happens on Wednesday.
‘We’re dealing with a meticulous killer. He doesn’t make any mistakes, doesn’t get carried away, doesn’t get scared,’ one of the men says.
‘Then he shouldn’t have left a witness alive,’ Saga says.
‘This is all assuming he isn’t just a pimp who thought the Foreign Minister had gone too far this time,’ Janus smiles, blowing his red hair away from his face.
Jeanette and Saga have conducted three more interviews with the witness, but nothing new has emerged. She’s sticking to her story, and there’s nothing to suggest that she’s lying. But they haven’t been able to verify the fact that she’s a prostitute.
No one else in the business knows Sofia, but the investigators have managed to trace Tamara Jensen, who now appears to be the only person who might be able to confirm her story.
Tamara’s number was in Sofia’s mobile phone, and by using three base-stations to trace her phone they’ve managed to identify an exact location: Tamara’s movements are restricted to a small area just southwest of Nyköping.
She isn’t married, and she hasn’t moved to Gothenburg, as Sofia claimed.
She’s still advertising on a website that says it offers an exclusive escort service in the Stockholm area. The photograph shows a woman in her mid-twenties, with lively eyes and shiny hair. Her presentation promises cultured company for social events and trips, nights and weekend packages.
Saga is navigating while Jeanette drives the dark grey BMW. The two women always enjoy each other’s company even though they’re very different in both personality and appearance. Jeanette’s hair is held in place by a silver clasp, and she’s wearing a light grey skirt and white jacket, thick tights and pumps with a low heel.
They’re talking and eating liquorice from a bag in the centre console.
Saga is telling Jeanette how her ex-boyfriend, Stefan, sent her lots of drunken texts from Copenhagen yesterday, wanting her to go to his hotel.
‘Well, why not?’ Jeanette says, helping herself to another piece of liquorice.
Saga laughs, then looks thoughtfully out of the side-window at the industrial buildings flashing past.
‘He’s an idiot, and I can’t believe I’m still sleeping with him,’ she says quietly.
‘Seriously, though,’ Jeanette says, drumming the steering wheel lightly with one hand. ‘Who cares about principles? This is your life, the only one you’ve got, and you’re not seeing anyone else.’
‘Is that your advice as a psychologist?’ Saga smiles.
‘I really believe that,’ she replies, looking at Saga.
It’s late evening by the time they reach Nyköpingsbro, an all-night restaurant situated on a bridge over the highway.
Jeanette drives around the car park until they find Tamara’s old Saab. They block it in with the BMW, then go into the restaurant.
The restaurant is almost empty. Saga and Jeanette walk around the tables anyway, but there’s no sign of Tamara. They pass a deserted ballpit trapped behind a smeared glass screen, next to a green sign with tourist information.
‘OK, let’s go outside,’ Jeanette says in a low voice.
It’s dark in the car park. The air is cold and Saga zips up her leather jacket as they walk past the tables and benches. A few magpies are scrambling around on top of the overflowing dustbins.
Saga and Jeanette walk towards the lorry park as a blue articulated lorry pulls up in front of them. The vehicle’s weight makes the ground shake. It turns and parks wheezily beside the furthest lorry.
There are nineteen lorries parked on this side of the bridge. Beyond them the murky darkness of the forest takes over. The roar of the highway comes in waves, like exhausted surf on a beach.
It’s dark and strangely warm between the vehicles. The smell of diesel mixes with urine and cigarette smoke. The hot metal clicks. Dirty water drips from a mud flap.
Someone tosses a bag of rubbish under a trailer and clambers back up into the cab.
Cigarettes glow in various places in the darkness.
Saga and Jeanette walk around the huge vehicles. The tarmac is covered with oil-stains, empty chewing-tobacco tubs, Burger King wrappers, cigarette butts, and a tatty porn magazine.
Saga crouches down and looks under one of the trailers. She sees people moving around between the lorries further away. One man is peeing against a tyre. They can hear a muted conversation, and somewhere a dog is barking.
One lorry, smeared with dirt, starts up beside them and idles for a while to get the engine warmed up. Its red tail-lights illuminate a pile of empty bottles at the edge of the forest.
Saga crouches down again to look under the rusty vehicle frame, and sees a woman climb out of one of the cabs. Saga’s gaze follows her thin legs as she totters away on platform boots.
Saga and Jeanette hurry towards the woman in high heels just as the articulated lorry rumbles out from the lorry park. It turns heavily on its axis and passes so close that they have to press up against another lorry to avoid getting crushed.
The huge tyres crunch past.
A hot cloud of exhaust fumes in the air and Jeanette coughs quietly.
Some distance away a man calls out, then wolf-whistles.
They walk around the other lorry and catch sight of the woman in platform boots. She’s standing with her hands cupped around a cigarette, the glow of the lighter reflected on her face. It isn’t Tamara. The woman’s eyes are red-rimmed, and she has deep lines running from her nose to the corners of her mouth.
Her thin hair has been bleached, but the roots are completely grey.
She’s wearing a low-cut top and a suede skirt.
The woman is standing next to a Polish lorry and saying something to the men in the cab. She takes a deep drag on the cigarette and suddenly teeters backwards, almost falling between the cab and trailer. Saga and Jeanette hear the men in the lorry explain in English that they aren’t interested in paying for sex. They’re trying to be polite, saying that all they want to do is call their children to say goodnight, then get some sleep.
The woman waves them aside dismissively and moves on. She’s just knocked on the door of another cab when Saga and Jeanette catch up with her.
‘Excuse me, but do you know where Tamara Jensen is?’ Saga asks.
The woman turns stiffly towards them and brushes her hair from her face.
‘Tamara?’ she repeats hoarsely.
‘I owe her some money,’ Jeanette says.
‘I can give it to her for you,’ the woman says, unable to hold back a smile.
Saga laughs.
‘Is she here?’
The woman points towards the back of the restaurant.
‘I’ll check,’ Saga says.
Jeanette stays by the lorries and watches Saga walk between the big vehicles, a thin silhouette against the light from the restaurant.
‘Can I ask you something?’ she says, turning back towards the prostitute.
‘Listen, I’ve already found salvation,’ the woman replies automatically, tottering once more.
The engine of the lorry beside them roars into life. It wheezes and then slowly starts to move forward, spreading hot diesel fumes. The back tyre