LITMIR.BIZ

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please. Outside in the car.”

      Joona signals, swings the car round in a U-turn, and makes his way onto Västerbron. All the windows and lights of the city are shining in the night, the sky a grey, misty dome up above.

      He thinks once again about the crime scene investigation. There’s something odd about the pattern that is emerging. Certain elements are simply irreconcilable. While waiting for a light to change, Joona opens the folder on the passenger seat and flips through the photographs from the football pitch. Three showers, with no partitions between them. The reflection of the flash from the camera shines on the white tiles; in one picture he can see the shower scraper and the large pool of blood, water, and dirt, strands of hair, plasters, and a bottle of shower gel.

      Next to the drain in the floor is the father’s arm; the white ball joint is surrounded by ligaments and severed muscle tissue. The hunting knife with its broken point lies on the floor.

      Nils Åhlén found the point with the help of computer tomography; it was embedded in Anders Ek’s pelvic bone.

      The mutilated body is on the floor between the wooden benches and the battered metal lockers. A red tracksuit top hangs on a hook. Blood is everywhere: on the floor, on the doors, the ceiling, the benches.

      Joona drums his fingers on the wheel. A locker room, of all places. The technicians have obtained hundreds of partial and complete fingerprints, thousands of fibres and strands of hair. They are dealing with DNA from hundreds of different people, much of it contaminated, but so far nothing can be linked to Josef Ek.

      Joona asked the forensic technicians to concentrate on looking for blood from Anders Ek on Josef. The large amounts of blood covering his entire body from the other crime scene mean nothing. Everyone in the house was smeared with everyone else’s blood. The fact that Josef had his little sister’s blood on him was no stranger than the fact that she had his blood on her. But if they can find the father’s blood on his son, or traces of Josef in the locker room, then he can be linked to both crime scenes. If they can just link him to the locker room, they can begin proceedings.

      When Josef was initially taken to the hospital in Huddinge, a specialist was instructed by the National Forensic Lab in Linköping (which carries out DNA analysis in Sweden) to ensure that all biological traces on Josef’s body were secured.

      When he reaches Högalid Park, Joona calls Erixon, a very fat man who is the crime-scene investigator responsible for the investigation in Tumba.

      A tired voice answers. “Go away.”

      “Erixon? Still alive?” jokes Joona.

      “I’m asleep,” comes the weary response.

      “Sorry.”

      “No, it’s fine, I’m actually on my way home. If they still recognise me there.”

      “I’ll make it quick. Did you find any trace of Josef in the locker room?” asks Joona.

      “No.”

      “You must have.”

      “No,” replies Erixon. “Really. Not a trace of him.”

      “Have you put any pressure on our friends in Linköping?”

      “I’ve leaned on them with my considerable weight,” he replies.

      “And?”

      “They didn’t find any of the father’s DNA on Josef.”

      “I don’t believe them either,” says Joona. “I mean, he was fucking covered in—”

      “Not a drop,” Erixon interrupts.

      “That can’t be right.”

      “They sounded very pleased with themselves when they told me.”

      “LCN?”

      “No, not even a microdrop. Nothing.”

      “But … we just can’t be that unlucky.”

      “I think you’re going to have to give in on this one,” says Erixon.

      “We’ll see.”

      They end the conversation. Joona thinks that what can seem like a mystery is sometimes simply a matter of coincidence. The perpetrator’s method appears to be identical in both places: the frenzied blows with the knife and the aggressive attempts to chop up the bodies. It is therefore very strange that the father’s blood has not been found on Josef, if he is the attacker. He should have been covered in so much blood he would have attracted attention, thinks Joona, and calls Erixon back.

      “I just thought of something.”

      “In twenty seconds?”

      “Did you examine the women’s locker room?”

      “Nobody had been in there; the door was locked.”

      “Presumably the victim had the keys on him.”

      “But—”

      “Check the drain in the women’s shower,” says Joona.

       28

       thursday, december 10: evening

      After following the road around Tantolunden, Joona turns onto a path and parks in front of an apartment block facing the park. He wonders where the police car is, checks the address, and considers the possibility that Ronny and his partner have knocked on the wrong door. He grimaces. That would explain Sorab’s reluctance to let them in, since in that case his name probably wasn’t Sorab.

      The evening air is chilly, and Joona walks briskly towards the door. If Josef’s account matches with what really happened, he did nothing to hide the crime at the time; did not protect himself. He had no thought for the consequences, he simply allowed himself to become covered in blood.

      Joona thinks it’s possible that under hypnosis Josef Ek was merely describing how he felt, a confused, enraged tumult, while in fact his behaviour at the time was much more controlled. Perhaps he acted methodically, wore a waterproof covering, and showered in the women’s locker room before he went to the house.

      He needs to speak to Daniella Richards, to find out when she thinks Josef will be strong enough to cope with an interview.

      Joona walks in through the door. The lobby walls are tiled in black and white like a chessboard, and he sees his reflection in the black tiles: pale, frosty face, serious expression, blond, tousled hair. He takes out his mobile and calls Ronny again, jabbing at the button for the lift. No reply. Perhaps they gave it one last try, and Sorab let them in. Joona heads up to the sixth floor, waits for a mother with a buggy to take the lift down, then rings Sorab’s doorbell.

      He waits for a while, knocks, waits for a few more seconds, then pushes the letter box open. “Sorab? My name is Joona Linna. I’m a detective. I need to talk to you.”

      He hears a sound from inside, as if someone has been leaning heavily against the door but is now quickly moving away.

      “You’re the only one who knew where Evelyn was.”

      “I haven’t done anything,” says a deep voice from inside the apartment.

      “But you said—”

      “I don’t know anything!” the man yells.

      “All right,” says Joona. “But I want you to open the door, look me in the eye, and say that to me.”

      “Go away.”

      “Open the door.”

      “What the fuck. Can’t you just leave me alone? This has nothing to do with me. I don’t want to get involved.”

      His voice is full of fear. He falls silent, breathing heavily, and slams his hand against something inside.

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