The police station in Oskarström consisted of a few small office rooms next to a larger space that could function as a conference room or a base of operations. Gerd couldn’t remember the last time they’d used it for anything other than storage, she said. They had a small kitchen, a bathroom with a shower, and a changing room with lockers Gerd had once scored from an abandoned boxing gym in Sennan. The only thing in the office that had been manufactured on this side of the ’90s was the gun safe. They’d gotten a new one a few years ago.
“Cozy,” said Siri.
“Nope,” said Gerd. “I wouldn’t go that far. But this one here’s my office. You can do whatever you want with the adjoining room. It’s been empty ever since I ended up on my own here.”
Siri’s office was a cubbyhole with plain furniture, and it smelled like someone had forgotten to empty the coffeepot there. She opened a window, then returned to Gerd and searched her notepad for a blank page.
“So, what do you think of your office?”
“Well.” She sat down. “I’m sure I’ll do just fine there with a few plants in the window.”
Gerd laughed. “Okay then. Shall we begin?”
There was a dull buzz in Siri’s fingertips, as though everything she touched had a current of electricity. She had never been part of ahomicide investigation before, and she had only followed a few of them at a distance, since they were—thank God—rare in this county. Maybe that was where all this energy had come from, a first-time experience, the fear of missing some crucial bit of information.
The physical evidence was painfully thin. They had Mikael’s body, of course, and an autopsy was scheduled for the next day. They had the blood on the steering wheel and the footprints in the snow, leading away from the car toward the Erikssons’ place and back again.
Possibly a witness, who, in the best-case scenario, would come forward on their own.
“But if that was going to happen, they would have been in touch by now,” Siri said.
Gerd nodded grimly.
That was all, and it meant that for the time being they had to rely on interviews with people who had known Mikael. And that seemed to be practically everyone. Some interviews had been conducted by Halmstad, the formal home of the investigation, but most had been performed by either Gerd or Siri.
They’d been at it all day, and this was their first chance to review their notes. It was past midnight by the time they were done, and Siri’s hands were shaking from too much caffeine.
She looked at her notepad and read:The Söderströms. Erikssons. Grenbergs, Perssons, Lindells, Bäcks.It was hard to make sense of it, remember who was who. During the day, she had noted:
Karl-Henrik and Lillemor Söderström: large farm. rich by comparison. two sons, Mikael 18 and Filip 16. both boys at party.
Bengt and Inga-Lill Lindell: former blue-collar, trying to get family farm off ground not far from scene. neighbors of Söderströms. one son, Jakob 18, argued with Mikael at party.
Siri had been a little cautious with Jakob Lindell. Instead of visiting him at home she had spoken to him on the phone, an information-gathering interview. If suspicion against him increased, they wouldbring him to the station instead. That was how she had dealt with teenagers in other cases, and it was often a successful tactic. It was easier to lie over the phone, and if they were lying they were in a bad way. But when she spoke with Jakob, he described the party, the argument, and the ensuing scuffle in a simple and straightforward manner. He, too, was distraught to hear about Mikael’s death. He sounded genuine, and Siri had begun to doubt her initial suspicions.
“Yoo-hoo,” said Gerd. “Did you fall asleep?”
“I’m thinking.”
“What about?”
“Do you know them? Sander Eriksson and Killian Persson?”
“It’s more like I know their parents. But sure, I know of them. Two local eighteen-year-olds, one much brighter than the other. Practically joined at the hip since they were little. What about them?”
Siri gazed at her notes.
Erik and Eva Eriksson: blue-collar, live quite a ways from the scene, up on the hill. one son, Sander 18, at the party. scratches on arms. lying
Linda and Sten Persson: poverty, divorced. one child, Killian 18, who lives in a shack on the property. best friends with Sander. serious injury to nose. hiding something.
“I’m pretty sure they haven’t told me the whole story.”
“About what?”
“About what they got up to after the party. Sander Eriksson has scratch marks on his hands and arms. Like he had run through the forest. And those prints we saw in the snow. In the front hall at Sander’s house I saw three pairs of shoes that belonged to him. Athletic shoes—Nikes, I think—sturdy boots, and a pair of Converse. Black ones, as I recall. And in Killian Persson’s cabin, there were a pair of athletic shoes in a much larger size. That would match the print in the snow up there. Killian also has quite the gash over the bridge of his nose, and quite the shiner too. He claims he fell down on his way home, but how do you fall on your nose? The blood on the wheel ofthe Volvo is likely from the driver being injured in the crash. What’s more, the two of them told me identical stories. And then there’s the Volvo. It belongs to Madeleine Grenberg, who reported it stolen. We don’t know exactly when it was taken, but I’d be willing to bet it was around the same time when Eriksson and Persson were in the vicinity.”
“Which was what time?”
