the girls, but he has to find out if anyone was a witness. He bends down to pass under the low doorframe.
17
The floorboard creaks under his weight as Joona steps into the cramped room. There are three girls there. The youngest is no more than twelve. She has pink skin and copper hair and sits on the floor, leaning against the wall, while she watches television. She is whispering to herself, then she suddenly bangs the back of her head against the wall. A second later, she’s watching the show again.
The other two girls pay no attention to her. They’re lounging together on a brown corduroy sofa and flipping through a fashion magazine.
A psychologist from the district hospital in Sundsvall enters the room behind Joona and sits down on the floor next to the little red-haired girl.
“My name is Lisa,” she says. “What’s your name?”
The girl does not take her eyes off the television. It’s showing a rerun of an episode from Blue Water High. The volume is loud and the cool glow from the screen washes over their faces.
“Have you heard the fairy tale of Thumbelina?” asks Lisa. “I sometimes feel the way she does, as small as a thumb. How do you feel?”
“Like Jack the Ripper,” the girl answers, her eyes on the show.
Joona sits down in an armchair in front of the television. One of the girls on the sofa looks at him with wide eyes, but returns to her magazine with a smile when he greets her. She’s a big girl. She’s bitten her nails to the quick. She wears jeans and a black sweater that has “Razors pain you less than life” written on it. She’s wearing blue eye shadow and there’s a glittering hair band around her neck. The other girl looks older and is wearing a cutoff T-shirt with a picture of a horse, a choker with white beads around her neck, and is using a rolled-up military jacket as a pillow. There are injection scars on the insides of her elbows.
The older one says, “Indie? Did you get a look before the cops got here?”
“I don’t want nightmares,” the hefty girl says lazily.
“Poor little Indie,” the older one teases.
“And?”
“Afraid of nightmares!”
“So what?”
“You’re such an egomaniac.”
“Shut up, Caroline!” yells the little red-haired girl.
“Miranda’s been murdered,” Caroline says, “and all you care about is your nightmares.”
“Oh, shit on Miranda. Thank God I don’t have to deal with her anymore,” Indie says.
“You’re sick.” Caroline smiles.
“She’s the one who was sick, always burning me with her cigarette butts-”
“Stop your bitching,” the red-haired girl says.
“-and hitting me with the jump rope,” Indie says.
“You’re the real bitch,” says Caroline with a sigh.
“Okay, I’m the bitch, if that makes you feel better,” Indie retorts. “Too bad the idiot is dead, but I for one-”
The little red-haired girl bangs her head against the wall again and then closes her eyes. The front door opens and Gunnarsson escorts the two runaways inside.
18
Joona leans back calmly in the chair. His dark jacket has fallen open. His muscular body is relaxed, but his eyes are as gray as ice as he watches the girls walk in.
Almira enters first, followed by Lu Chu, who sashays in with an exaggerated swing of her hips and makes the V sign with her fingers. The two girls on the sofa laugh and boo.
“You lesbian loser,” Indie yells.
“Let’s go take a shower together,” says Lu Chu.
Daniel Grim comes in behind the girls, pleading with Gunnarsson to listen to him.
“I just want you to take it easy with these girls,” he says. He lowers his voice. “Just your presence scares them.”