His office was of the homely type, with curtains draped in the window, gilded frames with photos of grandchildren on his desk and a green woolly rug on the floor. He always paced back and forth on that rug when he talked on the telephone. That was what he was doing when Jana Berzelius entered the department. She said a quick hello to the administrator, Yvonne Jansson.
Yvonne stopped Jana as she walked by.
“Hang on a sec!”
She handed over a yellow Post-it note with a familiar name written on it.
“Mats Nylinder at Norrköpings Tidningar wants a comment on the murder of Hans Juhlén. They’ve evidently found out that you’re in charge of the preliminary investigation. Mats said that you owed him a few words since you sneaked out of court this morning. He had wanted a statement about the judgment and waited more than an hour for you.”
Jana didn’t answer, so Yvonne went on.
“Unfortunately he isn’t the only one who’s rung. This murder has every paper in Sweden interested. They all want something to put in their headlines tomorrow.”
“And I’m not going to give them anything. You’ll have to refer them to the police press officer. There will be no comment from me.”
“Okay, no comment it is.”
“And you can tell Mats Nylinder that too,” said Jana and headed toward her office.The sound of her heels echoed as she entered the room with its parquet floor.
The furnishings were Spartan, but had a touch of elegance. The desk was of teak and so were the functional bookshelves that were filled with bound case files. On the right side of the desk was a silver letter tray with three levels. On the left side there was a laptop, a 17-inch HP. On the windowsill stood two white orchids in high pots.
Jana closed the door behind her and hung her jacket over the back of her leather-upholstered chair. While her computer started up, she studied the flowers in the window. She liked her office. It was spacious and airy. She had chosen to position the desk so that she sat with her back to the window; through the glass wall she then had full view of the corridor outside.
Jana put a tall stack of summonses to be adjudicated next to her computer.
Then she quickly glanced at her watch. Only one and a half hours before the interview with Kerstin Juhlén.
She suddenly felt tired, leaned her head forward and started to rub the back of her neck. Her fingertips slowly massaged the uneven skin there and traced over its bumps. Then she neatened her long hair to make sure it covered the back of her neck and flowed down her back.
After looking through a few of the summonses, she got up to fetch a cup of coffee. When she came back, she left the rest of the paperwork untouched.
THE SMALLISH INTERVIEW room was bare except for a table and four chairs, with a fifth chair in a corner. One wall had a window with bars; on the oppositve wall was a mirror. Jana sat next to Henrik with her pen and notepad in her hand as he started the tape recorder. She let him handle the questioning. Mia Bolander had pulled up the extra chair behind them. Loudly and clearly, Henrik recited Kerstin Juhlén’s full name, then her personal identity number, before going on.
“Monday, the sixteenth of April, 15:30 hours. This interview is being conducted by DCI Henrik Levin who is being assisted by DI Mia Bolander. Also present are Public Prosecutor Jana Berzelius and Solicitor Peter Ramstedt.”
Kerstin Juhlén had been detained as a possible person of interest, but so far had not been charged with any crime. She sat next to Peter Ramstedt, her lawyer, and placed her clasped hands on the table. Her face was pale and she wore no makeup. Her hair was uncombed, her earrings removed.
“Do you know who killed my husband?” Kerstin Juhlén asked in a whisper.
“No, it’s still too early in our investigation to say,” answered Henrik and looked gravely at the woman in front of him.
“You think I’ve done it, don’t you? You think that I was the one who shot him...”
“We don’t think anything.”
“But I didn’t do it! I wasn’t home. It wasn’t me!”
“As I said, we don’t think anything yet, but we must investigate the circumstances surrounding his murder and determine how it all happened. That’s why I want you to tell me about Sunday night when you came home to the house.”
Kerstin took two deep breaths. She unclenched her hands, put them on her lap and straightened up in the chair.
“I came home...from a walk.”
“Did you walk alone, or was somebody with you?”
“I walked by myself, to the beach and back.”
“Tell us more.”
“When I came home, I took my coat off in the hallway as I called out to Hans, because I knew that he ought to be home by then. ”
“What time was it then?”
“About half past seven.”
“Go on.”
“I didn’t get an answer so I assumed that he had been delayed at work. You see, he would always go to the office on Sundays. I went straight to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I saw the pizza box on the kitchen sideboard and realized that Hans was actually home. We usually eat pizza on Sundays. Hans picks it up on his way home. Yes, well... I called out again, but still got no answer. So I went to check if he was in the living room and what he was doing and... I saw him just lying there on the floor. In shock, I called the police.”
“When did you phone?”
“Straightaway...when I found him.”
“What did you do then, after you phoned the police?”
“I went upstairs. The woman on the phone said I should do that. That I mustn’t touch him, so I went upstairs.”
Henrik looked at the woman in front of him. She looked nervous, with a shifting gaze. She fingered the cloth of her light gray pants anxiously.
“I’ve asked you before, but I must ask again. Did you see anybody in the house?”
“No.”
“Nobody outside?”
“I noticed that the front window was opened, so I closed it. In case someone was still lurking about. I was frightened. But no, I’ve already told you. I saw no one.”
“No car on the street?”
“No,” Kerstin answered in a loud voice. She leaned forward and rubbed her Achilles tendon on one foot, as if she were trying to scratch an itch.
“Tell us about your husband,” said Henrik.
“Tell you what?”
“He worked as the head of asylum issues at the Migration Board here in Norrköping, correct?” said Henrik.
“Yes. He was good at his job.”
“Can you elaborate? What was he good at?”
“He worked with all sorts of things. In the department he was in charge...”
Kerstin became silent and lowered her head.
Henrik noted that she swallowed hard, he imagined, to prevent tears from coming.
“We can take a little break if you like,” said Henrik.
“No, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
Kerstin took a deep breath. She looked briefly at her lawyer, who was twirling his pen on the table, and then she started talking again.
“My