Marked for Life (11 page)

Juhlén was under pressure, Ola thought, and he moved ahead with the cookie folder. Four sites turned up about ships, and another one was about transport containers. Then he came upon a long list of sites with pornographic content, mainly featuring dark-skinned women.

Ola straightened his back and let the computer work its way through these hidden folders and files. “Statistics 2012” said one of them. Ola opened that and checked a comparative diagram showing the number of refugees in 2011 and 2012. One table showed the fifteen countries from which most of the refugees came. During the first months of the year, the largest number of residence permits had been granted to people from Somalia. After that came Afghanistan and Syria.

Ola opened a folder with information material and standard forms. He went through reports that dealt with special themes such as Athletics and Migration, the European Refugee Fund, and Labor Immigration. He quickly checked folders with conference material and government instructions for the board's activities, reports and fact sheets, laws and legal information. Three of the folders on the hard drive were unnamed. It was in one of these that he found a key document.

It apparently had been deleted on Sunday at 18:35. He clicked on the file to open it, and the page that appeared was a surprise. It was completely blank except for a few lines with capital letters and numbers.

There were ten lines in all:

VPXO410009

CPCU106130

BXCU820339

TCIU450648

GVTU800041

HELU200020

CCGU205644

DNCU080592

CTXU501102

CXUO241177

Ola Söderström wondered what these letters and numbers were.

He copied the top line and pasted it into the search field, but it didn't match any document. He repeated the procedure with each of the other lines, but met with the same result for all of them. He tried writing just the letters, but that led to similar dead ends. His first guess was that each line was a sort of code. A personal code perhaps. Could it mean something else? Names, perhaps? Were they the first numbers in a personal ID? Year, month and day representing birth date? He dismissed that idea too, and felt stuck.

It was almost midnight by now, but the mystery remained unsolved as he worked through the night.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

THE SWEAT DROPPED
from her brow.

The girl fought as hard as she could.

Right fist forward, duck, left fist forward, kick, kick, kick. The man with the ugly scar pointed at his eyes, his throat and his crotch.

“Eye, throat, crotch!” he shouted.

She shouted after him:

“Eye, throat, crotch!”

Right fist forward, duck, left fist forward, kick, kick, KICK!

“Attack alert!”

The girl froze in her movement. The man disappeared from her field of vision.

No, she thought. Not a surprise attack! She hated them. She had no problem with close combat; she was really good at it. She had good instinct and a well-developed ability to react. Especially with a knife. She knew where to put her weight to get the blade as close to her attacker's throat as possible. It was a question of first getting her challenger off balance and then down onto the ground. It often worked with just a few well-directed kicks to the knees. If that didn't suffice, or if she met with hard opposition, she elbowed or kneed her challenger in the head several times.

Against Danilo, or Hades, as it was carved on his neck, she usually used direct blows and clenched her fist just before her hand reached his throat. When he bent forward from the pain, she would get hold of his head and knee him in his face until he fell down. But he could often outwit her and get her down on the ground first, and there he would sit astride her on her chest with his hands around her throat. Sometimes she would black out, but that was a part of the training. She was meant to be hurt. She had to learn never to give in, not even when it got dark.

She had become physically stronger, and more and more often she escaped from such a position and herself gained the advantage. With a well-directed knee into Hades's back or kidneys, she could get loose. If she then managed to get a kick in his face, she might even win the fight.

The kicks were important in close combat. She had practiced getting the right movement of her hip so as to get more power in her leg. Rotating movements demanded balance and she had practiced with particular attention to finding the center of gravity in every position. She knew that it was a matter of life and death that she master the techniques to perfection, and when she was falling asleep in the evening, she would often rehearse them in her head. Back leg forward, raise knee, rotate, kick.

The endurance exercises weren't so bad either. She had learned to ignore the pain of the cold snow that she had to crawl naked in. Running or doing interval training up a hill wasn't so bad either. What she disliked most was performing the attacks because of the surprise element. She had, of course, trained attack and defense many times before. She had trained standing, sitting and lying down. Even against weapons and against several opponents in the dark, in confined spaces and in stressful situations. But she still couldn't get used to the sudden pounce.

Now she focused her gaze on a point on the wall and listened for the slightest sound. She would probably have to stand there a long time. That was also a part of the training. Once she had been forced to stand at the ready for seven hours before she was attacked. Her arms and legs had been shaking on and off, and she had felt dehydrated. But by then she had turned off all emotions, didn't feel the pain any longer. She was Ker after all. Goddess of Death. The one who never gave up.

Then she suddenly heard the sound of a small stone crunching, as if somebody were creeping up. And she was right. Somebody was approaching her. From behind.

She tensed her muscles and, with an aggressive roar, jerked around. The man with the ugly scar was close, and the girl saw the knife leave his hand at high speed. She watched it, lifted her hand and caught the knife by the handle in a swift movement. She squeezed the handle hard in her hand as she met the man's eye. He crouched, then pounced. Quick as a flash, she shifted her weight and used all her strength to get her heel up and direct a kick at him. It hit the mark perfectly.

The man collapsed onto the floor and she was there in an instant. She put one foot on his chest and leaned over him with the knife against his brow. Her dark eyes burned. Then she raised the knife a little and threw it to the ground. It landed two centimeters from the man's head.

“Good,” he said, and gave her an encouraging look.

She knew that she had to say it.

But she found it hard.

“Thank you, Papa!”

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

Thursday, April 19

HER RUNNING SHOES
drummed against the asphalt. Jana Berzelius veered off toward Järnbrogatan and exchanged the hard surface for the gravel footpath next to the waterway. She had done stretches at home and then had gone out for a refreshing run. She still hadn't really warmed up, and she felt how the chill pierced her black leggings. She was lightly dressed, but after a kilometer she knew she would start sweating.

All winter she had enjoyed jogging and running outdoors. Her will to train had not been dampened by snow, slush and cold winds. She ran the same round in all weather, following Sandgatan to the town park, on to Himmelstalund and then back. She preferred an urban setting to a hilly landscape; she didn't want to have to drive out of town just to be able to run on a special path. It was a waste of time, driving. When she exercised she wanted to get going directly.

And going to a gym wasn't an alternative for her either; no way was she going to join an aerobics group. She liked to be on her own, and so for her running was the optimal exercise.

Bodybuilding didn't require visits to a gym. In her apartment she had her own equipment and always finished her ten-kilometer run with push-ups and sit-ups. And before showering she usually stood in front of her chin-up bar and did lifts. She liked how she had full control of her body when she did that, and counted to twenty before she would sink down to the floor, exhausted.

It was now 06:57, with plenty of time left in the morning. She checked her pulse. When it had come down to normal range, she got up and pulled off her clothes.

She showered for twenty minutes, after which she picked out a matching set of underclothes, then looked in her walk-in closet for a sheer blouse to go with her deep blue pants and jacket.

She fried four slices of bacon and two eggs and ate her breakfast just in time to watch the morning news on TV. After a long report from a foreign correspondent, an item about the dead boy who was found outside Norrköping came on. He was still unidentified despite a comprehensive investigation. The picture of a smiling Hans Juhlén was shown, and the reporter was asking himself whether there was a link between the two victims and added that the answer would probably come at the press conference that the county police authority was holding at nine that morning.

From the weather report she heard that a new storm was on its way across the North Sea. The girl spoke clearly and with a friendly smile when she warned that there would be chaotic snow conditions in central Sweden. So far in April there had already been a record amount of snow, and now more was expected. Jana turned the TV off. She put on some light makeup, brushed her teeth and combed her hair. When she checked herself in the mirror, she was not completely satisfied with what she saw and so put on another layer of mascara. Then she let her jacket hang over her arm as she went to the garage.

Because of the morning mist and the icy roads, it took fifty-five minutes, instead of the normal forty, to drive to the forensics center in Linköping. The traffic was crawling along and Jana had to concentrate to keep on the correct side of the divide. In the vicinity of Norsholm the mist lightened somewhat and when she got to the exit for Linköping North, vision was normal again.

Jana walked toward the main entrance and the office of the medical examiner, Björn Ahlmann. Although there were still fifteen minutes left before their meeting, DCI Henrik Levin and DI Mia Bolander were already sitting in the visitors' armchairs there. Long rows of medical books were perched on the birch shelves on the wall, and in the window hung light green curtains with white swallows on them. The desk was a light birch wood and above it hung a bulletin board with various phone numbers and photos from holiday trips.

When Björn Ahlmann had first studied medicine at Linköping University, he had planned to specialize in neurology, but along the way he had become interested in forensic medicine and he finally chose that field as a specialty. Although the work was mentally demanding and the days were filled with independent work, he felt satisfied. He had a good reputation based on his qualified analyses and informed judgments. He knew that his conclusions had a great influence on the lives of individuals, and that his autopsy results were of crucial importance in any court proceedings. Even though he was by far the most qualified person in the department, he didn't regard himself as the expert he was.

Björn got up from his ergonomically designed office chair and greeted Jana with a firm handshake when she entered the room.

Jana then nodded to the two waiting officers.

“I did as promised,” said Björn. “The report is ready, although we're still waiting for a few analyses of samples. I'd like us to go and look at the body—there's something interesting I want to show you.”

One of the ceiling lights flashed on and off as they stepped out of the elevator into the basement corridor.

On the way down the hall Bjorn chatted with Henrik about his eldest grandchildren, who were ten and thirteen years old, and their various sporting activities, swimming and football. He had proudly told Henrik about how he was going to take them to the weekend competitions in Mjölby and Motala.

Neither Jana nor Mia listened as they were fully occupied with avoiding each other's gaze.

Björn unlocked the fire door and turned on the lights in the sterile room.

Mia as usual stood back to keep her distance from the autopsy table, while Jana and Henrik stood right next to it.

Björn washed his hands thoroughly, put on latex gloves and folded back the white sheet. The naked body only filled about two-thirds of the bench. The boy's eyes were closed, his face white and stiff. His nose was narrow, his eyebrows dark. His head had been shaved and the exit hole in his forehead was visible. Clearly he was shot from behind.

Jana reacted when she saw all the bruises covering his arms and legs.

Henrik too.

“Are those bruises from when he fell? When he was shot?” said Henrik.

Björn shook his head.

“Yes and no. These are,” said Björn and pointed at large dark areas on the boy's outer thigh and hip. “Here there are also wounds on the inside, bleeding at various depths of the muscles.”

Björn pointed at the muscular arms.

“But many of the bruises are from earlier, that is, before he died. He has previously been subjected to brutal violence, especially to his head, his throat and around his genitals. And his legs, I might add. I would say that these have been caused by kicks and blows. Perhaps by a hard object.”

“Such as?” said Henrik.

“A piece of iron tubing, perhaps, or hard shoes. Not easy to say. I'll have to wait and see what the cell-tissue samples can tell us.”

“And regularly, you said?”

“Yes, he has several old scars and some internal bleeding which would indicate that his body had been abused over a lengthy period of time.”

“Assault, thus?”

“Yes, very serious assault, I would say.”

Henrik nodded slowly.

“No sign of any sexual abuse, however, no sign of sperm, no red areas around his anus,” Björn continued. “No sign of a stranglehold either. He died from a shot to the back of his head. The bullet is still being analyzed.”

“Type of weapon used?”

“Not confirmed yet.”

“When will you get the results of the bullet analysis and the tissue samples?”

“Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.”

“The boy's age?”

“Nine or ten years. Hard to be more exact.”

“Okay, anything else?” said Henrik.

Björn cleared his throat and went and stood at the end of the table, next to the boy's head.

“I've found traces in his blood of drugs that depress the central nervous system. So he was under the influence of narcotics. A rather large dose.”

“Which substance?”

“Heroin. He has repeatedly injected, or someone has injected him, through the veins in his arm. Look here.”

Björn showed them the festering skin in the crook of the boy's arm, then twisted the arm and showed a large inflamed area.

“There is a very advanced infection on the underside here. Presumably the deceased missed the vein when injecting so that the solution had ended up in the tissue outside and not in his blood.”

The skin on his arm was red and swollen and there were small wounds everywhere.

“If you press here it feels as if...how shall I explain? It feels like clay and that means the arm is full of pus. This is the sort of infection you can get when you use intramuscular injections, and are not to be played with. I've seen horrific examples where parts of the body have simply rotted through with infection. Large holes straight into the skeletal bone are not unusual, nor is sepsis, blood poisoning. Some veins can be completely smashed from all the injections, especially in the groin. In the worst cases, amputation of an infected limb is the only treatment.”

“So what you are saying is that this nine-or ten-year-old was an addict?” said Henrik.

“Most definitely. Yes.”

“A dealer?”

“That I don't know. I'm not the right person to make that judgment.”

“A runner perhaps?”

“Could be.” Björn shrugged his shoulders. “Now let's see... This is what I wanted to show you.”

Björn turned the boy's head to one side so more of his neck was exposed, then pointed to a specific area.

Jana could see letters carved into his flesh. They were uneven and looked as if they had been cut with a blunt object. Jana saw that they spelled out a name, and the ground began to rock beneath her feet. She gripped the edge of the table with both hands so as not to fall.

“Are you all right?” said Henrik.

“I'm fine,” Jana lied and couldn't take her eyes off the letters.

She read the name again. And again. And again.

Thanatos.

The god of death.