As soon as they ended the interview with Sonja Krstic they started going through Katja Nyberg’s belongings. That didn’t take long. Täll had done most of the work for them. On the desk he had set out three Polaroids he found in one of the dresser drawers. Three black-and-white pictures of Katja Nyberg. They were slightly reminiscent of the pictures of Stina Hansson, but Nyberg had kept her clothes on.
Fredrik carefully turned them over to see whether there was anything written on the back side, a date perhaps, but the reverse sides were blank. They confiscated the pictures, as well as the correspondence card from St. Petri.
“Do you think she’s run off?” said Fredrik while he put the pictures in an envelope.
“No,” said Sara. “Perhaps she’s gone off somewhere, just to get away for a while, but I don’t think she has fled. I think she believes she has been too smart for us.”
Sara ran her hand over the computer. It looked strikingly expensive compared with the meager furnishings, but that was probably because the computer was her professional instrument.
“I don’t dare start this, then I’ll probably get a scolding from Eva.”
“No, don’t do that.”
“We’ll take it with.”
Sara leaned down and disconnected the power cord.
“Sheesh, it’s really dusty back here.”
She carefully brushed her gloved hands against each other. A dust bunny the size of her little finger fell to the floor.
“Excuse me, may I come in?” Sonja Krstic’s voice was heard from the other side of the closed door.
“Yes, come on in,” said Sara.
She opened the door before Sonja was able to.
“I’ve been thinking about something,” said Sonja, looking doggedly at them.
“Yes?” said Sara.
“If Katja really has done something … Well, you’re not saying anything, but…”
She interrupted herself, then went on.
“I think it feels uncomfortable not knowing. I’ve seen on TV about those murders on Gotland. But it can’t very well be that, can it?”
She fingered a pendant that was hanging around her neck on a thin gold chain, let it run back and forth while she talked.
“I understand that it feels uncomfortable,” said Sara. “But as Fredrik explained, all we can say is that your tenant is suspected of a serious crime.”
Sonja looked back and forth at them.
“But what should I say when she comes back? I think it’s—”
She took a breath and Sara took the opportunity to interrupt her.
“The important thing is that you contact the police here in Malmö. You can say to Katja that you have to go to the store, and then call from your cell phone. All you need to say is that you’ve been asked to make contact when Katja Nyberg comes back to this address. They know the rest.”
“But—”
Sara interrupted her again.
“Do you have a toolbox?”
“Toolbox?” said Sonja Krstic.
“Yes.”
Sonja looked puzzled and slightly irritated. Fredrik was following the conversation, he, too, a bit puzzled before it occurred to him why Sara was asking.
“I have some tools. Do you need something, or what?”
“I just want to look at them.”
Sonja Krstic shook her head slightly and backed out of the room. Sara and Fredrik followed, watched her open a closet door at the other end of the hall.
“They’re somewhere in here at the very bottom. It’s a little messy.”
Sara crouched down in front of the broom closet and looked into the lowest shelf.
“It’s a little hard to see,” she said, leaning down even more.
“I know, it’s a little dark.”
Sara ran her fingers over the bottom of the closet, got up, and held up her hand in the light under the ceiling lamp. Her fingers were covered with dust, dirt, and small white grains.
“Do you usually keep laundry detergent there?”
“Yes. I just ran out, but…”
Sara twisted her hand under the light.
“I know, it’s one big mess,” Sonja Krstic sighed.
It could very well be, Fredrik thought. And the hammer that killed Malin and Axel had in some way come in contact with laundry detergent.
He went to get a bag in the case he had left behind in Katja Nyberg’s rented room. Sara gathered up more of the dust from the bottom of the closet and brushed it down into the bag. She folded it up, marked it, and handed it back. Then she crouched in front of the closet again and searched among the tools.
“Do you have a hammer?” she asked Sonja.
“Yes, of course.”
“I can’t find one.”
“Yes, but wait,” said Sonja Krstic, crouching down beside Sara.
Sonja pulled out a large chisel, a pincer, a staple gun. There was a heavy clatter of metal.
“Strange,” she said. “It’s not here.”