says as he presses the doorbell beside Behzad Karami’s door.
They ring again and again.
Malin calls Behzad Karami’s mobile number, there’s no landline listed.
There must be a terrible amount of ringing inside the flat.
She was off her face.
Then the voice on the mobile, with just a faint trace of an accent in his Östergötland Swedish even though Karami was already eight years old when he moved here.
‘Do you know what time it is, you bastard?’
‘This is Malin Fors. Police. If you open the front door, the ringing will stop.’
Zeke’s finger on the bell.
‘What?’
‘Open the door. We’re standing outside.’
‘Fuck.’
Over the phone Malin hears a body moving, then there’s rattling behind the door, Zeke’s finger ringing constantly now, and the sound of the doorbell getting louder and louder the more the door opens.
‘Good morning, Behzad. So you’ve gone and messed things up for yourself again, have you?’
Zeke’s voice full of distaste as he lets go of the bell.
Behzad Karami’s face puffy with sleep and possibly alcohol, and who knows what else? Tattooed torso, powerful shoulders, a choker of animal claws and teeth around his neck. Nineteen years old, his big, black, shiny BMW parked closer to the centre.
On the other hand.
After a spell in youth custody he was never found guilty of anything. And we couldn’t get him for the rapes, and maybe his ‘business’ is going well? What do I know? Malin thinks.
‘We’ll come in,’ Zeke says, and before Behzad Karami can protest Zeke has pushed him aside, stepped inside the hall and on into the single room.
Behzad Karami hesitant.
Branded since he sat in jail while they investigated whether or not the gangbang of the paralytic Lovisa Hjelmstedt could be classed as rape or serious sexual assault.
But the case had collapsed.
She agreed to it, and witnesses had seen her dancing with Behzad Karami and Ali Shakbari at the club, seen her leave with them of her own accord, even if she was so drunk by then that she could hardly walk.
‘Not done any cleaning for a while, Behzad?’ Zeke says. ‘But a mummy’s boy like you probably can’t manage that, eh? Keeping things clean?’
Behzad Karami standing in front of Malin in the living room. His back is covered by a showy fire-breathing dragon.
‘I clean whenever the hell I feel like it. It’s none of your business, you pi . . .’
‘Say it,’ Zeke snarls. ‘Make my day. Finish what you were going to say.’
‘Zeke, calm down. Sit down on the bed, Behzad.’
The rough wallpaper is full of scorch-marks and stains, and on the bed is a torn pink sheet. The blinds are pulled down over the view of Berga’s rooftops. A huge flat-screen television is screwed to one wall, and the stereo and speakers take up most of the free floor space. The tiny kitchen is oddly clean, as if it has recently been used and scrubbed very, very thoroughly.
Behzad Karami sinks onto the bed, rubbing his eyes, says: ‘For fuck’s sake, couldn’t you have come a bit later, what the hell do you want?’
‘A girl was raped yesterday. She was found in the Horticultural Society Park,’ Malin says.
‘Don’t suppose you know anything about it?’ Zeke says.
And Behzad Karami looks down at the green lino floor, shakes his head and says: ‘We didn’t rape Lovisa, and I haven’t raped anyone else either. Get it? When the hell are you going to get it?’
His voice.
Suddenly afraid.
Behind the muscles and tattoos he’s just a boy, yet also a man who feels ashamed when people around town whisper behind his back, judged by the public court of a provincial city.
‘That’s him, the one who raped . . .’
‘Bloody animal. That’s what they’re like, those . . .’
‘Where were you the night before last?’
‘I was at my parents’. We’ve got family over from Iran. Check with them. Seven people can tell you I was there until five o’clock in the morning at least.’
‘And after
They ring again and again.
Malin calls Behzad Karami’s mobile number, there’s no landline listed.
There must be a terrible amount of ringing inside the flat.
She was off her face.
Then the voice on the mobile, with just a faint trace of an accent in his Östergötland Swedish even though Karami was already eight years old when he moved here.
‘Do you know what time it is, you bastard?’
‘This is Malin Fors. Police. If you open the front door, the ringing will stop.’
Zeke’s finger on the bell.
‘What?’
‘Open the door. We’re standing outside.’
‘Fuck.’
Over the phone Malin hears a body moving, then there’s rattling behind the door, Zeke’s finger ringing constantly now, and the sound of the doorbell getting louder and louder the more the door opens.
‘Good morning, Behzad. So you’ve gone and messed things up for yourself again, have you?’
Zeke’s voice full of distaste as he lets go of the bell.
Behzad Karami’s face puffy with sleep and possibly alcohol, and who knows what else? Tattooed torso, powerful shoulders, a choker of animal claws and teeth around his neck. Nineteen years old, his big, black, shiny BMW parked closer to the centre.
On the other hand.
After a spell in youth custody he was never found guilty of anything. And we couldn’t get him for the rapes, and maybe his ‘business’ is going well? What do I know? Malin thinks.
‘We’ll come in,’ Zeke says, and before Behzad Karami can protest Zeke has pushed him aside, stepped inside the hall and on into the single room.
Behzad Karami hesitant.
Branded since he sat in jail while they investigated whether or not the gangbang of the paralytic Lovisa Hjelmstedt could be classed as rape or serious sexual assault.
But the case had collapsed.
She agreed to it, and witnesses had seen her dancing with Behzad Karami and Ali Shakbari at the club, seen her leave with them of her own accord, even if she was so drunk by then that she could hardly walk.
‘Not done any cleaning for a while, Behzad?’ Zeke says. ‘But a mummy’s boy like you probably can’t manage that, eh? Keeping things clean?’
Behzad Karami standing in front of Malin in the living room. His back is covered by a showy fire-breathing dragon.
‘I clean whenever the hell I feel like it. It’s none of your business, you pi . . .’
‘Say it,’ Zeke snarls. ‘Make my day. Finish what you were going to say.’
‘Zeke, calm down. Sit down on the bed, Behzad.’
The rough wallpaper is full of scorch-marks and stains, and on the bed is a torn pink sheet. The blinds are pulled down over the view of Berga’s rooftops. A huge flat-screen television is screwed to one wall, and the stereo and speakers take up most of the free floor space. The tiny kitchen is oddly clean, as if it has recently been used and scrubbed very, very thoroughly.
Behzad Karami sinks onto the bed, rubbing his eyes, says: ‘For fuck’s sake, couldn’t you have come a bit later, what the hell do you want?’
‘A girl was raped yesterday. She was found in the Horticultural Society Park,’ Malin says.
‘Don’t suppose you know anything about it?’ Zeke says.
And Behzad Karami looks down at the green lino floor, shakes his head and says: ‘We didn’t rape Lovisa, and I haven’t raped anyone else either. Get it? When the hell are you going to get it?’
His voice.
Suddenly afraid.
Behind the muscles and tattoos he’s just a boy, yet also a man who feels ashamed when people around town whisper behind his back, judged by the public court of a provincial city.
‘That’s him, the one who raped . . .’
‘Bloody animal. That’s what they’re like, those . . .’
‘Where were you the night before last?’
‘I was at my parents’. We’ve got family over from Iran. Check with them. Seven people can tell you I was there until five o’clock in the morning at least.’
‘And after
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