Joona Linna Crime Series Books 1-3: The Hypnotist, The Nightmare, The Fire Witness

“Oh, good,” says police officer Ronny Alfredsson. “We have a problem. We don’t really know what to do.”

“Did you speak to Evelyn’s boyfriend?”

“Sorab Ramadani. That’s the problem.”

“Did you check where he works?”

“It’s not that,” says Ronny. “We located him easy. He’s right here in his apartment, but he won’t open the door. He doesn’t want to talk to us. He keeps shouting at us to clear off, that we’re disturbing the neighbours, and we’re harassing him because he’s a Muslim.”

“What have you said to him?”

“Fuck all, just that we needed his help on a particular matter. We did exactly what you told us to do.”

“Good,” says Joona.

“Is it all right if we force the door?”

“Just leave him alone for the time being. I’ll come over.”

“Should we wait?”

“Yes, please. Outside in the car.”

Joona signals, swings the car round in a U-turn, and makes his way onto Västerbron. All the windows and lights of the city are shining in the night, the sky a grey, misty dome up above.

He thinks once again about the crime scene investigation. There’s something odd about the pattern that is emerging. Certain elements are simply irreconcilable. While waiting for a light to change, Joona opens the folder on the passenger seat and flips through the photographs from the football pitch. Three showers, with no partitions between them. The reflection of the flash from the camera shines on the white tiles; in one picture he can see the shower scraper and the large pool of blood, water, and dirt, strands of hair, plasters, and a bottle of shower gel.

Next to the drain in the floor is the father’s arm; the white ball joint is surrounded by ligaments and severed muscle tissue. The hunting knife with its broken point lies on the floor.

Nils Åhlén found the point with the help of computer tomography; it was embedded in Anders Ek’s pelvic bone.

The mutilated body is on the floor between the wooden benches and the battered metal lockers. A red tracksuit top hangs on a hook. Blood is everywhere: on the floor, on the doors, the ceiling, the benches.

Joona drums his fingers on the wheel. A locker room, of all places. The technicians have obtained hundreds of partial and complete fingerprints, thousands of fibres and strands of hair. They are dealing with DNA from hundreds of different people, much of it contaminated, but so far nothing can be linked to Josef Ek.

Joona asked the forensic technicians to concentrate on looking for blood from Anders Ek on Josef. The large amounts of blood covering his entire body from the other crime scene mean nothing. Everyone in the house was smeared with everyone else’s blood. The fact that Josef had his little sister’s blood on him was no stranger than the fact that she had his blood on her. But if they can find the father’s blood on his son, or traces of Josef in the locker room, then he can be linked to both crime scenes. If they can just link him to the locker room, they can begin proceedings.

When Josef was initially taken to the hospital in Huddinge, a specialist was instructed by the National Forensic Lab in Linköping (which carries out DNA analysis in Sweden) to ensure that all biological traces on Josef’s body were secured.

When he reaches Högalid Park, Joona calls Erixon, a very fat man who is the crime-scene investigator responsible for the investigation in Tumba.

A tired voice answers. “Go away.”

“Erixon? Still alive?” jokes Joona.

“I’m asleep,” comes the weary response.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine, I’m actually on my way home. If they still recognise me there.”

“I’ll make it quick. Did you find any trace of Josef in the locker room?” asks Joona.

“No.”

“You must have.”

“No,” replies Erixon. “Really. Not a trace of him.”

“Have you put any pressure on our friends in Linköping?”

“I’ve leaned on them with my considerable weight,” he replies.

“And?”

“They didn’t find any of the father’s DNA on Josef.”

“I don’t believe them either,” says Joona. “I mean, he was fucking covered in—”

“Not a drop,” Erixon interrupts.

“That can’t be right.”

“They sounded very pleased with themselves when they told me.”

“LCN?”

“No, not even a microdrop. Nothing.”

“But … we just can’t be that unlucky.”

“I think you’re going to have to give in on this one,” says Erixon.

“We’ll see.”

They end the conversation. Joona thinks that what can seem like a mystery is sometimes simply a matter of coincidence. The perpetrator’s method appears to be identical in both places: the frenzied blows with the knife and the aggressive attempts to chop up the bodies. It is therefore very strange that the father’s blood has not been found on Josef, if he is the attacker. He should have been covered in so much blood he would have attracted attention, thinks Joona, and calls Erixon back.

“I just thought of something.”

“In twenty seconds?”

“Did you examine the women’s locker room?”

“Nobody had been in there; the door was locked.”

“Presumably the victim had the keys on him.”

“But—”