Free Summertime Death by Mons Kallentoft Page A

his sunglasses, to build up a rapport, or at least to try to.
    ‘Good summer job. Must have been hard to get?’
    ‘Easy. And hot. No one wants to spend all summer pulling out weeds in the bloody cemetery. But I need the money.’
    Nathalie Falck kicks her Doc Marten boots in the grass as she says the word money.
    Then they ask about Theresa Eckeved.
    ‘So you don’t have any idea where she might have gone?’
    ‘No idea.’
    ‘When did you last see her?’
    ‘About a week ago.’
    ‘What did you do?’
    ‘Had an ice cream on Trädgårdstorget.’
    ‘Did she seem different? Did you notice anything odd, anything unusual?’
    ‘No, not that I can think of.’
    Nathalie Falck is making an effort to speak in a deep voice.
    Sweat on her forehead. Down Malin’s back.
    ‘Are you worried?’ Malin asks.
    ‘No. Why should I be?’
    ‘She’s missing.’
    ‘She can look after herself.’
    No anxiety in her voice, but her eyes? What are they saying?
    ‘I’m just going to have a fag,’ Nathalie says.
    ‘A bit of smoke doesn’t bother us,’ Zeke says. ‘And I’ve always thought the eighteen-year age-limit is silly.’
    The packet of cigarettes emerges from her camouflage shorts.
    A gesture in their direction: do you want one?
    Hand gestures turning down the offer. Instead Malin asks: ‘Are you good friends?’
    ‘No. I wouldn’t say that.’
    ‘So did you meet at the dance? Like Peter and Theresa?’
    ‘What dance?’
    ‘One of the joint ones organised by Ekholmen school and Sturefors.’
    ‘There’ve never been any dances like that. Wherever did you get that idea?’
    Malin and Zeke look at each other.
    ‘So how did you meet?’ Zeke asks.
    ‘In town. I don’t remember exactly where or when.’
    In town.
    Of course. Hundreds of youngsters drifting about in packs on Friday and Saturday evenings. Drifting, flirting, fighting, drinking.
    On the third stroke it will be 10.00 p.m. precisely. Do you know where your child is?
    No.
    No idea.
    ‘So you don’t remember?’ Zeke says. ‘Was it long ago?’
    ‘Maybe a year or so ago. But I like her. We can talk about stuff.’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Most things.’
    ‘And you and Peter are in parallel classes at Ekholmen school?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And you’re friends?’
    ‘Sort of. We talk at breaks. Have coffee sometimes.’
    ‘Do you know if Theresa had any other friends? Someone she might have gone to visit?’
    Nathalie Falck takes a drag on her cigarette. Says: ‘Nope. But what do I know? Everyone has secrets, don’t they?’
     
    ‘She’s hiding something,’ Zeke says as he starts the car. ‘It’s obvious.’
    The car hot as a blast furnace again.
    ‘So far everyone seems to be hiding something.’
    ‘A tough girl, that Nathalie. More like a bloke.’
    ‘Not particularly feminine, I’ll give you that.’
    ‘And Peter Sköld is lying through his teeth.’
    ‘Let’s get Theresa’s computer to Forensics before we do anything else,’ Zeke says. ‘There could be any amount of information on there. Emails. Websites she’s visited.’
    ‘And Josefin Davidsson?’
    ‘They should have finished the door-to-door now,’ Zeke says, putting his foot on the accelerator.

10
     
    ‘The door-to-door in the area around the park hasn’t turned up anything,’ Sven Sjöman says. ‘No one saw anything, no one heard anything. The few people who were home, that is. As we know only too well, the city’s empty in July. And I’m afraid no witnesses have come forward, and our caller hasn’t been in touch again, so we can’t do much more except wait for Karin Johannison’s report and the results of the more detailed tests, and see if the bicycle turns up somewhere.’
    The clock on the wall of the staffroom in the police station, just inside the detectives’ open-plan office, says five past five, the red second-hand moving in rheumatic slow motion up towards the top, and the whole day seems flat and tired of itself.
    Seeing as there are only the