youngest five. Hamid and his wife had been granted Finnish citizenship four years ago.
We stopped at the fourth-floor landing. I caught my breath before I rang the doorbell. The door was opened by a boy of about seven.
“Is your mum at home?”
“Who are you?”
The boy’s mother came to the door. I showed her my police ID.
“Police, Criminal Investigations. Good afternoon.”
Panic flashed in her eyes, but she forced herself to stay calm.
“May we come in?” I asked.
The woman moved aside and allowed us to enter.
“You’re married to Ali Hamid?”
The woman ordered the children to their rooms.
I glanced around. The living room was decorated in the Arab style: plump leather chairs, dark wood, sickly-sweet glass and porcelain objects by the dozen, ornately framed photographs and lush cascades of drapes. Actually, it looked like the room hadn’t been decorated, like each object had just been set down in the first available spot.
It was only after the most curious child had exited that the woman asked: “What’s happened to him?”
“Unfortunately, he’s dead,” Stenman said.
“When?” the woman asked, as if she hadn’t understood the words.
“Last night, apparently.”
“He didn’t come home last night and I tried to call him… he didn’t answer.”
Her voice faltered and she turned her head aside.
Stenman went over and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“We’re sorry. We need your help to catch the person who did this. Your husband’s employee Wasin Mahmed was also killed.”
The woman clumsily wiped away her tears with her knuckles and let out a loud sob. The oldest child peeked out from his door, frightened. She immediately snapped: “Out! Go back to your room!”
The boy’s head disappeared and the door closed.
“I was always afraid something would happen to him.”
“Why?”
“I told him not to get mixed up in anything.”
“What did he get mixed up in?”
Stenman guided the woman over to the sofa. She collapsed onto it.
“We need your help, do you understand?”
“Ali was a good man, a good father, why did they do it? He didn’t do anything bad to anyone.”
The woman pressed her fist to her mouth.
“They made orphans of my children… my four children.”
Stenman took the woman’s hand between hers.
“Who was he afraid of?”
“I don’t know… My husband told me that they came to his work… Someone had given them his name… They asked for help, they said he was a good Muslim and that he should help them… that they were all doing Allah’s work.”
“Help with what?”
“A car, they needed a car… I begged Ali not to get mixed up in it.”
“Did you see them?”
The woman shook her head.
“Why did they do it? They made orphans of my children,” the woman repeated in despair.
“Do you know how many of them there were or what their names were?”
Stifled crying began to be heard from the oldest boy’s room.
“We need to know everything that your husband told you about them.”
“One called here last night, angry, and asked why my husband wasn’t answering his phone.”
“What was his name?” Stenman demanded.
“He didn’t say his name, he just asked why Ali wasn’t answering and said that Ali needed to call him as soon as he came home… he spoke English at first and then Arabic.”
“Did your husband give them a car?”
“I don’t know. I heard him call somewhere and ask about renting one.”
“Didn’t you ask him anything about it later?”
“I could tell that Ali didn’t want to talk about it.”
The crying boy rushed out of the room and straight into his mother’s arms.
The woman stroked the boy’s hair and cradled him in her arms. Then she gently pushed him away.
“Go take care of your little brothers and sister.”
He obeyed with a sob.
“What were you afraid of, that something bad would happen to your husband?” Stenman asked.
“He was afraid… He didn’t say it, but I know him and I know he
We stopped at the fourth-floor landing. I caught my breath before I rang the doorbell. The door was opened by a boy of about seven.
“Is your mum at home?”
“Who are you?”
The boy’s mother came to the door. I showed her my police ID.
“Police, Criminal Investigations. Good afternoon.”
Panic flashed in her eyes, but she forced herself to stay calm.
“May we come in?” I asked.
The woman moved aside and allowed us to enter.
“You’re married to Ali Hamid?”
The woman ordered the children to their rooms.
I glanced around. The living room was decorated in the Arab style: plump leather chairs, dark wood, sickly-sweet glass and porcelain objects by the dozen, ornately framed photographs and lush cascades of drapes. Actually, it looked like the room hadn’t been decorated, like each object had just been set down in the first available spot.
It was only after the most curious child had exited that the woman asked: “What’s happened to him?”
“Unfortunately, he’s dead,” Stenman said.
“When?” the woman asked, as if she hadn’t understood the words.
“Last night, apparently.”
“He didn’t come home last night and I tried to call him… he didn’t answer.”
Her voice faltered and she turned her head aside.
Stenman went over and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“We’re sorry. We need your help to catch the person who did this. Your husband’s employee Wasin Mahmed was also killed.”
The woman clumsily wiped away her tears with her knuckles and let out a loud sob. The oldest child peeked out from his door, frightened. She immediately snapped: “Out! Go back to your room!”
The boy’s head disappeared and the door closed.
“I was always afraid something would happen to him.”
“Why?”
“I told him not to get mixed up in anything.”
“What did he get mixed up in?”
Stenman guided the woman over to the sofa. She collapsed onto it.
“We need your help, do you understand?”
“Ali was a good man, a good father, why did they do it? He didn’t do anything bad to anyone.”
The woman pressed her fist to her mouth.
“They made orphans of my children… my four children.”
Stenman took the woman’s hand between hers.
“Who was he afraid of?”
“I don’t know… My husband told me that they came to his work… Someone had given them his name… They asked for help, they said he was a good Muslim and that he should help them… that they were all doing Allah’s work.”
“Help with what?”
“A car, they needed a car… I begged Ali not to get mixed up in it.”
“Did you see them?”
The woman shook her head.
“Why did they do it? They made orphans of my children,” the woman repeated in despair.
“Do you know how many of them there were or what their names were?”
Stifled crying began to be heard from the oldest boy’s room.
“We need to know everything that your husband told you about them.”
“One called here last night, angry, and asked why my husband wasn’t answering his phone.”
“What was his name?” Stenman demanded.
“He didn’t say his name, he just asked why Ali wasn’t answering and said that Ali needed to call him as soon as he came home… he spoke English at first and then Arabic.”
“Did your husband give them a car?”
“I don’t know. I heard him call somewhere and ask about renting one.”
“Didn’t you ask him anything about it later?”
“I could tell that Ali didn’t want to talk about it.”
The crying boy rushed out of the room and straight into his mother’s arms.
The woman stroked the boy’s hair and cradled him in her arms. Then she gently pushed him away.
“Go take care of your little brothers and sister.”
He obeyed with a sob.
“What were you afraid of, that something bad would happen to your husband?” Stenman asked.
“He was afraid… He didn’t say it, but I know him and I know he
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