LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

wonder if you’d like us to call anyone in particular for you? A friend? Relative? Your children?”

      She looked down, her hands trembling, and whispered something in a barely audible voice.

      Henrik couldn’t make out what she was trying to say.

      “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

      Kerstin shut her eyes for a moment, then slowly raised her pained face toward him. She took a deep breath before she answered him.

      * * *

      Downstairs still in the living room, Anneli Lindgren adjusted her glasses. “I think I’ve found something,” she said. She was examining the print of a hand that was beginning to take form on the window frame. Mia went up to her and noted the very clear form of a palm with fingers.

      “There’s another one here,” Anneli pointed out. “They belong to a child.”

      She fetched the camera to document her find. She adjusted the lens of her Canon EOS to the right focus and was taking photos just as Henrik came into the room.

      Anneli nodded to him.

      “Come here,” she said. “We’ve found some fingerprints.”

      “They’re small,” said Anneli and held up the camera in front of her face again, zoomed in and took yet another picture.

      “So they belong to a child?” Mia clarified.

      Henrik looked surprised and leaned close to the window to get a better look. The prints made an orderly pattern. A unique pattern. Clearly from a child-sized hand.

      “Strange,” he mumbled.

      “Why is it strange?” said Mia.

      Henrik looked at her before he answered.

      “The Juhléns don’t have children.”

CHAPTER TWO

      Monday, April 16

      THE TRIAL WAS OVER, and Prosecutor Jana Berzelius was satisfied with the result. She had been absolutely certain that the defendant would be found guilty of causing grievous bodily harm.

      He had kicked his own sister senseless in front of her four-year-old child and then left her to die in her apartment. No doubt it was an honor crime. Even so, the defendant’s solicitor, Peter Ramstedt, looked rather surprised when the verdict was announced.

      Jana nodded to him before she left the courtroom. She didn’t want to discuss the judgment with anybody, especially not with the dozen or so journalists who stood and waited outside the court with their cameras and cell phones. Instead, she made her way toward the emergency exit and pushed the white fire door open. Then she quickly ran down the steps as the clock read 11:35.

      Avoiding journalists had become more of a rule than an exception for Jana Berzelius. Three years earlier, when she started in the prosecutor’s office in Norrköping, it was different. Then she had appreciated the coverage and praise the media gave her. Norrköpings Tidningar had, for example, titled a story about her Top Student has a Place in Court. They used phrases like comet career and next stop Prosecutor-General when they wrote about her. Her cell phone vibrated in the pocket of her jacket, and she stopped in front of the entrance to the garage to look at the display before answering. At the same time, she pushed open the door into the heated garage.

      “Hello, Father,” she said directly.

      “Well, how did it go?”

      “Two years’ prison and ninety in damages.”

      “Are you satisfied with that?”

      It would never occur to Karl Berzelius to congratulate his daughter on a successful court case. Jana was accustomed to his taciturnity. Even her mother, Margaretha, who was warm and loving during her childhood, seemed to prefer to clean the house rather than play games with her. She’d put in a laundry rather than read bedtime stories, or clean the kitchen rather than tuck her daughter into bed for the night. Now Jana was thirty and she treated both her parents with the same unemotional respect with which they had raised her.

      “I am satisfied,” Jana answered emphatically.

      “Your mother wonders if you’re coming home on the first of May? She wants to have a family dinner then.”

      “What time?”

      “Seven.”

      “I’ll come.”

      Jana clicked off the call, unlocked her black BMW X-6 and sat down behind the wheel. She threw her briefcase onto the leather-upholstered passenger seat and put her mobile on her lap.

      Jana’s mother also frequently phoned her daughter after a court case. But never before her husband did. Such was the rule. So when Jana felt her cell vibrate again, she immediately answered as she expertly maneuvered her car out of the tight garage space.

      “Hello, Mother.”

      “Hello, Jana,” said the male voice.

      Jana braked and the car jerked to a halt in the reversing movement. The voice belonged to Chief Public Prosecutor Torsten Granath, her superior. He sounded keen to hear the case results. “Well?”

      Jana was surprised at his evident curiosity and briefly repeated the outcome of the trial.

      “Good. Good. But I’m actually calling about another matter. I want you to assist me on an investigation. A woman has been detained after she called the police to report finding her husband dead. He was the official in charge of migration asylum issues in Norrköping. According to the police, he was shot dead. Murdered. You’ll have a free hand in the investigation.”

      Jana remained silent, so Torsten continued:

      “Gunnar Öhrn and his team are waiting at the police station. What do you say?”

      Jana looked at the dashboard—11:48 a.m. She took a short breath and got her car moving again.

      “I’ll drive straight there.”

      * * *

      Jana Berzelius quickly walked in through the main entrance of the Norrköping police station and took the elevator up to the third floor. The sound of her heels echoed in the wide corridor. She looked straight ahead and gave only a brief nod to the two uniformed policemen that she passed.

      The head of the CID, Gunnar Öhrn, waited for her outside his office and showed her to the conference room. One long wall was dominated by windows which overlooked the Norrtull roundabout, where the lunch traffic had already become noticeable. On the opposite wall a whiteboard of considerable size was mounted, along with a film screen. A projector hung from the ceiling.

      Jana went up to the oval table where the team sat waiting. First she exchanged greetings with DCI Henrik Levin, then she nodded to the technician Ola Söderström, Anneli Lindgren and Mia Bolander before sitting down.

      “Chief Public Prosecutor Torsten Granath has just put Jana Berzelius in charge of the preliminary investigation of the Hans Juhlén case.”

      “Right.”

      Mia Bolander clenched her teeth, crossed her arms and leaned back. She distrusted the woman she considered her rival, who was about the same age as she. The investigation would be arduous with Jana Berzelius at the helm.

      The few times Mia Bolander had been forced to work with Jana Berzelius had not made her feel friendly toward the prosecutor. Mia felt Jana just had no personality. She was too stiff, too formal. She never seemed to relax and enjoy herself. If you are colleagues, you ought to get to know one another more. Perhaps share a beer or two after work and just chat a bit. Be social. But Mia had relatively quickly learned that Jana was a person who didn’t appreciate such friendly moments. Any question, no matter how small, about her private life was answered with just an arrogant look.

      Mia

Скачать книгу