‘Another one,’ Karin says as she stands up and looks at Malin, her eyes full of sympathy as well, but also anger.
‘Another one,’ she repeats.
And Malin nods, looks down at the body, its eyes closed, and the scrubbed skin is glassy, almost transparent white, with deep gashes across the chest, neat in spite of the blood, but not the same as the injuries to Theresa or Josefin. The blood that’s poured from the wounds makes the body look oddly peaceful; the contrast between the white skin and the red has that effect.
A smell of bleach is in the air.
‘It almost looks like she’s glowing,’ Malin says. ‘Have you got any thoughts about the wounds? They’re different from before. And there’s more blood.’
‘The wounds?’ Karin says. ‘They’re different. They look like they were made by some sort of claws. A small bird, a guinea pig, maybe a rabbit or a cat. As to why there’s more blood? Maybe the killer didn’t have time to wash her or wait for the wounds to stop bleeding. We are in the middle of the city, after all.’
In Karin’s voice there’s none of the superiority that’s usually there, and it makes her more pleasant, humble.
Rabbit claws.
Are you still finding your way? If you can just get it right, then all this will sort itself out, all your wishes will be fulfilled?
The cages at Lollo Svensson’s farm.
‘It’s like he or she is still trying things out,’ Malin says to Karin. ‘Seeing as the wounds look different each time.’
‘Maybe, Malin. But what do I know?’
In the distance she can hear Daniel Hogfeldt’s voice: ‘Malin, is it the same perpetrator?’
And Karin answers his question, albeit quietly, to Malin.
‘Particles of blue paint in the vagina, the body scrubbed clean, strangled. I can guarantee you that we’re dealing with one and the same perpetrator.’
Malin looks Karin in the eyes. She blinks slowly in response.
‘It could have been one of us, Malin, if we were younger.’
‘What about the lad who found her?’
‘He’s sitting in the Volvo with Zeke over in the car park.’
Patrik Karlsson is sitting terrified in the back seat of the car.
Seems to believe that they’re going to think it was him.
‘We don’t think you had anything to do with this, Patrik. Not for a second.’
The air conditioning in the car is roaring, one of the commonest and most welcome sounds of the summer.
‘We’ve already checked your alibi,’ Zeke says. ‘And we know that you worked together. Right now we’re just wondering if you can tell us anything about her that we ought to know?’
‘I only spoke to her a couple of times.’
His soft teenage cheeks move up and down.
‘She was always busy with the dishes. Used to say she wished she’d taken the job in the cafe at Tinnis instead, where she worked last summer.’
Tinnis.
What wouldn’t I give to go swimming right now?
‘I didn’t really know her. Sure, I thought she was pretty. But like I said, I was on my way to work and just happened to go past on my bike.’
Sofia, Malin thinks.
Just on her way home from work.
Did she just happen to walk past the perpetrator?
‘Do you know where Sofia lived?’
‘In Mjolby. She must have been on her way to catch the train.’
‘Mjolby?’
Malin closes her eyes.
We’re way behind, she thinks.
34
It’s the sort of day when she feels like drinking one, two, three, four beers for lunch, then carrying on drinking all afternoon with the help of a large bottle of tequila. But it never happens, because she never gives in to that sort of impulse. Instead: delayed morning meeting at the station.
An intent Karim Akbar at the head of the table, the whiteboard behind him giving off a dull glow, lit up by the daylight seeping in through the gaps in the lowered, tilted Venetian blinds.
Sven Sjoman is sitting to the left of Karim, bags under his eyes, his bulging stomach tight under a washed-out yellow cotton shirt and Malin knows he’s suffering in the heat, knows it’s much harder for him than other people to get through days like this. She noticed him getting more and more tired during the spring, but didn’t want to ask why, didn’t want to vocalise what was obvious, not wanting to think the thought of what would happen if he went off on sick-leave or if his heart somehow packed up.
Mentor.
You’ve been my mentor, Sven.
His mantra:
Zeke opposite Sven.
Ready to pounce again, his back straight, ready to deal with whatever shit gets thrown at him. Nothing can break me! A hungry look in his eyes, nothing to hide, an unveiled human being.
Their colleagues from Motala and Mjolby are taking part in the group meeting for the first time.
Sundsten. Per.
A younger, child-free version of Johan Jakobsson, slim and sinewy, sitting there with an open face beneath flaxen hair, wearing a crumpled white linen suit. A guileless but watchful look in his eyes, a sharp nose curving slightly towards his thin lips. He looks intelligent, Malin thinks.
Waldemar Ekenberg.
Long and faithful service.
A time-twisted police officer with an infamous weakness for excessive force. Cigarettes have left deep lines in his face and he’s thin, looks older than his fifty years. His hair is a lifeless grey, but the look in his grey-green eyes is still strangely vibrant: We’re going to get this bastard.
Karim begins: ‘Karin Johannison has confirmed that the traces of paint match the other victims. We’ll be getting a more detailed forensic report later today, tomorrow at the latest. So, we’re dealing with the same perpetrator. Or perpetrators.’
‘Well,’ Waldemar Ekenberg says, and his voice is thin and rattling. ‘We can hardly expect to find the perpetrator among her close acquaintances. There don’t seem to be any natural connections between the girls, do there?’
‘Hardly,’ Zeke interjects.
‘I’ve had time to get a good look at the case now,’ Per Sundsten says. ‘It’s like we’re dealing with some sort of shadow. Someone who exists, yet somehow doesn’t.’
Sven nods.
‘What do you think, Malin?’
The expectation that she’s going to say something wise, something that takes them a bit further.
‘There’s a pattern here. I just can’t see it yet. Have Sofia Freden’s parents been told?’
Theresa Eckeved’s mother sinking to the hall floor, screaming.
