“Well, then, listen to me!”
“You’re not even allowed to send your ex-husband to a crime scene alone,” Joona went on.
“Are you finished?”
After a short silence, Lillemor explained that Erland Björkander had only been dispatched to inform the family; he had decided on his own to enter the house without calling for backup.
Joona apologised. Several times. Then, mainly to be polite, asked what had happened out in Tumba.
Lillemor described the scene Erland Björkander had reported: pools and trails of blood, bloody hand- and footprints, bodies and body parts, knives and cutlery thrown on the kitchen floor. She told him that Anders Ek, whom she assumed had been killed following the attack on his family, was known to Social Services for his gambling addiction. While his official debts had been written off, he still owed money to some serious local criminal types. And now a loan enforcer had murdered him and his family. Lillemor described the condition of Anders Ek. The murderer had started to hack his body to pieces; a hunting knife and a severed arm had been found in the locker room showers. She repeated several times that they were short of staff and the examination of the crime scenes would have to wait.
“I’m coming over there,” said Joona.
“But why?” she said in surprise.
“I want to have a look.”
“Now?”
“If you don’t mind,” he replied.
“Great,” she said, in a way that made him think she meant it.
6
monday, december 7: evening
Fourteen minutes later, Joona Linna pulled up at the Rödstuhage sports centre, parking a few yards from a Volkswagen bus with the logo JOHANSSON’S CARE HOME emblazoned on the side. It was dark out, and snowflakes whirled around in the biting wind. The police had already cordoned off the area.
Joona gazed across the deserted football pitch. All of a sudden, an eerie noise—vibrating, humming—started up. Off to his left, Joona could hear shuffling sounds and quick footsteps. Turning around, he could make out two black silhouettes walking in the high grass beside the fence. The humming escalated—and then abruptly stopped. Spotlights encircling the football pitch exploded with light, flooding the centre, while casting the surrounding area in even more impenetrable winter darkness.
The two figures in the distance were uniformed policemen. One walked quickly, then stopped and vomited. He steadied himself against the fence. His colleague caught up with him and placed a comforting hand on his back, speaking soothingly.
Joona continued on towards the locker room. Flashes of light from cameras burst through the propped-open door, and the forensic technicians had laid out stepping blocks around the entrance so as not to contaminate any prints during their initial crime scene investigation. An older colleague stood guard out front. His eyes were heavy with fatigue, and his voice was subdued. “Don’t go in if you’re afraid of having nightmares.”
“I’m done with dreaming,” Joona replied.
A strong scent of stale sweat, urine, and fresh blood permeated the air. The forensic technicians were taking pictures in the shower, their white flashes bouncing off the tiles, giving the entire locker room a strange pulsating feel.
Blood dripped from above.
Joona clenched his jaw as he studied the badly mauled body on the floor between the wooden benches and the dented lockers. A thin-haired, middle-aged man with greying stubble.
Blood was everywhere—on the floor, the doors, the benches, the ceiling. Joona continued into the shower room and greeted the forensic technicians in a low voice. The glare of the camera flash reflected on the white tiles and caught the blade of a hunting knife on the floor.
A mop with a wooden handle stood against the wall. The rubber blade was surrounded by a large pool of blood, water, and dirt, with wisps of hair, plasters, and a bottle of shower gel.
A severed arm lay by the drain. The bone socket was exposed, lined with ligaments and torn muscle tissue.
Joona remained standing, observing every detail. He registered the blood’s spatter pattern, the angles and shapes of the blood drops.
The severed arm had been thrown against the tiled wall several times before being discarded.
“Detective,” the policeman posted outside the locker room called out. Joona noted his colleague’s anxious expression as he was handed the radio.
“This is Lillemor Blom speaking. How soon can you come to the house?”
“What is it?” Joona asked.
“One of the children. We thought he was dead, but he’s alive.”
7
monday, december 7: evening
Joona Linna’s colleagues at the National Criminal Investigation Department will tell you they admire him, and they do, but they also envy him. And they will tell you they like him, and they do, but they also find him aloof.
As a homicide investigator, his track record is unparalleled in Sweden. His success is due in part to the fact that he completely lacks the capacity to quit. He cannot surrender. It is this trait that is the primary cause of his colleagues’ envy. But what most don’t know is that his unique stubbornness is the result of unbearable personal guilt. Guilt that drives him, and renders him incapable of leaving a case unsolved.
He never speaks about what transpired. And he never forgets what happened.
Joona wasn’t driving particularly fast that day, but it had been raining, and the rays of the emerging sun bounced off puddles as if they were emanating from an underground source. He was on his way; thought he could escape …
Ever since that day, he’s been plagued not only by memories but also by an unusual form of migraine. The only thing that’s proven helpful has been a preventive medicine used for epilepsy, topiramate. Joona’s supposed to take the medicine regularly, but it makes him drowsy, and when he’s on the job and needs to think clearly, he refuses to take it. He’d rather submit to the pain. In truth, he probably considers his punishment just: both the inability to relinquish an unresolved case, and the migraine.
The ambulance, lights blinking, rocketed past him in the opposite direction as he approached the house. Leaving a ghost-like silence, the emergency vehicle disappeared through the sleeping suburb.
Waiting for Joona, Lillemor Blom stood smoking under a streetlamp. In its glow, she looked beautiful in a rugged way. These days, her face was creased with fatigue, and her makeup was invariably sloppy. But Joona had always found her to be wonderful-looking, with her high cheekbones, straight nose, and slanted eyes.
“Joona Linna,” she said, almost cooing his name.
“Will the boy make it?”
“Hard to say. It’s absolutely terrible. I’ve never seen anything like it—and I never want to again.” She let her eyes linger awhile on the glow of her cigarette.
“Have you written up your report?” he asked.
She shook her head and exhaled a stream of smoke.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
“Then I’ll go home and go to bed.”
“That sounds nice,” he said with a smile.
“Join me,” she joked.
Joona shook his head. “I want to go in and look around. Then I have to determine whether the boy can be interrogated.”