Hidden in Snow (The ?re Murders, #1)(83)

She hesitates, then steps into a hallway with slate flooring.

There is a row of hooks for ski clothing on the wall opposite, with a bench covered in pale sheepskins underneath.

“Hello?”

No response.

Hanna really wants to speak to Zuhra. The girl’s frightened reaction on Sunday evokes a particular kind of memory. Hanna has seen that look before, on the faces of the abused women she has encountered so often in Stockholm. The constant fear of being punished seeps through, the uncertainty of not knowing what is right or wrong, whatever you do, because it is impossible to predict the whim of the abuser. When that kind of insecurity has gained a foothold, it is impossible to hide.

She tries again. “Hello?”

Where has the girl gone? She can’t have disappeared in such a short time—plus the door wasn’t locked.

Hanna slips off her boots and peers around the corner into a large living room with a moleskin-colored sofa and armchairs. The adjoining dining area has space for ten people. The place seems to be a rental property; Hanna can’t see any personal items such as photographs or ornaments.

She hears a scraping noise from the lower floor—is that where Zuhra is?

Hanna suddenly realizes that she has entered a stranger’s house without permission. If someone other than Zuhra is downstairs, she is going to find it difficult to explain herself. She could even be accused of trespass.

She can’t afford to get into any more trouble.

And yet she keeps going.

No one should have to be as scared as Zuhra was the other day.

Hanna sets off down the stairs, shouts “Hello” yet again, to no avail. She finds herself in a large TV room. There is a bedroom at each end of the lower story, and she can hear the hum of a vacuum cleaner from one of them. That must be where Zuhra is.

Hanna follows the noise. Zuhra has her head down and is vacuuming the skirting board with an expression of deep concentration.

“Excuse me,” Hanna says loudly. When Zuhra doesn’t react, she taps her gently on the shoulder. Zuhra spins around with her mouth half-open and terror in her eyes.

It takes her a couple of seconds to recognize Hanna. Her shoulders drop, and she takes a deep breath. The fear is replaced with an inquiring look.

“Hi,” Hanna says, trying to sound reassuring. “Do you remember me? We met last Sunday when you cleaned my sister’s house.”

Zuhra nods. She is clearly still on her guard; she is clutching the metal tube of the vacuum cleaner tightly. It’s hard to talk over the noise.

“Can we switch that off?” Hanna asks.

Without speaking, Zuhra reaches down and presses the button.

They stare at each other in the sudden silence. Hanna hasn’t worked out what she is going to say, but knows that she will have to choose her words carefully. She wants to persuade Zuhra to open up. If the girl is in a dangerous situation, she needs help.

“Have you got time for a chat?”

Zuhra shakes her head, her dark hair falling forward.

“Must work,” she murmurs, eyes downcast.

“Just five minutes. Please.”

When Zuhra glances at the door, Hanna sees her face in profile. A dark bruise covers her right cheek. She has seen bruises like that enough times to know what it means.

Someone has slapped Zuhra across the face—hard. Hanna can almost see the impression left by the open palm.

The warning bells are ringing.

Hanna sits down on the double bed, which is waiting to be made. She pats the mattress beside her, encouraging Zuhra to join her.

“It won’t take long. I only want to ask you a couple of questions.”

Reluctantly Zuhra perches on the very edge of the bed.

“Are you okay?” Hanna asks tentatively, nodding at the dark shadow on the girl’s cheek. At close quarters it’s obvious that the injury is relatively recent; the contusion hasn’t yet begun to turn purple and yellow.

“Did someone hit you?”

Zuhra touches her cheek. “It’s nothing.”

“Are you being ill-treated? You can tell me,” Hanna says softly. Should she add that she’s a police officer?

The problem is that police involvement might seem even more frightening. In many countries the police are not a safe haven for abused women, and if Zuhra’s residence permit is not in order, a detective is the last person she’s going to want to talk to. It could make her shut down completely.

Zuhra doesn’t answer, but her eyes fill with tears.

Hanna glances at her hands. She isn’t wearing a wedding ring, so presumably it wasn’t a husband who hit her.

“Was it your boyfriend?”

Zuhra shakes her head.

“Can you talk to your boss about what happened?”

Zuhra looks even more terrified. “Don’t talk to boss,”

she whispers. “Please. Boss will be very angry.”

She leaps to her feet, grabs the vacuum cleaner, and switches it on, turning her back on Hanna. It is clear that she wants Hanna to leave.

“Must work,” she mumbles.

All of Hanna’s instincts are telling her that something is seriously wrong. The problem is that Zuhra is clearly too scared to confide in her.

Hanna has conducted many interviews with victims of domestic violence over the years. She knows it is important to show understanding and empathy, because most women feel deeply ashamed of having been abused. At the same time you have to be straight, to make it clear that the abuser’s behavior is unacceptable. Through clear, direct questioning it is sometimes possible to remove the barriers that make women keep quiet about the truth.