Marked For Life

CHAPTER THREE

THE SEA WAS ROUGH, which meant that the stench got even worse in the confined space. The seven-year-old girl sat in the corner. She pulled at her mama’s skirt and put it over her mouth. She imagined that she was at home in her bed, or rocking in a cradle when the ship rolled in the waves.

The girl breathed in and out with shallow breaths. Every time she exhaled, the cloth would lift above her mouth. Every time she inhaled, it would cover her lips. She tried to breathe harder and harder to keep the cloth off her face. Then one time she blew so hard it flew off and vanished.

She felt for it with her hand. In the dim light she instead caught sight of her toy mirror on the floor. It was pink, with a butterfly on it and a big crack in the glass. She had found it in a bag of rubbish that somebody had thrown onto the street. Now she picked it up and held it in front of her face, pushed away a strand of hair from her forehead and inspected her dark tangled hair, her big eyes and long eyelashes.

Somebody coughed violently in the space, and the girl gave a start. She tried to see who it was, but it was difficult to distinguish people’s faces in the dark.

She wondered when they would arrive, but she didn’t dare ask again. Papa had hushed her when she had asked the last time how long they would have to sit in this stupid iron box. Now Mama coughed too. It was hard to breathe, it really was. A lot of people had to share the little oxygen inside. The girl let her hand wander along the steel wall. Then she felt for the soft cloth from her mama’s skirt and pulled it over her nose.

The floor was hard, and she straightened her back and changed position before continuing to run her hand along the steel wall. She stretched out her index and middle fingers and let them gallop back and forth along the wall and down to the floor. Mama always used to laugh when she did that at home and say that she must have given birth to a horse girl.

At home, in the shed in La Pintana, the girl had built a toy stable under the kitchen table and pretended her doll was a horse. The last three birthdays, she had wished for a real pony of her own. She knew that she wouldn’t get one. She rarely got any presents, even for her birthday. They could hardly afford food even, Papa had told her. Anyway, the girl dreamed of a pony of her own that she could ride to school. It would be fast, just as fast as her fingers that now galloped back up the wall.

Mama didn’t laugh this time. She was probably too tired, the girl thought, and looked up at her mother’s face.

Oh, how much longer would it actually take? Stupid, stupid journey! It wasn’t supposed to be such a long trip. Papa had said when they filled the plastic bags with clothes that they were going on an adventure, a big adventure. They would travel by boat for a while to a new home. And she would make lots of new friends. It would be fun.

Some of her friends were traveling with them. Danilo and Ester. She liked Danilo; he was nice, but not Ester. She could be a little nasty. She would tease, and that sort of thing. There were a couple of other children on the same journey too, but she didn’t know them; she had never even seen them before. They didn’t like all being in a boat. Not the youngest one at any rate, the baby, she was crying all the time. But now she’d gone quiet.

The girl galloped her fingers back and forth again. Then she stretched to one side to reach up even higher, then down even lower. When her fingers reached all the way into the corner, she felt something sticking out. She became curious and screwed her eyes up in the dark to see what it was. A metal plate. She strained forward to try and study the little silver plate that was screwed into the wall. She saw some letters on it and she tried to make out what they said. V... P... Then there was a letter she didn’t recognize.

“Mama?” she whispered. “What letter is this?” She crossed her two fingers to show her.

“X,” her mother whispered back. “An X.”

X, the girl thought, V, P, X, O. And then some numbers. She counted six of them. There were six numbers.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE AUTOPSY ROOM was lit up by strong fluorescent ceiling lights. A shiny steel table stood in the middle of the room and on it, under a white sheet, you could see the contours of a body.

A long row of plastic bottles marked with ID numbers were lined up on another stainless-steel table along with a skull saw. The metallic smell of meat had permeated the room.

Jana Berzelius went in first and stood across the table from the medical examiner, whose name was Björn Ahlmann. She said hello, then pulled out her notepad.

Henrik went over and stood next to Jana, while Mia Bolander stayed back near the exit door. Henrik too would have liked to have stayed at a distance. He had always found it difficult to be in the autopsy room, and he by no means shared Ahlmann’s fascination with dead bodies. He wondered how the pathologist could work with corpses every day and not be affected. Even though it was also part of Henrik’s job, he still found death hard to witness up close. Even after seven years on this job, he had to force himself to keep a composed face when a body was exposed.

Jana, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be bothered at all. Her facial expression revealed nothing, and Henrik found himself wondering if anything at all could get her to react. He knew that knocked-out teeth, poked-out eyes, chopped-off fingers and hands didn’t do it. Nor tongues that had been bitten to bits, or third-degree burns. He knew that because he had witnessed the same things in her presence, and he inevitably had to empty the contents of his stomach afterward, whereas she never seemed disturbed.

Jana’s facial expressions were indeed extremely restrained. She was never harrowed or resolute; she hardly showed any emotions at all. She rarely smiled and should a smile happen to cross her lips, it was more like a line. A strained line.

Henrik didn’t think that her austere personality matched her appearance. Her long dark hair and big brown eyes gave off a warmer vibe. Perhaps she was only projecting her professional side to maintain others’ respect. Certainly her navy blazer, three-quarter-length skirt and ever-present high heels played into her image as a strict, no-nonsense prosecutor. Perhaps she let out her personal feelings outside work... Perhaps not.

Björn Ahlmann carefully folded back the sheet and exposed Hans Juhlén’s naked body.

“Right, let’s see. We have an entry hole here and we have an entry hole here,” said Björn and pointed at two open wounds on the chest. “Both seem to be perfectly placed, but this is the one that killed him.”

Björn moved his hand and indicated the upper hole.

“So there were definitely two shots then?” Henrik commented.

“Exactly.”

Björn picked up an image from a CAT scan and clipped it up on the light box.

“Chronologically, it seems that he first received a bullet in the lower part of his rib cage, and fell down. He fell backward, which resulted in a subdural hemorrhage at the back of his head. You can see it here.”

Björn pointed at a black area on the image. “But he didn’t die, not from the first shot or from the heavy fall. No, my guess is that when Hans Juhlén collapsed, the perpetrator went up close and shot him again. Here.”

He pointed at the second entry hole in Juhlén’s body.

“This shot went right through the cartilage of the rib cage and through the pericardium, the heart. And he died immediately.”

“So he died from bullet number two.” Henrik again repeated the pathologist’s words.

“Yes.”

“Weapon?”

“The cartridges that were found show that he was shot with a Glock.”

“Then it won’t be so easy to trace,” said Henrik.

“Why?” said Jana, at the very same moment that her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She ignored it and asked again, “Why?”

“Because, as I’m sure you are aware, a Glock is a very common weapon. So common it’s used by our army and by police across the world. So I just mean it will take a while to run a check on all those on the list of people holding legitimate licences,” he said.

“Then we’ll have to put that task in the hands of somebody with patience,” Jana answered, and again felt a short vibration in her pocket. The caller must have left a message.

“Any sign that the victim tried to defend himself?” Mia asked from across the room.

“No. No signs of violence. No scratch marks, no bruises or marks from a stranglehold. He was shot. Plain and simple.”

Björn looked up at Henrik and Jana.

“The flow of blood shows that he died on the spot and his body was not moved, but—”

“Yes, Gunnar told us.” Mia interrupted him from across the room.

“Yes, I talked with him this morning. But there are...”

“No fingerprints?” she said.

“No. But...”

“Narcotics then?”

“No, no drugs. No alcohol. But...”

“Broken bones?”

“No. But will you let me finish now?”

Mia became silent.

“Thank you. What does seem interesting is the path of the bullets through the body. One of the entry holes—” Björn pointed at the upper of the two “—is not out of the ordinary. The bullet went horizontally through the body. But the other bullet went diagonally, at an angle. And judging by the angle, the perpetrator must have been kneeling, lying down or sitting up when he or she fired the first shot. Then, as I said earlier, when the man fell down, the shooter went up to him and fired a final shot right through his heart.”

“Execution style, then,” said Mia.

“That’s up to you to judge, but yes, it would seem so.”

“So he was standing up when bullet number one hit him,” said Henrik.

“Yes, and he was shot at an upward angle from the front.”

“So somebody knelt or lay down and then shot up at him from the front? It hardly makes sense,” said Mia. “I mean, it’s really weird that somebody would be sitting on the floor in front of him and then kill him. Wouldn’t he have had time to react?”

“Perhaps he did. Or else he knew the murderer,” said Henrik.

“Or it was a bloody dwarf or something,” said Mia and laughed out loud.

Henrik sighed at her.

“You can discuss that among yourselves. According to my calculations, that, at any rate, is how Hans Juhlén died. My findings are summarized here.” Björn held out copies of the autopsy report. Henrik and Jana each took one.

“He died sometime between 18:00 and 19:00 on Sunday. It’s in the notes.”

Jana thumbed through the report which at first sight seemed to be as comprehensive and detailed as Ahlmann was known to be.

“Thanks for the summary,” she said to Björn as she fished up her phone from her pocket to listen to the voice message.

It was Gunnar Öhrn who had left a single short sentence in a resolute tone. “Interview with Kerstin Juhlén, 15:30,” he’d said, and nothing more. Not even his name.

Jana put the phone back into her pocket.

“Interview at half past three,” she said quietly to Henrik.

“What?” said Mia.

“Interview half past three,” said Henrik loud and clear to Mia who was about to say something when Jana interrupted.

“Well, then,” she said.

The medical examiner adjusted his glasses. “Are you satisfied?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He slowly pulled the sheet back over the naked body. Mia opened the door and backed out to avoid brushing against Jana as she approached the doorway.

“We’ll get back to you with any questions,” said Henrik to Ahlmann as they left the autopsy room.

He strode in the lead toward the elevator.

“Do that,” answered Björn behind them. “You know where I am,” he added, but his voice was drowned out by the drumming noise from the ventilation pipes in the ceiling.

* * *

The Public Prosecution Office in Norrköping consisted of twelve full-time employees with Chief Public Prosecutor Torsten Granath in charge. Fifteen years earlier, when Torsten Granath took over as head of the office, the office went through a radical change. Under his leadership, a policy was instituted of replacing staff members who were no longer pulling their weight with a few new hires who had highly productive track records. He had thanked several longtime employees for their service while at the same time encouraging them to retire, fired lazy administrators and helped underutilized specialists to find new challenges in other areas of their profession.

When Jana Berzelius was hired, Torsten Granath had already trimmed down the organization considerably; only four members were left on staff. That same year, the office was charged with a larger geographical area, and they also had to deal with crimes in the adjacent municipalities of Finspång, Söderköping and Valdemarsvik. The recently increasing trade in narcotics also called for more employees. For those reasons, Torsten Granath had recruited new staff and now they were twelve in all.

As a result of Torsten’s policy, the office could now proudly display its competence. Torsten Granath at sixty-two ironically had slowed down a little himself and now occasionally found his thoughts wandering off to the well-kept greens on the golf courses. But his heart still belonged to his profession. Leading the work here was his mission in life and he would keep on with it until he reached pensionable age.

His office was of the homely type, with curtains draped in the window, gilded frames with photos of grandchildren on his desk and a green woolly rug on the floor. He always paced back and forth on that rug when he talked on the telephone. That was what he was doing when Jana Berzelius entered the department. She said a quick hello to the administrator, Yvonne Jansson.

Yvonne stopped Jana as she walked by.

“Hang on a sec!”

She handed over a yellow Post-it note with a familiar name written on it.

“Mats Nylinder at Norrköpings Tidningar wants a comment on the murder of Hans Juhlén. They’ve evidently found out that you’re in charge of the preliminary investigation. Mats said that you owed him a few words since you sneaked out of court this morning. He had wanted a statement about the judgment and waited more than an hour for you.”

Jana didn’t answer, so Yvonne went on.

“Unfortunately he isn’t the only one who’s rung. This murder has every paper in Sweden interested. They all want something to put in their headlines tomorrow.”

“And I’m not going to give them anything. You’ll have to refer them to the police press officer. There will be no comment from me.”

“Okay, no comment it is.”

“And you can tell Mats Nylinder that too,” said Jana and headed toward her office.The sound of her heels echoed as she entered the room with its parquet floor.

The furnishings were Spartan, but had a touch of elegance. The desk was of teak and so were the functional bookshelves that were filled with bound case files. On the right side of the desk was a silver letter tray with three levels. On the left side there was a laptop, a 17-inch HP. On the windowsill stood two white orchids in high pots.

Jana closed the door behind her and hung her jacket over the back of her leather-upholstered chair. While her computer started up, she studied the flowers in the window. She liked her office. It was spacious and airy. She had chosen to position the desk so that she sat with her back to the window; through the glass wall she then had full view of the corridor outside.

Jana put a tall stack of summonses to be adjudicated next to her computer.

Then she quickly glanced at her watch. Only one and a half hours before the interview with Kerstin Juhlén.

She suddenly felt tired, leaned her head forward and started to rub the back of her neck. Her fingertips slowly massaged the uneven skin there and traced over its bumps. Then she neatened her long hair to make sure it covered the back of her neck and flowed down her back.

After looking through a few of the summonses, she got up to fetch a cup of coffee. When she came back, she left the rest of the paperwork untouched.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE SMALLISH INTERVIEW room was bare except for a table and four chairs, with a fifth chair in a corner. One wall had a window with bars; on the oppositve wall was a mirror. Jana sat next to Henrik with her pen and notepad in her hand as he started the tape recorder. She let him handle the questioning. Mia Bolander had pulled up the extra chair behind them. Loudly and clearly, Henrik recited Kerstin Juhlén’s full name, then her personal identity number, before going on.

“Monday, the sixteenth of April, 15:30 hours. This interview is being conducted by DCI Henrik Levin who is being assisted by DI Mia Bolander. Also present are Public Prosecutor Jana Berzelius and Solicitor Peter Ramstedt.”

Kerstin Juhlén had been detained as a possible person of interest, but so far had not been charged with any crime. She sat next to Peter Ramstedt, her lawyer, and placed her clasped hands on the table. Her face was pale and she wore no makeup. Her hair was uncombed, her earrings removed.

“Do you know who killed my husband?” Kerstin Juhlén asked in a whisper.

“No, it’s still too early in our investigation to say,” answered Henrik and looked gravely at the woman in front of him.

“You think I’ve done it, don’t you? You think that I was the one who shot him...”

“We don’t think anything.”

“But I didn’t do it! I wasn’t home. It wasn’t me!”

“As I said, we don’t think anything yet, but we must investigate the circumstances surrounding his murder and determine how it all happened. That’s why I want you to tell me about Sunday night when you came home to the house.”

Kerstin took two deep breaths. She unclenched her hands, put them on her lap and straightened up in the chair.

“I came home...from a walk.”

“Did you walk alone, or was somebody with you?”

“I walked by myself, to the beach and back.”

“Tell us more.”

“When I came home, I took my coat off in the hallway as I called out to Hans, because I knew that he ought to be home by then. ”

“What time was it then?”

“About half past seven.”

“Go on.”

“I didn’t get an answer so I assumed that he had been delayed at work. You see, he would always go to the office on Sundays. I went straight to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I saw the pizza box on the kitchen sideboard and realized that Hans was actually home. We usually eat pizza on Sundays. Hans picks it up on his way home. Yes, well... I called out again, but still got no answer. So I went to check if he was in the living room and what he was doing and... I saw him just lying there on the floor. In shock, I called the police.”

“When did you phone?”

“Straightaway...when I found him.”

“What did you do then, after you phoned the police?”

“I went upstairs. The woman on the phone said I should do that. That I mustn’t touch him, so I went upstairs.”

Henrik looked at the woman in front of him. She looked nervous, with a shifting gaze. She fingered the cloth of her light gray pants anxiously.

“I’ve asked you before, but I must ask again. Did you see anybody in the house?”

“No.”

“Nobody outside?”

“I noticed that the front window was opened, so I closed it. In case someone was still lurking about. I was frightened. But no, I’ve already told you. I saw no one.”

“No car on the street?”

“No,” Kerstin answered in a loud voice. She leaned forward and rubbed her Achilles tendon on one foot, as if she were trying to scratch an itch.

“Tell us about your husband,” said Henrik.

“Tell you what?”

“He worked as the head of asylum issues at the Migration Board here in Norrköping, correct?” said Henrik.

“Yes. He was good at his job.”

“Can you elaborate? What was he good at?”

“He worked with all sorts of things. In the department he was in charge...”

Kerstin became silent and lowered her head.

Henrik noted that she swallowed hard, he imagined, to prevent tears from coming.

“We can take a little break if you like,” said Henrik.

“No, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Kerstin took a deep breath. She looked briefly at her lawyer, who was twirling his pen on the table, and then she started talking again.

“My husband was indeed the head of a department at the board. He liked his job and had worked his way up, devoted all his life to the Migration Board. He is...was the sort of person people liked. He was kind to everybody regardless of where they came from. He didn’t have any prejudices. He wanted to help people. That was why he liked it there so much.

“The Migration Board has had to put up with a lot of criticism recently,” Kerstin said, then paused before going on.

Henrik nodded. He knew the National Audit Agency had recently examined the Migration Board’s procedures for arranging accommodation for asylum seekers, and they cited it for improper practices. During the last year, the board spent fifty million kronor on buying accommodations. Of that, nine million kronor had been spent on direct agreements, which are forbidden if done without the proper procedures. The Audit Agency had also found illegal contracts with landlords. In many cases no contracts were used at all. The local papers had published several articles about the audit.

“Hans was upset over the criticism. More refugees had been applying than they had anticipated. He had to quickly arrange accommodations for them. And then it went wrong.”

Kerstin became silent. Her lip quivered.

“I felt sorry for him.”

“It sounds as if you are well aware of your husband’s work,” said Henrik.

Kerstin didn’t answer. She wiped a tear from her eye and nodded at the thought.