Malin puts her hand on my arm and I look up.
‘Shall we leave? You wanted to go to the hospital afterwards?’
I nod and stuff the last of the Danish pastry into my mouth.
It is Saturday and we are working a half-day – there are no breaks in a murder investigation. But it is also D-Day – the day that the doctors are going to begin withdrawing Nadja’s medication.
But it is not for her sake I am going to the hospital, it is for Afsaneh’s.
I stand up and smooth my pink shirt, the one that is actually ironed.
Maybe that’s a good sign.
Letit appears next to Malin. He looks at me and the lion-yellow silk kerchief sticking out of my jacket pocket catches his gaze.
‘I see,’ he says curtly, as if he just confirmed a suspicion.
Malin smiles and winks at me.
‘Let’s sit in the small conference room,’ she says and disappears down the corridor with light steps.
If one doesn’t see her belly it is difficult to believe she is pregnant, because she moves with the grace of a dancer.
We follow, enter the room and sit down around the white table.
I say that I have spoken to Manuel dos Santos, the prosecutor who is leading the preliminary investigation. The investigation has now been assigned the highest priority and police command has promised us more resources.
‘He wants us to wait before speaking to the media, so mum’s the word if anyone calls you,’ I say. ‘Malin, what have you got?’
Malin leafs through her papers.
‘As you know the DNA analysis confirmed that the dead man is Johannes Ahonen.’
‘I told you so back at forensics,’ Letit grunts.
Malin pauses, blinks a few times and continues:
‘And I have looked up Ahonen’s mobile data and card transactions during the time before his disappearance. The last call from his mobile was outgoing, March 3rd. The call lasted ten minutes and fifteen seconds.’
‘Do we know who he was calling?’ I ask.
Malin nods. ‘Bianca, the girlfriend. I am collating all the numbers he called over the past week. But I can already tell you most of his calls are to his mother, Tuula, followed by Bianca, and some of his friends who we have already been in touch with. But there are a couple of numbers for prepaid phones in there. They might be hard to trace.’
‘And the credit card?’ I ask.
‘Was last used the same day, March 3rd, to shop at a petrol station in Jordbro. The purchase was . . .’
Malin pauses and lets her finger run down the page until she finds the number she is looking for.
‘Forty-three kronor.’
‘A hot dog?’ I suggest.
‘Snus,’ Letit says holding up his own box.
‘Correct,’ Malin says. ‘I checked. And there are no strange purchases or large withdrawals from the account during the last weeks of February or the beginning of March. Everything looks normal. On the surface at least.’
I stretch a bit, massaging my neck with one hand.
‘And what about his circle of close friends?’
Malin nods slowly and stretches a bit so that her belly almost hits the table.
‘I have spoken to three of his friends and to his cousin. They confirmed what the girlfriend told us. Nobody knew of any threat to Ahonen. And only one of them knew that Ahonen had borrowed money. But unfortunately not from whom. All he could say was that Ahonen was very stressed since he couldn’t pay it back, and that he had tried to find yet another person to borrow from so that he could pay off the original debt.’
‘Did he know how much it was?’ I ask.
‘A few hundred grand,’ Malin answers. ‘He couldn’t specify further.’
‘People have been murdered for a lot less,’ Letit states dryly and glances at the whiteboard where a mugshot of Ahonen as a seventeen-year-old has been taped up.
Ahonen looks terrified, as if he knew even then what awaited him.
Other pictures are next to that photo, those of the swollen body, wrapped in a blanket and a chain as well as a map of the portion of the coast, where the place he was found is marked with a red ‘x’.
‘Are there any large deposits to the account?’ I ask.
‘You’re thinking of the loan?’ Malin says. ‘I’ve gone back a year and I can’t find any large transactions. Maybe he got it in cash?’
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Did any of the people you spoke to have any idea of what might have happened to him?’
Malin shakes her head.
‘Really, only one of the friends wanted to speculate, and that was the same guy who knew about the loan. He thought perhaps the person who had lent him money had killed him. If he was killed – we’ll see what the forensic pathologist says.’
‘The good forensic pathologist,’ Letit snorts. ‘I bet my balls she is too good to speculate on the cause of death.’
Malin continues, taking no notice of Letit:
‘He also said that there is a gang of Somali youths who had a bone to pick with Ahonen, but he didn’t seem to think they would have killed him. They’re apparently pretty young, fifteen. I’ve asked the youth unit to look into them.’
‘Good,’ I say. ‘And the fragments of skin under Ahonen’s nails? Anything new from the forensic pathologists at NFC?’
Malin sighs.
‘No. We will have to keep our fingers crossed that they can extract a usable DNA profile. I spoke to our adviser at the National Forensic Centre – who coordinates all our analyses – and she actually seemed hopeful. She said that even though the body had been in the water for a long time it had probably been in deep, cold, low-oxygenated conditions before the gas formation brought it to the surface and it washed ashore. And that increases the likelihood of them getting a profile.’
I consider what Malin has to say and my eyes land on the cinnamon buns on the table. I think of the Danish that is swimming around in my stomach and decide to abstain, because despite my appetite having returned at the same rate as Afsaneh’s renewed hope for life, I have no desire to regain the two stone I have lost over the last month.
‘And what about the other victim?’ I ask.
Malin turns to me.
‘Still unidentified,’ she says. ‘I have spoken to the forensic pathologist. She says she thinks we are dealing with a man between sixteen and eighteen years old. He has probably been in the water for about two weeks. The body was found on June 14th, so that would mean he was dumped somewhere at the turn of May into June. Cause of death has not been determined but the body had injuries similar to Ahonen’s. Mainly we are talking about contusions and fractures on the left side of the body.’
‘High-energy impact?’ Letit asks.
‘Exactly,’ Malin says and gathers her long, dark hair in a loose bun at her neck. ‘And these injuries were also inflicted post-mortem, so we can probably assume that the cases are connected. The technician also confirmed that the chain is identical to the one used to sink Ahonen. And the white fabric he was wrapped in was an ordinary sheet, bought at Ikea. Can likely be found in thousands of Swedish homes.’
‘Have you compared the victim to lists of missing persons?’ I ask.
‘I’m in the process of doing that. There are maybe three possible people. I’ll get back to you on that this afternoon.’
Malin looks at her notes to make sure she hasn’t missed anything.
‘There is one more thing,’ she says. ‘Victim number two had a nail in his right heel.’
‘A nail?’ Letit asks, leaning forward. ‘What kind of nail?’
‘A regular carpenter’s nail,’ Malin says. ‘Two and a quarter inches, or fifty-six millimetres.’
‘Did he step on a nail?’ Letit asks, looking at Malin with fresh, almost benevolent interest.
‘Well, no,’ she says. ‘It was deeply embedded in the calcaneus, the heel bone. Either someone shot him in the foot with a nail gun, or a hammer was used to drive it in.’
She pauses, then continues: ‘And that was not post-mortem,’ she says. ‘Somebody drove a nail into his foot while he was alive.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Letit says, grimacing. ‘Fuck.’
*
I arrive at the hospital at the same time as Afsaneh.
I spot her at a distance as she approaches the entrance. She is wearing a red summer dress and the wind is playing in her long shiny hair as it falls over her shoulders.
When I take her into my arms there is a faint smell of cigarette smoke and the perfume I know that she likes, the one I bought her last Christmas at my favourite department store Le Bon Marché in Paris.
‘Hey, you,’ she says and kisses me on the mouth.
‘Hey, you,’ I answer and hold her long and hard.
Then she takes my hand and we walk to the PICU together on feet lighter than we have known in a long time.
I have spent considerably more time in hospitals than your average Swede, which probably should have cured this phobia.
But it hasn’t.
As soon as I step through the revolving door my pulse quickens and something tightens in my chest. My breathing becomes laboured and the memories wash over me.
But today Aron is far away.
Afsaneh’s laughter and the sun shining in through the large windows keeps him at bay.
Everything looks normal in Nadja’s room, despite the fact that something crucial is about to happen, something that will forever change our lives.
We just don’t know what the outcome will be.
I look at my daughter who is lying still in bed. She looks so desperately small and helpless amidst all the tubes and monitors. The little clamp that measures her oxygen levels is attached to her index finger as usual and I can still see the chipped pink nail polish on the other fingers.
The door opens and the doctor comes in.
It is Angelica again – we know all the intensive care doctors by now.
We chat for a while about the weather before she asks us to sit down in the visitors’ chairs.
‘We have begun decreasing the dosage of the sedative,’ she says. ‘But we have to decrease the other medication slowly.’
Afsaneh nods intently and I can’t help wonder if she really understands the kind of turning point we are facing. If she has seriously considered that Nadja may not wake up at all. That there actually is a risk that our wonderful, spirited daughter could remain a vegetable.
‘It could be days before we know if she will wake up,’ Angelica continues. ‘And it could be weeks or months before we know how well she will recover if she wakes up. But one thing is certain, she will not wake up today. It will take more time.’
‘We know,’ Afsaneh says and smiles. ‘But we can wait.’
She pauses briefly and meets my gaze. Then continues: ‘We have nothing but time.’