I wake up to the tapping from Afsaneh’s laptop.
The blinds are still drawn and the room is dark. The air is stuffy and heavy, like inside a car that’s sat in the sun for too long.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand.
Half past five.
What could be so important that you need to type it up at half past five in the morning?
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, perhaps a bit more aggressively than I had intended.
‘Writing something.’
‘I get that. But why right now? Do you know what time it is?’
‘I can go and sit in the living room instead.’
I grunt and kick the blanket off. My skin is shiny with sweat and the sheets are heavy with moisture.
‘Well, now I’m already awake.’
Afsaneh doesn’t answer, but the tapping intensifies.
I turn on my side, towards her.
She is sitting up with the computer on her lap. On the screen I see a photo of a smiling bald child with a tortoiseshell cat in her arms.
‘What the hell is that?’
Afsaneh’s fingers freeze mid-movement and she turns her face to me. Her eyes are dark and guarded.
‘That is Julia. A six-year-old girl with acute lymphatic leukaemia.’
‘And why are you writing to her?’
Afsaneh sighs deeply and closes the laptop loudly.
‘I’m not writing to her, I am writing to her mother. I met her in a forum for parents of seriously ill children.’
‘So you still hang out in those types of places?’
Afsaneh places her laptop on the floor.
‘Yes, I do. And you know what? Maybe you should too because talking to people in our situation actually helps. People who understand. Who really understand. I don’t know what you do with all the anxiety, where you put it, but I actually have a need to talk about Nadja.’
I don’t answer, because at once I feel so irredeemably less mature than my young wife.
Immature and tactless, and dying for a smoke.
Of course she must be allowed to communicate with these people if that makes her feel better. Nadja still hasn’t woken up, and I assume that anything that can prevent us from losing our minds is worth a try.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
Afsaneh puts her hand against my cheek and strokes it tenderly.
‘Would you mind explaining something?’ I continue. ‘None of that is reality.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asks sounding genuinely surprised – not angry, just astonished, as if she can’t really understand my question.
‘All I am saying is, these are people who you don’t know nor have met and will likely never meet. You message or chat or mail or whatever you do. But they’re not really flesh-and-blood humans.’
Afsaneh shakes her head slowly.
‘I really don’t get your point. That is exactly what they are, flesh-and-blood humans. With children who are as sick as Nadja, at the very least.’
‘But you don’t know them. Not really. You don’t even know if they’re telling the truth.’
‘Why would they lie?’
I shrug.
‘Why would they tell the truth? It’s not really real.’
‘Well, what is real to you?’
The question surprises me and I hesitate before answering. Philosophy has never been my strong suit.
‘Things you can touch,’ I suppose. ‘Flesh-and-blood humans. Objects.’
‘So when you see California wildfires on the news, that’s not real?’
‘Well, it is. But—’
‘What’s the difference?’
Her voice is deceptively soft, but I know she is getting seriously annoyed, because her hand is clenched and there are red blotches on her throat.
‘Yes, but . . . television programmes, the news. There’s some quality control there after all. Some sort of critical assessment. On the internet any idiot can say anything. There is no truth. It is bloody anarchy.’
‘It’s true to me,’ Afsaneh says.
‘It isn’t the real world. It’s the internet. It’s . . . silicone and air.’
‘It’s the new world,’ she continues, calmly but still with her fist clenched. ‘Where everybody is connected. Where there are no limitations, no walls between humans.’
‘It’s ones and zeros,’ I say. ‘Electrical impulses generated by anonymous people whose intentions you don’t know, not some fucking collective consciousness.’
‘Must you always get so angry when there’s something you don’t understand?’
‘OK,’ I mumble. ‘Sorry if I don’t understand. I’m probably too old for that stuff.’
Afsaneh shakes her head. But then she relaxes, draws a deep breath and looks at me with that gaze that I know means I am hopeless, but that for some inexplicable reason she still loves me and that consequently I should be grateful.
‘Yes,’ she says, hesitating, ‘you are probably too old.’
‘A real old codger?’
She smiles but doesn’t say anything.
The tapping intensifies again and I slowly get out of bed and go to shower.
*
Malin is supposed to pick me up a little after eight.
It is already oppressively hot and a thin film of sweat covers my skin. The smell of dusty tarmac and decomposing rubbish from the bin by the bus stop is so strong that I go and stand a bit further away to wait for her.
Malin, who is coming straight from the flat she has borrowed on Lidingö, brakes sharply in front of me and shoots me a smile when I open the front door and squeeze myself into the narrow seat.
‘How are you doing?’ I ask.
‘I’m good,’ she answers, turning right on Banérgatan and continuing down toward Narvavägen.
‘Amélie Carlgren,’ she continues, ‘what do we know about her?’
‘Older sister of victim number two, Victor Carlgren. Twenty-one years old. Studying at the Stockholm School of Economics and lives in a studio apartment on Luntmakargatan.’
‘How can she afford that?’ Malin asks, accelerates, overtakes a cyclist and then makes a right, onto Strandvägen.
In front of us the dock is spread out in the morning sun. Barges, restaurants and ferries to the archipelago lie in a line. People are already in line on Nybrokajen to take the boat out to Grinda or Sandhamn.
‘Her family has money. They probably bought it for her.’
‘Incredible,’ Malin murmurs. ‘Some people have it good.’
She shakes her head and turns toward Norrmalmstorg.
I don’t say what I am thinking, that Amélie Carlgren would probably have gladly given up her expensive city apartment if it would give her back her brother. That money is only important until you actually have it, but sometimes a child has to fall out of the window, or a brother be murdered for you to understand that.
Amélie Carlgren opens her door slightly.
I get a glimpse of long blonde hair and a shiny, make-up-free face.
‘Hi,’ Malin says, flashing her ID. ‘We’re from the police. It was me who called you yesterday.’
The door closes, there’s rustling from a chain and then it opens again, wide this time.
‘Come in,’ Amélie whispers.
She is dressed in grey sweatpants and a white T-shirt with a David Bowie motif. Her outfit and the fact that she isn’t wearing any make-up makes her look much younger than she is.
We take our shoes off and pass the only room, which is furnished with a small sofa, a table and a bed.
‘We will have to sit in the kitchen,’ Amélie says, ‘that’s the only room with enough chairs. Would you like anything to drink?’
Malin shakes her head.
‘I would love a glass of water,’ I say.
The kitchen is spartan and looks out on a large courtyard. Next to the window is a small gate-legged table and three chairs. We sit down while Amélie fetches me some water.
Malin takes out her notepad at the same time as Amélie puts the water on the table and sits down at the short end, across from the window.
‘First of all, I want to offer my condolences for what happened to your brother,’ I say quietly. ‘We will do everything we can to find out exactly what occurred and who is responsible.’
Amélie nods and lowers her gaze.
‘We would like to ask you a few questions,’ I continue.
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Ask away. I’ll do anything to catch whoever killed my brother.’
She blinks a few times.
‘My little brother,’ she adds and then just sits with her eyes glued to the worn tabletop.
‘As I am sure you are aware one of our colleagues has already spoken with your parents,’ I continue. ‘But we would like your thoughts on Victor and his last days too.’
Amélie sobs and stands up suddenly.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It is just all kind of too much.’
She goes over to the kitchen sink, tears off a sheet of paper towel and blows her nose. Then she returns to the table and sits down with her right hand tightly clenched around the paper towel.
‘What was he like?’ Malin asks.
Amélie shakes her head slowly.
‘Ordinary. Kind. Good at school. Wanted to be a lawyer, like Mum.’
‘Did he have any enemies that you know of?’ Malin asks and makes a few notes in her pad.
‘Definitely not. He was just . . . kind of completely innocuous, if you know what I mean. I don’t think there is anyone who dislikes Victor.’
Amélie makes a face and corrects herself.
‘Disliked Victor. Fucking hell. It is impossible to understand that he is gone. He was like my baby.’
She begins to cry again, takes the paper towel out and blows her nose one more time.
Malin looks at her and waits a while before going on:
‘And what was his relationship with your parents like?’
Amélie inhales deeply and collects herself enough to be able to answer.
‘Good. I mean, of course they argued at times. But it was nothing serious.’
‘And that day?’ I ask cautiously.
‘We argued,’ Amélie says quietly. ‘About a fucking Netflix movie that I wanted to see and he didn’t. It is completely insane, but that was how it was. And he left in the boat. Well, Victor could get pretty angry, so it wasn’t the first time he’d left while we were having a fight.’
The room is quiet for a while.
‘If I hadn’t yelled at him he might still be alive,’ she continues, in a quieter voice.
‘What happened wasn’t your fault,’ I say, but Amélie doesn’t answer.
‘Do you have any theories about what might have happened to him?’ Malin asks.
Amélie shakes her head forcefully so that a strand of her long hair catches in the corner of her mouth. She moves it out of the way with her middle finger. The nail is bitten so badly that the red quick is visible.
‘No, he must have encountered a psycho. A fucking crazy person. Because nobody would want to hurt Victor.’
‘OK,’ Malin says and looks at me.
I can guess what she is thinking.
All these next of kin, the most innocent of victims – it is more rule than exception that they are unable to see their loved ones as having been anything but perfect.
Malin cocks her head a little and leans towards Amélie.
‘What a beautiful earring,’ she says.
‘Thank you,’ Amélie says, touching her earlobe with her hand. ‘It’s a ladybird. Victor has, or had one just like it. The earrings were our grandmother’s and I inherited them when she died. So Victor got his ear pierced and my mum went crazy, but I gave him one. It was kind of like a sibling thing. We each had an earring.’
Malin nods and leans even further forward to see better.
The earring is small and indeed looks like a ladybird that seems to be crawling on the earlobe. It appears to feature some type of enamel.
‘Did Victor wear the earring often?’ I ask.
‘Always,’ Amélie answers quickly.
Malin nods, almost imperceptibly at me. We both know Victor wasn’t wearing the earring when he was found.
‘May I take a photo of your earring?’ Malin asks.
Amélie shrugs.
‘Sure.’
Malin brings out her phone and takes a few photos. Then she leans back in her chair and fixes Amélie with her gaze.
‘One last question. Do you know if Victor or any of his friends used narcotics?’
Amélie’s gaze wavers and she turns her head away.
‘I have to ask you to be honest,’ Malin goes on. ‘It’s not our intention to bust young people using recreational drugs, but it may be of importance to the investigation.’
Amélie is still silent. She pokes at a crumb with her finger, pushes it slowly across the surface of the table.
‘Yes,’ she says eventually.
‘What did they take?’ Malin asks.
‘Coke. But only a few times, as far as I know. When they were partying.’
‘Do you know how they got the cocaine?’ I ask.
Amélie shakes her head.
‘No. Or yes. I think one of Victor’s friends bought it from someone named Måns, or maybe Malte. I don’t really remember.’
‘Which one of Victor’s friends?’ asks Malin, who has put her pen down and is completely focused.
Amélie sighs.
‘I don’t know. He never said.’
Malin looks at me. Here face is expressionless but her eyes say it all.
We need to find Malte Lindén.