videos on YouTube a year or so ago of a teenage girl being raped and abused. It turned out to be her best friends torturing her.
Peter Sköld. Nathalie Falck. Torturers?
‘Nothing on MySpace. I haven’t checked YouTube, but I can do some searches today.’
‘Get onto it,’ Sven says again. ‘Get onto it.’
‘And Peter Sköld and Nathalie Falck haven’t got their own pages either?’
‘No, not as far as I can see,’ Willy Andersson says, getting up, and his thin, beige cotton trousers hang slack around his skinny legs.
Andersson.
Forty years old.
Looks more like fifty.
‘Good work,’ Sven says.
‘It was pretty straightforward,’ Willy Andersson says as he unplugs the computer and puts it under his arm. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he says, and then he’s gone, and only the heat and the sound of the door closing linger in the meeting room.
‘So, you two. What are you up to?’
‘We’re going to see Behzad Karami.’
And a silence descends on the room. A quite specific silence that Malin recognises and likes, the silence in an investigation where the thoughts of the officers coalesce around an idea, a line of inquiry worth following up.
‘Lesbians,’ Sven says. ‘Could there be a lesbian angle to this case? That Lovelygirl on Facebook certainly gave the impression of being homosexual.’
‘And Nathalie Falck is pretty masculine,’ Zeke says, and Malin thinks that he’s being prejudiced, but deep down she agrees. She can feel the suggestions in the room.
‘So, there could be a lesbian angle. Keep it in the back of your minds,’ Sven says.
‘Maybe Nathalie Falck knows who that Lovelygirl is?’ Malin says.
‘OK, time for the gangbangers,’ Zeke says, standing up. His eyes full of expectation.
A code.
We need a damn code for the lock.
It’s just after half past nine. They’re standing in the shade under the porch in front of the door of a run-down block of flats. The once-yellow brick of the façade has faded to ochre, and the surrounding grass and flowerbeds look as if no one cares or is paid enough to look after them. Cigarette ends, cans, broken green bottles.
Malin can see herself in the glass of the door, her face improbably long and her skin somehow glowing.
Berga.
Only a few kilometres from the centre of the city, and just seven hundred metres from Ramshäll.
Another world.
Unemployment.
Immigrants.
And the usual: single mothers trying to raise their children to be decent people, as best they can with underpaid jobs that swallow up ten hours a day.
Absentee fathers are no myth here.
Most of the inhabitants of Berga are probably at home, even though it’s summer.
Two blocks away from where they are now standing Malin found one of her old school friends, dead from a drugs overdose. In a small one-room flat on the first floor, her first year with the Linköping Police, when she moved back with Tove after graduating from the Police Academy.
A smell had been coming from the flat.
The neighbours had reported it.
And she and a colleague had gone around, and he had been lying on the floor beside the bed, the place an absolute tip, and he stank and his body must have swollen up but by the time they arrived it looked almost shrivelled.
Jimmy Svennson with three Ns.
He used to be quite a charmer. Pothead turned junkie turned dead.
What’s the smell now?
Scorched summer.
‘What are we going to do about the door, Malin?’
‘Wait until someone comes.’
‘You mean . . .’
‘I was joking, Zeke. A little morning joke,’ and Malin pulls her key-ring from the inside pocket of her pale-blue jacket, sticks the skeleton key in the lock and twists. ‘This sort of lock’s easy.’
Zeke looks at her admiringly.
‘I have to say, you’re bloody good at that, Fors.’
The stairwell smells of mould, and the lime-green walls are in serious need of a coat of paint.
No lift.
They’re panting by the time they reach the third floor.
‘Bet you he’s asleep,’ Zeke
Peter Sköld. Nathalie Falck. Torturers?
‘Nothing on MySpace. I haven’t checked YouTube, but I can do some searches today.’
‘Get onto it,’ Sven says again. ‘Get onto it.’
‘And Peter Sköld and Nathalie Falck haven’t got their own pages either?’
‘No, not as far as I can see,’ Willy Andersson says, getting up, and his thin, beige cotton trousers hang slack around his skinny legs.
Andersson.
Forty years old.
Looks more like fifty.
‘Good work,’ Sven says.
‘It was pretty straightforward,’ Willy Andersson says as he unplugs the computer and puts it under his arm. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he says, and then he’s gone, and only the heat and the sound of the door closing linger in the meeting room.
‘So, you two. What are you up to?’
‘We’re going to see Behzad Karami.’
And a silence descends on the room. A quite specific silence that Malin recognises and likes, the silence in an investigation where the thoughts of the officers coalesce around an idea, a line of inquiry worth following up.
‘Lesbians,’ Sven says. ‘Could there be a lesbian angle to this case? That Lovelygirl on Facebook certainly gave the impression of being homosexual.’
‘And Nathalie Falck is pretty masculine,’ Zeke says, and Malin thinks that he’s being prejudiced, but deep down she agrees. She can feel the suggestions in the room.
‘So, there could be a lesbian angle. Keep it in the back of your minds,’ Sven says.
‘Maybe Nathalie Falck knows who that Lovelygirl is?’ Malin says.
‘OK, time for the gangbangers,’ Zeke says, standing up. His eyes full of expectation.
A code.
We need a damn code for the lock.
It’s just after half past nine. They’re standing in the shade under the porch in front of the door of a run-down block of flats. The once-yellow brick of the façade has faded to ochre, and the surrounding grass and flowerbeds look as if no one cares or is paid enough to look after them. Cigarette ends, cans, broken green bottles.
Malin can see herself in the glass of the door, her face improbably long and her skin somehow glowing.
Berga.
Only a few kilometres from the centre of the city, and just seven hundred metres from Ramshäll.
Another world.
Unemployment.
Immigrants.
And the usual: single mothers trying to raise their children to be decent people, as best they can with underpaid jobs that swallow up ten hours a day.
Absentee fathers are no myth here.
Most of the inhabitants of Berga are probably at home, even though it’s summer.
Two blocks away from where they are now standing Malin found one of her old school friends, dead from a drugs overdose. In a small one-room flat on the first floor, her first year with the Linköping Police, when she moved back with Tove after graduating from the Police Academy.
A smell had been coming from the flat.
The neighbours had reported it.
And she and a colleague had gone around, and he had been lying on the floor beside the bed, the place an absolute tip, and he stank and his body must have swollen up but by the time they arrived it looked almost shrivelled.
Jimmy Svennson with three Ns.
He used to be quite a charmer. Pothead turned junkie turned dead.
What’s the smell now?
Scorched summer.
‘What are we going to do about the door, Malin?’
‘Wait until someone comes.’
‘You mean . . .’
‘I was joking, Zeke. A little morning joke,’ and Malin pulls her key-ring from the inside pocket of her pale-blue jacket, sticks the skeleton key in the lock and twists. ‘This sort of lock’s easy.’
Zeke looks at her admiringly.
‘I have to say, you’re bloody good at that, Fors.’
The stairwell smells of mould, and the lime-green walls are in serious need of a coat of paint.
No lift.
They’re panting by the time they reach the third floor.
‘Bet you he’s asleep,’ Zeke
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