Chapter 24
The lump in Aada’s stomach grows as soon as she leaves the staff accommodation and sets off for the hotel. It is only a few hundred yards, but every step is an effort.
Last night she dreamed of a dark figure who flung open the door and attacked her in her sleep. She would prefer to stay in her room and hide, but she dare not miss work.
With her head bowed against the wind, she heads for the parking garage and the staff entrance. The cold nips at her cheeks; she shivers all the way.
After a great deal of thought, she has decided to keep quiet.
The police are bound to catch the murderer without her help; there’s no point in getting involved.
She speaks Swedish very poorly, and her English isn’t much better.
She doesn’t know how to describe what she saw on Sunday, let alone explain how frightened she is that they won’t be able to protect her.
Aada remembers all the times her mother tried to get help back home in Maardu.
No one was prepared to intervene, because her stepfather was a police officer.
The odd argument at home should be dealt with behind closed doors; they ignored the fact that her mother was regularly beaten black and blue.
Aada’s stepfather’s colleagues refused to get involved, even though her mother eventually suffered such a serious assault that she was left with permanent brain damage.
The police in little Maardu had one another’s backs.
What if the Swedish police are the same, protecting men who hurt women?
There is nothing to suggest that the forces of law and order in Sweden are any different. And what if they don’t believe her, and rumors start?
She could lose her job.
Or even worse, the murderer might find out and regard her as a threat.
As she approaches the parking garage, she takes out the key card that hangs around her neck.
The staff entrance is next door. She swipes the card and lets herself into the desolate area.
There are only a few cars today. The lighting is sparse, and fights a losing battle against the black concrete floor.
The dark-red walls remind her of blood.
She shudders and glances over her shoulder. She can’t see anyone, but that doesn’t calm her nerves. As she hurries toward the changing room, a noise stops her in her tracks.
It sounded as if the door opened again, right behind her.
She looks around anxiously, but there is no one in sight. She peers at the dark corner, but can’t make out any movement.
The murderer can’t have seen her clearly on Sunday, she tells herself. Everything happened so fast, and the door was only open a little bit.
He can’t possibly know who she is.
But as she sets off again, she hears something behind her. Footsteps following her—she is no longer alone in the parking garage.
She stops dead, too scared to look around.
Has he come after her? Is he determined to silence her?
Her heartbeat is pounding in her ears, her palms are sticky with sweat.
At that moment the changing room door opens. Two girls emerge, chatting and laughing. Aada hurries forward and slips in behind them.
When she turns her head, she catches a glimpse of a dark jacket disappearing in the direction of the exit.
She is absolutely certain now.
There was someone there.
Someone who had followed her.