with a temperature of close to freezing. From her flat in Knäppingsborg, Jana had a view of the river and the Louis de Geer Hall. From her living room she could also see the people who visited the quaint shopping area. Knäppingsborg had recently been renovated, but the urban planners on the council had managed to retain the genuine feel of the place.
Jana had always wanted a flat with high ceilings, and when the first plans were approved for renovating the old buildings in the area, her father had put his name down to invest in a housing-association apartment for his then newly graduated daughter. As luck would have it, or thanks to a few phone calls, Karl Berzelius was given the opportunity to choose first. Of course she chose the apartment that was forty square meters larger than the others, with a total floor area of 196 square meters.
Jana massaged her neck. Her scar always became irritated by the cold weather. She had bought a cream at the pharmacy that the pharmacist assistant said was the latest on the market, but she hadn’t noticed any improvement.
Jana draped her long hair over her right shoulder, exposing her neck. With a careful touch, she gently rubbed the cream into the carved letters. Then she covered her neck with her hair again.
She took a dark blue jacket out of her closet and put it on. Over that she buttoned up her beige Armani coat.
At half past eight she left the flat, walked to her car and drove in the smattering rain to the courthouse. She was thinking about the first case of the day, which concerned domestic violence. The proceedings would start at nine. Her fourth criminal case, the last for the day, probably wouldn’t finish until half past five at the earliest.
It would be a long day, she knew that.
* * *
It was just after 9:00 a.m. when Henrik Levin and Mia Bolander entered the Migration Board offices. They checked in at reception and were given a temporary key card.
Lena Wikström, the secretary, was in the middle of a telephone conversation when they stepped into her outer office on the second floor. She held up her finger to signal that she would be with them in a few moments.
From Lena’s office you could see straight into what had been Hans Juhlén’s. Henrik noted that Hans’s office looked tidy. The surface of the wide desk was uncluttered, with just a computer and a pile of folders next to it. Lena Wikström’s space was quite the opposite. Papers were strewn everywhere, on the desk, on top of file folders, underneath ring binders, in trays, on the floor, in the paper-recycling box and in the wastebasket. Nothing appeared organized. Documents lay all around.
Henrik felt a shiver down his spine and wondered how Lena could concentrate in such chaos.
“That’s that.” Lena ended the call and got up. “Welcome.”
She shook hands with Henrik and Mia, asked them to sit down on the worn visitors’ chairs next to her desk and immediately started speaking.
“It’s dreadful what happened. I still can’t understand it. It’s simply terrible. So terrible. Everybody’s wondering who would do such a thing. I’m answering calls about Hans’s murder all the time now. He was murdered, wasn’t he? Usch, yes, it’s simply too terrible, I must say.”
Lena started to pick at her peeling nail polish. It was hard to say how old she was. Henrik guessed fifty-five plus. She had short dark hair and was wearing a light lilac blouse and earrings in a matching color. She almost gave an impression of elegance and affluence. If it hadn’t been for the flaking nail polish, of course.
Mia took out her pen and notepad.
“I understand you’ve worked with Hans Juhlén for many years, is that correct?” she said.
“Yes, more than twenty,” said Lena.
“Kerstin Juhlén said it was almost twenty.”
“Unfortunately she doesn’t really keep track of her husband. No, it’s actually twenty-two. But I haven’t been his assistant all that time. I had another chief first, but he retired many years ago and handed over to Hans. Hans was in charge of the accounts department before this position. We met frequently during that time since I assisted the previous chief.”
“According to Kerstin, Hans was somewhat stressed recently, would you agree as to that?” Henrik said.
“Stressed? No, I would hardly say that.”
“She was referring to the recent criticism that had been directed toward the department.”
“Oh really? Yes, well, that of course. The newspapers wrote that we were bad at accommodating the flow of asylum seekers. But it’s hard to know exactly how many will come. You just have to make an educated guess, a projection. And a projection is only that, after all.”
Lena took a deep breath.
“Three weeks ago we received a large group of asylum seekers from Somalia and that meant work both before and after regular hours. Hans didn’t want to risk more exposure in the local papers. He took the criticism seriously.”
“Did he have any enemies?” said Henrik.
“No, not as far as I know. But you always feel a bit vulnerable in this job. There are a lot of emotions, a lot of people behave threateningly when they’re not allowed to stay on here in Sweden. So if you think of it like that, then there are potentially a lot of enemies. That’s why we have a security firm that always patrols here,” said Lena. ‘But I don’t think Hans felt he had specific enemies.”
“Even evenings and nights?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been threatened?”
“No, not personally. But the Board always has to think about security. Once a man poured gasoline over himself and ran into reception and threatened to set himself on fire if he didn’t get a residence permit. They can be completely mad, those people. Yes, there’s all sorts.”
Henrik leaned back in the chair and glanced at Mia. She moved on to the next question.
“Is it possible to talk to the person from security who was here on Sunday?”
“This past Sunday? When he...”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Lena picked up the phone, punched in a number and waited. Shortly after, the security firm promised to immediately send a Jens Cavenius who had worked all Sunday.
“So do you know if Hans had felt especially threatened in any way?” said Henrik.
“No,” said Lena.
“No strange letters or phone calls?”
“Not that I saw, and I open all the mail... No, I haven’t seen anything.”
“Do you know if he had any contact with a child?”
“No. Not specifically. Why do you ask that?”
Henrik declined to answer.
“When he
