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 Linkoping 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 Sjogripe 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.
Then Ulf Davidsson speaks: ‘Well, we went to bed last night, me and Birgitta, without realising that Josefin hadn’t come home, and then this morning we assumed she was asleep in her room, and we didn’t want to wake her, and neither of us gave a thought to the fact that her bike wasn’t outside . . .’
‘I can’t remember anything,’ Josefin interrupts. ‘The last thing I remember is setting off from home on my bike. I was going to the cinema on my own. The late showing of
Her father: ‘Yes, we live in Lambohov. She usually cycles into town.’
Malin and Zeke look at each other.
At the parents.
Knowing which of them will do what.
‘Could I have a word with the two of you in the corridor while my colleague talks to your daughter?’ Zeke asks.
The parents hesitate.
‘Would that be OK?’ Malin asks. ‘We need to talk to you separately. Do you mind if I talk to you, Josefin?’
‘It’s fine,’ Birgitta Davidsson says. ‘Come on, Ulf,’ she says, heading towards the door after a long glance at her daughter.
Malin sinks onto the bed. Josefin makes room for her, although there is no need. The same girl who was sitting on the bench that morning, on the swing, but somehow not the same.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m OK. The wounds hurt a bit. The doctor gave me some pills, so I can’t really feel it.’
‘And you don’t remember anything?’
‘No, nothing. Apart from leaving home on my bike.’
No bicycle in the Horticultural Society Park, Malin thinks. Where’s the bike got to?
‘Were you going to meet anyone?’
‘No. I remember that, because that was before I set off.’
‘Did you get to the cinema?’
Josefin shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. All that is sort of gone, until I woke up here, when the doctor was starting to examine me. That’s when I realised I was in hospital.’
She doesn’t remember me, Malin thinks. Or the park this morning.
‘Can you try to remember? For my sake?’
The girl closes her eyes.
Frowns.
Then she bursts out laughing.
Opens her eyes, saying: ‘It’s like a blank piece of paper! I can sort of see that someone must have hit me, in theory, but it’s like a big white blank, and that doesn’t feel bad at all.’
She doesn’t want to remember.
Can’t.
An organism protecting itself. Hiding away the images, voices, sounds in a distant corner of its consciousness, inaccessible to what we think of as thought.
But the memories take root there, chafe, hurt, and send out tiny, unnoticed little shockwaves through the body, causing pain, stiffness, doubt and anxiety.
‘You don’t remember how you got these wounds? Or anyone washing you?’
‘No.’
‘And your bicycle, where did you leave it?’
‘No idea.’
