figure up by the memorial grove that must be Nathalie Falck. She’s short and muscular, a white vest stretched across her ample, recently developed teenage chest, as she leans on a rake. Plump teenage cheeks, a ring in her nose and short, spiked black hair.
They introduce themselves and Zeke takes off his sunglasses, to build up a rapport, or at least to try to.
‘Good summer job. Must have been hard to get?’
‘Easy. And hot. No one wants to spend all summer pulling out weeds in the bloody cemetery. But I need the money.’
Nathalie Falck kicks her Doc Marten boots in the grass as she says the word money.
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 Tradgardstorget.’
‘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 Skold 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 Sjoman 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 Hogfeldt wrote that first piece they’ve been calling like crazy. I’ve spoken to
‘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
‘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.’
