“We’ve already answered all your questions,” the woman says irritably.
“My colleagues spoke to you but not to your husband.”
The woman sighs. “I don’t know if he’s got time.”
Joona smiles. “It’ll only take a minute, I promise.”
The woman shrugs her shoulders, then yells, “Tobias! It’s the police!”
After a while a man appears with a towel wound around his hips. His skin looks as if it’s burning; he’s leathery and very tanned. “Hi. I was on the sun bed.”
“Nice,” says Joona.
“No, it isn’t,” Tobias Franzén replies. “There’s an enzyme missing from my liver. I have to spend two hours a day on that thing.”
“That’s quite another matter, of course,” Joona says dryly.
“You wanted to ask me something.”
“I want to know if you saw or heard anything unusual in the early morning of Saturday, 12th December.”
Tobias scratches his chest. His fingernails leave white marks on his sunburned skin.
“Let me think, last Friday night. I’m sorry, but I really can’t remember anything in particular.”
“OK, thank you very much, that’s all,” says Joona, inclining his head.
Tobias moves to close the door.
“Correction. One more thing. The Rosenlunds,” he remembers.
“They’re very nice people.” Tobias smiles. “I haven’t seen them for a while.”
“No, I understand that they’re away. Do you know if they have a cleaner or anything like that?”
Tobias shakes his head. He is now shivering and pale beneath his tan.
“Sorry, I’ve no idea.”
73
tuesday, december 15: morning
Joona moves on to the next name on the list: Jarl Hammar, on the floor below Erik and Simone. A pensioner who wasn’t at home when the police called.
Jarl Hammar is a thin man who is clearly suffering from Parkinson’s disease. He is neatly dressed in a cardigan, with a handkerchief knotted around his neck.
“Police?” he repeats in a hoarse, almost inaudible voice as his eyes, cloudy with cataracts, look Joona up and down. “What do the police want with me?”
“I just want to ask a question,” says Joona. “Did you by any chance see or hear anything unusual in this building or on the street in the early morning of 12th December?”
Jarl Hammar tilts his head to one side and closes his eyes. After a brief moment he opens them again and shakes his head. “I’m on medication,” he says. “It makes me sleep very heavily.”
Joona catches sight of a woman further inside the apartment.
“And your wife?” he asks. “Could I have a word with her?”
Jarl Hammar gives a wry smile. “My wife was a wonderful woman. But unfortunately she is no longer with us; she died almost thirty years ago.” He turns and waves a shaky arm at the dark figure behind him. “This is Anabella. She helps me out with the cleaning and so on. Unfortunately she doesn’t speak Swedish, but apart from that she’s beyond reproach.”
The shadowy figure moves into the light when she hears her name. Anabella looks as if she’s from South America; she is in her twenties, with noticeable pockmarks on her face. Her hair is caught up in a loose black braid, and she is very short.
“Anabella,” Joona says softly. “Soy comisario de policía, Joona Linna.”
“Buenos días,” she replies in a lisping voice, looking at him with black eyes.
“¿Tu limpias más departamentos aquí, en este edificio?”
She nods, yes, she does clean other apartments in this building.
“¿Qué otros?” asks Joona.
“Espera un momento,” says Anabella, thinking for a moment before beginning to count on her fingertips: “Los pisos de Lagerberg, Franzén, Gerdman, y Rosenlund, y el piso de Johansson también.”
“Rosenlund,” says Joona. “¿Rosenlund es la familia con un gato, no es verdad?”
Anabella smiles and nods. She cleans the apartment where the cat lives. “Y muchas flores,” she adds.
“Lots of flowers,” says Joona, and she nods.
Joona asks in a serious tone whether she noticed anything unusual four nights earlier, when Benjamin disappeared. “¿Notabas alguna cosa especial hace cuatros días? Por la mañana temprano.”
Anabella’s face stiffens. “No,” she says quickly, trying to retreat into Jarl Hammar’s apartment.
“De verdad,” Joona says quickly. “Espero que digas la verdad, Anabella. I expect you to tell me the truth.” He repeats that this is very important, it’s about a child who has disappeared.
Jarl Hammar, who has been listening the whole time, holds up his violently trembling hands and says, in his hoarse, shaky voice, “Be nice to Anabella, she’s a very good girl.”
“She has to tell me what she saw,” Joona explains firmly, turning back to Anabella. “La verdad, por favor.”
Jarl Hammar looks helpless as fat tears begin to fall from Anabella’s dark, shining eyes.
“Perdón,” she whispers. “Perdón, señor.”
“Don’t get upset, Anabella,” says Jarl Hammar. He waves at Joona. “Come in. I can’t have her standing here on the doorstep crying.”
They go inside and sit down at a spotless dining room table; Hammar gets out a tin of Christmas biscuits as Anabella quietly explains that she has nowhere to live, she has been homeless for three months but has managed to hide in storage rooms belonging to the people she cleans for. When the Rosenlunds gave her a key to their apartment so she could look after the plants and feed the cat, she was finally able to sleep safely and take care of her personal hygiene. She repeats over and over again that she isn’t a thief, she hasn’t taken any food, she hasn’t touched anything, she doesn’t sleep in the beds, she sleeps on a rug in the kitchen.
Then Anabella looks at Joona, her expression serious, and tells him that she’s been a very light sleeper ever since she was a little girl responsible for her younger siblings. Early on Saturday morning she woke up when
