Emelie Schepp - Marked For Revenge

She was, therefore, not interested in a long-term relationship, and had never understood how someone could be with the same person year after year. She had sat in the police department cafeteria and listened to her female colleagues gush about how their male partners were wonderful, insightful, exciting, generous, warm and romantic one day, then bitch the next day about their bad habits and how they left beard hairs on the sink and shit-stained boxers on the bedroom floor for days. She had heard them say that they had met the man they wanted to grow old with, have children with, that he was The One. Mia had never felt that way. She didn’t want just one.

She wanted many.

Preferably.

She looked out the window at the darkness outside. She rubbed her hands across her face and thought about brushing her teeth, but she felt too lazy and instead put her feet up on the table.

Her thoughts wandered to the two-hour morning meeting with the National Crime Squad. She’d had a hard time deciding in the last half hour if she should do something, say something. Anders Wester was an unpleasant man. He had criticized their work and been really hard on Gunnar. She had never seen Gunnar so irritated and tense.

But he had been the only one who had defended them, and the only one from the investigation who had said anything during the meeting. Maybe she should have said something, stood up for herself and her colleagues. But no one else had, either. It wasn’t only her responsibility.

Carin could have been more assertive in the conversation. But she surely didn’t dare, Mia thought. Not having just received a new position—in the new Police Authority, where everything would be changed for the better and everyone would take part and live happily-ever-after. What bullshit!

She lay down on the sofa, crossed her arms over her head and stayed there for a long time before picking up her cell phone.

She knew she shouldn’t. She knew she’d regret it.

Still, she looked for Martin Strömberg’s number.

But just as she raised the phone to her ear, someone called.

She saw from the display that it was Henrik Levin.

“Yes?” she answered.

“You have to get down to the train station. Right now!”

* * *

The X2000 to Stockholm with departure time 10:24 p.m. stood still on Track 1 at Norrköping’s Central Station. It had taken an hour to evacuate all of the travelers and get them on a bus to Nyköping where a regional train had been waiting to take them to their planned destination.

All of the platforms had been roped off, parking lot and building, too.

Henrik Levin stood at the police tape and watched as Mia Bolander parked her wine-red Fiat Punto at the intersection of Norra Promenaden and Vattengränden. He waved when she got out of the car. She pulled her white hat down over her ears and zipped her jacket all the way to her chin to keep out the cold.

“So what happened?” she asked, ducking under the tape.

“A young woman was found dead in a bathroom. Her name is Siriporn Chaiyen, Thai national. We found her purse with her passport and other possessions in it.”

“How old?”

“Eighteen.”

Henrik saw her raise her eyebrows.

“Come on,” he said, showing her the way to the train and the bathroom in Car 5 where Anneli Lindgren crouched down with tweezers in her hand. The small room was illuminated with bright lights.

Henrik and Mia stood in the doorway and studied the dead woman. She was young, with a characteristically Southeast Asian appearance.

“A suicide?” Mia asked.

Anneli looked up.

“No...” she said, getting up from the floor. “At first glance, it looks like an epileptic seizure, like she asphyxiated. But exactly how she died, I’m not sure yet.”

“So what are we doing here?”

“We can eliminate suicide,” said Henrik. “And it’s probably not an epileptic fit.”

“Who found her?”

“A train attendant, Mats Johansson,” Henrik said. “He is unfortunately in shock, but we were able to speak with him for a moment before he was taken to Vrinnevi Hospital. He said that he had been rushed by a crazy woman who had forced him to open the bathroom door. I know what you’re going to ask next—who was that woman?”

“Yes. But what, don’t I get to?”

“Well, you should, but I don’t know the answer.”

Mia gave him a questioning look.

“Why not?”

“She disappeared from the train.”

“And where is she now?”

“No one knows.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

IT SMELLED STRONGLY of bleach in the corridor of the National Laboratory of Forensic Science in Linköping.

Pathologist Björn Ahlmann looked up as Henrik Levin and Mia Bolander walked into the room. Björn stood at his stainless steel autopsy table with a serious look on his face. His eyes flashed a silvery blue.

The fluorescent lights cast their harsh light on the tiled walls, the double troughs and channels for drainage.

Henrik stood a bit from the table and observed the woman lying there. He thought how small and thin she looked. Above her breasts, her sternum was clearly outlined and her ribs stuck out under her smooth skin.

Her complexion was pale and her long black hair lay over her forehead and shoulders. It looked like she was gazing out into the room with a mixed expression of amazement and sorrow.

But there was no gleam in her small, narrow eyes.

“I saw the announcement in the paper. It was tiny, as if death doesn’t interest anyone anymore,” Björn said with a sigh.

“Everyone is probably too preoccupied with their own worries,” Henrik said.

“How did she die?” Mia asked. “Do we know now?”

“You didn’t have to come here to find out.”

Björn passed the autopsy report to Henrik, who glanced expertly through the main points.

“As you see,” he said, “the cause of death is asphyxia, a complete blockage of oxygen to the brain.”

“So she suffocated?” Henrik asked.

“Yes. The result of an overdose,” Björn said. “Heroin. She had fifty capsules in her stomach.”

“Fifty?” Mia asked, whistling.

“Yes, you heard right. Fifty,” Björn said.

“And the capsules?” Henrik asked.

“They’ve been analyzed,” said Björn, pushing his glasses up his nose. He nodded toward the report. “Everything’s in there.”

Henrik contemplated the lifeless body. The nails on her fingers and toes were painted pink. He took a deep breath and felt depressed, as he always did when victims were young.

“Anything else you can give us?”

“No, there’s nothing that sticks out. Besides that she was a teenager, fifteen years old.”

“Fifteen? On her passport it said she was eighteen.”

“I can only say what I know,” said Björn, giving him a serious look. His glasses flashed as he turned toward the body again.

“Christ,” said Mia. “Someone’s using young women to smuggle. That’s just shitty, plain and simple.”

“She wasn’t a young woman,” said Henrik. “She was just a child.”

* * *

It was hard to stretch out her legs enough as she ran up the steps, yet she increased her speed. Running the last bit quickly and easily, she slowed down toward the top, stopping and panting for a moment on the landing.

In her apartment, she did one hundred sit-ups. The back of her neck itched from sweat. Jana Berzelius pushed her hair to the side and stroked her fingers across the inscribed letters.

After a quick shower, she put on a discreet amount of makeup, though she had to do extra touching up in those places where her skin was still discolored. She looked at herself, turning first to the right and then to the left, checking to see if the bruises showed through the layers of makeup. She reluctantly dabbed on a little extra blush and decided that would have to do.