The Fire Witness. Ларс Кеплер

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       16

      Joona is walking in the sunshine in the yard, thinking about the extreme level of violence that the girl was subjected to, and the fact that her body was as clean and white as a pebble in the sea.

      Gunnarsson had said that violence inflicted on her had been aggressive.

      Joona is thinking that it clearly required a lot of force, almost desperate force, but it wasn’t aggressive in the sense of being uncontrolled. The blows were focused, the intention was to kill, but apart from that the body had been treated with care.

      Gunnarsson is sitting on the bonnet of his Mercedes talking on his phone.

      Unlike most other things, murder investigations don’t tend to become chaotic if they’re left without direction. They mostly sort themselves out, that’s the usual way of things. But Joona has never waited, has never trusted that order would be restored by itself.

      Of course he knows that the murderer is almost always someone close to the victim, and that they usually make contact with the police shortly afterwards to confess, but he’s not counting on it.

      She’s lying on the bed now, he thinks. But was sitting at the table in just her underpants when she was murdered.

      It’s hard to believe that could have happened in complete silence.

      There must be a witness in a place like this.

      One of the girls has seen or heard something, Joona thinks, as he heads towards the smaller building. Someone probably had an idea of what was coming, identified some sort of threat or conflict.

      The dog is whining under the tree, then bites at the leash tying it to the line, before starting to bark again.

      Joona walks over to the two men standing talking outside the smaller building. He understands that one of them is the crime-scene coordinator, a man in his fifties with a side parting and a dark blue police sweater. The other one doesn’t seem to be a police officer. He’s unshaven, and has friendly, if tired, eyes.

      ‘Joona Linna, observer from National Crime,’ he says, shaking hands with them both.

      ‘Åke,’ the coordinator says.

      ‘My name is Daniel,’ the man with the tired eyes says. ‘I work as a counsellor here at the home … I came as soon as I heard what had happened.’

      ‘Have you got a minute?’ Joona asks. ‘I’d like to meet the girls, and it would probably be a good idea if you were there.’

      ‘Now?’ Daniel asks.

      ‘If that’s OK,’ Joona replies.

      The man blinks behind his glasses and says worriedly: ‘It’s just that two of the residents managed to run off into the forest …’

      ‘They’ve been found,’ Joona explains.

      ‘Yes, I know, but I probably need to talk to them,’ Daniel says, then suddenly gives an involuntary smile. ‘They’re saying they won’t come back unless they’re allowed to ride on one of the police officer’s shoulders.’

      ‘Gunnarsson would probably volunteer,’ Joona replies, and walks on towards the small red cottage.

      He’s thinking that this first meeting will be his chance to try to study the girls, see how they interact, what sort of things are going on under the surface.

      If anyone has seen something, the other members of a group tend to indicate it unconsciously, acting as compass needles.

      Joona knows he doesn’t have the authority to hold interviews, but he needs to know if there’s a witness, he thinks, as he bends down to go through the low door.