Europa Blues by Arne Dahl

just then, instead of “women”?’
    Jörgen Nilsson stared furiously at her.
    ‘What? For God’s sake, haven’t you got anything better to do?’
    ‘You were planning on saying something other than “women”. You paused like you were swallowing some kind of ill-thought-out word. What was it?’
    From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of an appreciative look from Kerstin. It gave her encouragement.
    ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Nilsson said, getting up from the edge of the desk and pacing around the tiny room. It seemed slightly laboured.
    Kerstin Holm pushed another portion of snus tobacco under her lip. She took a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it with malicious slowness. Reading it, she eventually said:
    ‘You moved here in September last year. In October, a Russo-Lithuanian cigarette smuggling group was uncovered. In December, it was the illegal movement of Coca-Cola from Turkey. In February, a couple of Gambians were stopped with large amounts of brown heroin. And in March, we had reports of prostitution. It was the word “whores” you were trying to stop yourself from saying, wasn’t it?’
    Jörgen Nilsson continued his pacing. Despite his highly strung state, he seemed to be busy weighing up the pros and cons of talking. He came to a decision, paused, and returned to the edge of the desk.
    ‘Yes,’ he said, his eyes fixed on Kerstin Holm. ‘You’ve got to understand how hard it is. These people seeking asylum are locked up for months. Years, sometimes. Obviously they’ve got to have sex lives of some kind during that time. The whole thing’s a powder keg from the very start, and trying to control their sex lives would be like putting a match to it. I admit, the number of partners does get a bit much sometimes, if you see what I mean, but reporting them for it would be the same as sending them straight back home. I try to be tolerant. And yes: sometimes I might’ve looked away a bit too often. Let’s call it my form of civil disobedience. I won’t be a concentration camp guard, for God’s sake.’
    ‘You’re not the one we’re after,’ Holm said, feeling sudden sympathy for the exasperated man in front of her. ‘But we’re worried something might’ve happened to these women. Why else would they go underground if – with your blessing – they’ve been able to go about their business relatively undisturbed here? They didn’t have any rent to pay, after all.’
    ‘Though it’s entirely possible they were paying in
one way
or another,’ Sara Svenhagen said, looking at Holm, who pulled a disapproving face. It was plain it was the thought she disapproved of, not what Sara had said.
    Jörgen Nilsson’s diatribe was preceded by a brief shifting gaze. Then it came:
    ‘Am I accused of anything here? Just come out and tell me exactly what it is you want. Are you seriously accusing me of sexually exploiting asylum seekers? Just spit it out! Do you think I’ve chopped eight women up into pieces and eaten them or something like that?’
    Sara felt like she might – though only might – have gone a step too far. She had taken on the role of ‘bad cop’ voluntarily, without thinking it through. It had just happened.
    ‘Like we’ve said, you aren’t the one we’re after,’ she said courteously. ‘But it’s important you aren’t sloppy when you think it through – because that’s what you’ve got to do now. Has anything unusual happened, anything at all, the past few days? What about yesterday evening, last night, this morning? Could any of the neighbours have seen anything? Who knows about the prostitution? Do you know any of the johns? Is there a pimp?’
    Kerstin waited until Sara was finished. Then she stood up, pushed a pad of paper and a pen over to Jörgen Nilsson and said: ‘Keys to the rooms, please. We’ll go and have a look round while you get your answers to those questions together. And provide us with the most comprehensive