LITMIR.BIZ

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they reach the ground floor, Joona helps Erik up and checks his watch. “Eight minutes.”

      They return to the apartment. Simone is standing in the hallway; it’s obvious that she has been crying.

      “He was wearing rubber gloves,” she says. “Yellow rubber gloves.”

      “Are you sure?” asks Erik.

      “Yes.”

      “In that case, there’s no point in looking for fingerprints,” says Joona.

      “What now?” she asks.

      “The police have already carried out door-to-door inquiries,” Erik says gloomily, as Simone brushes dirt and dust off his back.

      Joona takes out a sheet of paper. “Yes, I’ve got a list of the people they’ve spoken to. Needless to say, they concentrated on this floor and the apartments directly below. There are five people they haven’t spoken to yet.”

      He checks the list and sees that the apartment diagonally behind the lift has been crossed out. That was the door he could see via the two mirrors.

      “One apartment has been crossed out,” he says. “The one on the far side of the lift.”

      “They were away,” says Simone. “They still are. They’ve gone to Thailand for six weeks.”

      Joona looks at them, his expression serious. “Time for me to knock on some doors,” he says.

      The nameplate on the door says ROSENLUND. This was the apartment ignored by the officers carrying out door-to-door inquiries, since it was hidden from view and was empty.

      Joona bends down and peers in through the letter box. He can’t see any mail or advertising leaflets on the doormat. Suddenly he hears a faint noise from further inside. A cat comes padding out of one of the rooms and into the hallway. It stops dead and stares at Joona, peering through the slot.

      “Nobody leaves a cat for six weeks,” Joona says slowly to himself.

      The cat is listening, its whole body alert.

      “You don’t look as if you’re starving,” Joona says to the animal.

      The cat gives an enormous yawn, jumps up onto a chair in the hallway, and curls itself into a ball.

      Joona straightens up and glances at the paper in his hand. The apartment directly opposite the lift is occupied by a couple, but when the police called, only Alice Franzén was at home. The first person Joona wants to speak to is her husband.

      Joona rings the doorbell and waits. He remembers being young, going around ringing doorbells with May Day flowers or an occasional charity collection box. The feeling of strangeness at looking into someone else’s home, the expression of distaste in the eyes of those who open the door.

      He rings again. A woman in her thirties answers. She looks at him with a watchful, reserved expression that makes him think of the cat in the empty apartment.

      “Yes?”

      “My name is Joona Linna,” he says, showing her his ID. “I’d like to speak to your husband.”

      She glances over her shoulder. “I’d like to know what it’s about first. He’s actually very busy at the moment.”

      “It’s about the early morning of Saturday, 12^th December.”

      “We’ve already answered all your questions,” the woman says irritably.

      “My colleagues spoke to you but not to your husband.”

      The woman sighs. “I don’t know if he’s got time.”

      Joona smiles. “It’ll only take a minute, I promise.”

      The woman shrugs her shoulders, then yells, “Tobias! It’s the police!”

      After a while a man appears with a towel wound around his hips. His skin looks as if it’s burning; he’s leathery and very tanned. “Hi. I was on the sun bed.”

      “Nice,” says Joona.

      “No, it isn’t,” Tobias Franzén replies. “There’s an enzyme missing from my liver. I have to spend two hours a day on that thing.”

      “That’s quite another matter, of course,” Joona says dryly.

      “You wanted to ask me something.”

      “I want to know if you saw or heard anything unusual in the early morning of Saturday, 12^th December.”

      Tobias scratches his chest. His fingernails leave white marks on his sunburned skin.

      “Let me think, last Friday night. I’m sorry, but I really can’t remember anything in particular.”

      “OK, thank you very much, that’s all,” says Joona, inclining his head.

      Tobias moves to close the door.

      “Correction. One more thing. The Rosenlunds,” he remembers.

      “They’re very nice people.” Tobias smiles. “I haven’t seen them for a while.”

      “No, I understand that they’re away. Do you know if they have a cleaner or anything like that?”

      Tobias shakes his head. He is now shivering and pale beneath his tan.

      “Sorry, I’ve no idea.”

       73

       tuesday, december 15: morning

      Joona moves on to the next name on the list: Jarl Hammar, on the floor below Erik and Simone. A pensioner who wasn’t at home when the police called.

      Jarl Hammar is a thin man who is clearly suffering from Parkinson’s disease. He is neatly dressed in a cardigan, with a handkerchief knotted around his neck.

      “Police?” he repeats in a hoarse, almost inaudible voice as his eyes, cloudy with cataracts, look Joona up and down. “What do the police want with me?”

      “I just want to ask a question,” says Joona. “Did you by any chance see or hear anything unusual in this building or on the street in the early morning of 12^th December?”

      Jarl Hammar tilts his head to one side and closes his eyes. After a brief moment he opens them again and shakes his head. “I’m on medication,” he says. “It makes me sleep very heavily.”

      Joona catches sight of a woman further inside the apartment.

      “And your wife?” he asks. “Could I have a word with her?”

      Jarl Hammar gives a wry smile. “My wife was a wonderful woman. But unfortunately she is no longer with us; she died almost thirty years ago.” He turns and waves a shaky arm at the dark figure behind him. “This is Anabella. She helps me out with the cleaning and so on. Unfortunately she doesn’t speak Swedish, but apart from that she’s beyond reproach.”

      The shadowy figure moves into the light when she hears her name. Anabella looks as if she’s from South America; she is in her twenties, with noticeable pockmarks on her face. Her hair is caught up in a loose black braid, and she is very short.

      “Anabella,” Joona says softly. “Soy comisario de policía, Joona Linna.”

      “Buenos días,” she replies in a lisping voice, looking at him with black eyes.

      “¿Tu limpias más departamentos aquí, en este edificio?”

      She nods, yes, she does clean other apartments in this building.

      “¿Qué otros?” asks Joona.

      “Espera un momento,” says Anabella, thinking for a moment before beginning to count on

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