But the case had collapsed.
She agreed to it, and witnesses had seen her dancing with Behzad Karami and Ali Shakbari at the club, seen her leave with them of her own accord, even if she was so drunk by then that she could hardly walk.
‘Not done any cleaning for a while, Behzad?’ Zeke says. ‘But a mummy’s boy like you probably can’t manage that, eh? Keeping things clean?’
Behzad Karami standing in front of Malin in the living room. His back is covered by a showy fire-breathing dragon.
‘I clean whenever the hell I feel like it. It’s none of your business, you pi . . .’
‘Say it,’ Zeke snarls. ‘Make my day. Finish what you were going to say.’
‘Zeke, calm down. Sit down on the bed, Behzad.’
The rough wallpaper is full of scorch-marks and stains, and on the bed is a torn pink sheet. The blinds are pulled down over the view of Berga’s rooftops. A huge flat-screen television is screwed to one wall, and the stereo and speakers take up most of the free floor space. The tiny kitchen is oddly clean, as if it has recently been used and scrubbed very, very thoroughly.
Behzad Karami sinks onto the bed, rubbing his eyes, says: ‘For fuck’s sake, couldn’t you have come a bit later, what the hell do you want?’
‘A girl was raped yesterday. She was found in the Horticultural Society Park,’ Malin says.
‘Don’t suppose you know anything about it?’ Zeke says.
And Behzad Karami looks down at the green lino floor, shakes his head and says: ‘We didn’t rape Lovisa, and I haven’t raped anyone else either. Get it? When the hell are you going to get it?’
His voice.
Suddenly afraid.
Behind the muscles and tattoos he’s just a boy, yet also a man who feels ashamed when people around town whisper behind his back, judged by the public court of a provincial city.
‘That’s him, the one who raped . . .’
‘Bloody animal. That’s what they’re like, those . . .’
‘Where were you the night before last?’
‘I was at my parents’. We’ve got family over from Iran. Check with them. Seven people can tell you I was there until five o’clock in the morning at least.’
‘And after that?’
‘Then I came back here.’
Josefin who remembers nothing. Was she attacked before or after the cinema? What time?
‘You came straight back here?’
‘I just said so.’
‘Why should we believe you?’ Zeke says, patting Behzad on the head.
‘What about Ali, do you know what he was doing then?’
‘No. No idea. Are you going to fuck about with him as well?’
Malin can see Zeke getting angry, how he’s trying to stop himself hitting Behzad Karami. Instead he says in a loud voice: ‘So you didn’t go down to the Horticultural Society Park after the party? Didn’t hide there waiting for a girl to go past?’
Malin takes a step back, out into the hall. She goes into the little kitchen, a completely different world from the rest of the flat; cupboard doors gleaming white, albeit worn.
She runs her hand over the draining board, smells her hand, lemon-scented detergent. She opens a cupboard, finds an unopened bottle of bleach.
She can hear Zeke roaring in the living room.
Knows that Zeke’s anger can be so terrifying that it forces out truths, admissions of guilt where you least expect them.
‘You’re mad, you fucking pig.’
Zeke’s eyes black as he comes out into the hall and finds her in the kitchen.
‘We’re done here,’ he says. ‘Aren’t we?’
‘Not quite,’ Malin says, and goes back in to Behzad Karami.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily.
‘The kitchen. How come it’s so clean?’
‘Mum did it the day before yesterday.’
‘One last thing: do you know where we can get hold of Ali?’
‘Try his dad’s flower shop on Tanneforsvagen. Interflora. He’s helping out over the summer.’
The car’s air conditioning is straining.
Malin at the wheel.
Zeke singing along loudly to the choral song filling the car.
Sundsvall church choir sings Abba.
Zeke’s voice isn’t as gruff when he sings as when he talks. Malin has learned to put up with the music, partly because she has begun to see the point of singing in a group, but mainly because she can see what the music, and the sense of belonging, does for Zeke, the way he can switch in a matter of minutes from an adrenalin-pumped alpha male to a cheery, tuneful, almost harmonious man.
They’re heading towards Tannefors.
Past the deserted skateboard ramps at Johannelund, the scorched yellow grass of the forgotten little fields between the river and the blocks of flats, then they cross the Braskens bridge. Down to the left the mismatched buildings of the Saab factory huddle in the heat.
Aeronautics industry.
Actually a weapons industry.
But the pride of the city, nonetheless.
Because that’s what Linkoping is like, Malin thinks. Self-conscious, almost arrogant, wanting to be smart and a little bit exceptional, an exquisite little metropolis in the big wide world. A reluctant rural town, a provincial city with delusions of grandeur, but without any real self-awareness or sense of style. Which is why it’s hard to think of a more provincial provincial city than Linkoping.
‘What are you thinking about, Malin?’
‘The city. How it’s actually pretty OK.’
‘Linkoping? Has anyone said otherwise?’
As Zeke’s question hangs in the air Malin’s mobile rings, the call cutting through the car and into their ears.
‘I’m done with the tests, Malin. I’ve analysed what the doctors at the University Hospital found inside Josefin Davidsson.’
Karin Johannison’s voice.
Ice-cold, self-assured in the heat.
‘We’re on our way,’ Malin says. ‘We’ve just got to get something out of the way first.’
13
Most of the drops turn to steam, wiped out before they have time to land on the countless potted plants standing on the shelves beneath the florist’s limp red awning. The noisy whirr of the humidifier bores into Malin’s brain, but fades away when they step into the damp cool of the shop.
The tall, dark man behind the counter immediately assumes a watchful, hesitant posture; he recognises them, Malin’s sure of that.
Malin shows her ID.
The man nods but doesn’t say anything.
‘We’re looking for Ali Shakbari.’
‘What’s he done now?’
