Siren Song: A Different Scandinavian Crime Novel Read Free

bathrobe. Not expensive, but pretty. Not the kind you wear for work.
    Lena looks at the burning candle on the table. The flame dances in a slow draft from the window. She reaches out to snuff it, then pauses and pulls her hand back. The candle had probably been lit by the victim. A tiny, transient legacy.
    A voice comes from the bedroom. “Detective?”
    “What?” Lena says, still looking at the candle.
    One of the forensics, a young man with freckles and a large silver ring in his ear, stands in the kitchen door.
    “We have secured two sets of fingerprints,” he says. “One by a woman, another by a man. The woman’s prints are everywhere, so we reckon they belong to the victim. Those left by the man are in many places, too. They’re definitely by someone who comes here often.”
    “Any sign of the weapon?” Lena asks.
    He shakes his head. “We haven’t had time to search the flat thoroughly, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the shooter still has it. There aren’t that many places in here where it can be hidden, at least not quickly.”
    Lena nods, and the forensic leaves for the bedroom.
    “Tell me about the suspect,” Lena says to Agnes. “I know even less than the patrols.” She glances at her phone. No missed calls. No messages.
    Before the night grows much older, that will change; while she listens to the forensic, a handful of officers at the central police headquarters are putting together details and circumstances for the coordination brief later. She loathes those meetings. Everyone available, including her, should be on the scene or the streets, looking, thinking, asking questions.
    “Here we are.” Agnes slips out a paper from the back of the pile. “This is from Ola Larsson, a neighbour. His door’s opposite the one to this flat.”
    “What did he say?”
    “He saw a man standing in the hall a few minutes after he heard the shot. He was looking in the peephole, but moved away when he saw someone there.”
    “Sensible man,” Lena murmurs. “So the front door to this flat was open all the time?”
    “According to the witness, yes,” Agnes says.
    “Did Ola see the man’s face?”
    Agnes browses the handwritten statement and shakes her head. “I’m afraid not.”
    “So how does Ola know it was a man?”
    “He remembers the jacket. Dark blue with white print on the back. He didn’t know what the print reads or the man’s name, but he said a man wearing this jacket has been seeing Molly since a few months back.”
    Lena nods. “Go on.”
    “Ola also said he’d met the same man several times in the stairwell. One morning he helped the man in question get the snow off his car.”
    “Imagine that,” Lena says. She pokes with her pen at a pile of Post-it notes and postcards on the windowsill. The forensic team would scream if they saw her, but clues like to hide everywhere. Especially in the open.
    Agnes frowns at Lena. “Imagine getting snow off a car?”
    “I meant imagine we’re lucky,” Lena replies. “At least someone has seen him. But Ola didn’t see the man’s face tonight, right?” she asks. “Only the jacket?”
    The officer nods. “I’m afraid so. But he’s sure it is the same person.”
    “I see. What does he look like?”
    “According to Ola, he’s in his late thirties or early forties. Short dark hair. A bit chubby, no glasses, usually stubble. Not shabby, he said, but a little worn. About five foot six. Friendly. Smiles a lot, apparently.”
    Lena nods, lost in thought. Chatting with the neighbours, not skulking. That makes the man her boyfriend. “Did Ola mention other men coming here?”
    “He hasn’t seen any. I asked.”
    “I thought as much,” Lena said. “Although if she were cheating, her lover would’ve kept a low profile.” She pauses. “Did Molly own a car?”
    “She had a license, but there’s no car registered in her name.”
    Lena pushes a crumpled sheet from the pile of papers over to Agnes, who looks at it and then back at