Marked for Life by Emelie Schepp

we sit down?” Henrik asked.
    He gestured toward a sofa and armchairs to the right of reception, which was surrounded by two-meter-high plastic Yucca palms. Some Arabic brochures were in a display on the white coffee table.
    Jens flopped onto the sofa, leaned forward and despite his red-shot eyes, looked expectantly at Henrik and Mia. They sat down opposite him.
    â€œYou worked here on Sunday?” Henrik said.
    â€œYeah, sure,” said Jens and clapped the palms of his hands together.
    â€œWas Hans Juhlén here then?”
    â€œYep. I chatted a bit with him. He was the boss, like.”
    â€œWhat time was it then?”
    â€œPerhaps around half past six.”
    Henrik looked at Mia and saw that she was prepared to take over the questioning. With a nod he let her do so.
    â€œWhat did you talk about?” she said.
    â€œWell, it was more like we said hello to each other. You could say,” said Jens.
    â€œOkay?” said Mia.
    â€œOr nodded, I nodded to him when I went past his office.”
    â€œThere was nobody else here then?”
    â€œNo, no way. On Sundays it’s just dead here, like.”
    â€œWhen you went past Hans Juhlén’s office, did you see what he was doing then?”
    â€œNo. But I could hear him using the computer keyboard. You know, you’ve got to have good hearing to be a security guard, so you can notice sound that might be weird or something. And my night vision is pretty good too. I was the best in the test in fact, in the selection. Not bad, eh?”
    Mia was hardly impressed by Jens’s senses. She raised her eyebrows to indicate ridicule and turned toward Henrik, whose gaze had fastened on one of the Yucca palms.
    When she saw that Henrik appeared to be lost in thought, she thumped him on the arm.
    â€œHans Juhlén’s computer?” she said.
    â€œYes?” said Henrik.
    â€œHe seems to have used it quite a lot.”
    â€œYes, all the time,” said Jens and clapped his hands.
    â€œThen I think we should take it with us,” said Henrik.
    â€œSo do I,” said Mia.

CHAPTER
EIGHT
    POLICE OFFICER GABRIEL MELLQVIST was shivering. It was cold. His shoes were leaking and the cold rain trickled down from his cap onto his neck. He didn’t know where his colleague Hanna Hultman was. Last he saw her, she was standing outside house number 36 ringing the doorbell. Together they had gone door-knocking at about twenty detached houses this morning. None of the residents had made any observations that were of any importance to the investigation. And not a single strange man or woman had been glimpsed. On the other hand, most people weren’t even at home on Sunday. They had been at their summer cottages, on golf courses, at horse-jumping competitions and God knows what. A mother had seen a little girl go by, probably it was a playmate who was going home for the evening, and Gabriel wondered why she had even bothered to mention it to him.
    He swore to himself and looked at his watch. His mouth was dry, and he was tired and thirsty. They were clear signals that his blood sugar was too low. Even so, he went off to the next house which was behind a high stone wall.
    Door-to-door canvassing was not his favorite occupation. Especially not in the rain. But the order had come from the very top of the criminal department and that meant it was best to do as he was told.
    The gates were closed. Locked. Gabriel looked around. From here he could hardly see Östanvägen 204 where the murder had been committed. He pressed the intercom next to the gate and waited for an answer. Pressed again and added a “Hello!” this time. Gave the locked gates a bit of a push and they rattled. Where the hell was Hannah now? She couldn’t be seen anywhere on the street. She couldn’t have gone down one of the parallel streets. No, not without telling him first. She’d never do that. He sighed, took a step back and walked straight