Hidden in Snow (The ?re Murders, #1)(88)

From there it was only a small step to exploit the system by employing trafficked individuals without permits.

Hanna searches for information about Sweden’s many paperless refugees. They fall into two main categories: those whose applications for residence permits have been rejected, and who have therefore gone underground, and those who are due to be deported but can’t be, because the receiving country’s legal system does not fulfill the criteria for repatriation. She discovers that almost fifty thousand of the refugees who came to Sweden in 2015 have had their applications for asylum turned down. Less than half have left the country voluntarily.

Which means there must be over twenty-five thousand individuals from the refugee crisis alone who are living under the radar. On top of that, every year more desperate people arrive seeking a new homeland, but are refused. The Swedish Migration Agency’s website provides a list of the ten most common countries of origin among immigrants into Sweden. Zuhra comes from Uzbekistan, which is in fourth place.

Hanna looks at her watch: seven thirty. Not too late to drive to the address in Unders?ker. She picks up her car keys and pulls on her jacket. She is still tired after her long day, but the image of the bruise on Zuhra’s cheek gives her no peace.

It takes less than ten minutes for Hanna to reach the exit for Unders?ker off the E14. She follows the road and allows the GPS on her phone to show her the way. It kind of works; she is passing Stamg?rde school when she realizes she has gone too far and has to retrace her route a short distance.

There, on the right, is Albins v?g. After three hundred yards she sees number eleven; she recognizes it from Google Street View. It is a red wood-frame house overlooking the water, like so many other properties in the area. It looks spacious; the facade is freshly painted, with white eaves.

She spots a swing in the garden, suggesting that small children live here.

She parks farther down the road and gets out of the car, not wanting to draw too much attention to herself. As she gets closer she sees only a red car on the drive. There is a garage, but the doors are shut, so she has no way of knowing if there is a dark-gray Golf inside.

She keeps walking until she reaches two mailboxes on a post at the end of the drive. She reaches into the first one: empty. In the second she finds several window envelopes addressed to Kristina Risberg, which indicates that she probably isn’t home yet. Maybe she’s driving Zuhra somewhere?

Hanna peers at the houses. The lights are on downstairs in one, and she can see a kitchen with drawings on the wall.

That must be where the family with children lives, and they have already emptied their mailbox. She assumes they own the red car.

She looks around; there is no one in sight.

Crouching slightly, she runs toward the adjoining house, which is in darkness. The two front doors are not side by side, but at opposite ends. She can’t be seen from here.

She feels a surge of adrenaline as she sneaks up the steps and tries the door handle. It is locked, of course, but she doesn’t have to search for long to find a spare key under an empty flower pot. In the country you always have an easily accessible spare key—she remembers that from her childhood.

It would be complete madness to enter another person’s house without permission, but she’s here anyway . . .

The temptation is too great.

She unlocks the door and slips inside, with a final glance in the direction of the street.

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95

It takes a few seconds for Hanna’s eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness in the hallway, but then she is able to orient herself and make her way into a large living room, next door to a more compact kitchen. It is easier to see in here; several Advent candle bridges give off a soft glow.

The kitchen itself is neat and tidy, with no dirty dishes lying around. Kristina Risberg seems to be someone who takes pride in a well-kept home.

Judging by the outdoor clothes in the hallway, she lives alone; there are no shoes that look as if they belong to a husband or children.

Hanna doesn’t really know what she’s searching for, but she picks up a pile of magazines and papers that have been left out. If only she could locate some documentation confirming a link to the cleaning company.

Or illegal employment.

Nothing on the ground floor. She glances up the stairs and decides to take the risk. She moves silently up to a small landing, with an open bedroom door. The bed is made, and the room is just as neat and tidy as the kitchen.

Hanna cautiously opens the nightstand drawers, but they contain only sundries like pens and dental floss.

Back to the landing. There are two more doors; one leads to the bathroom; the other is closed.

When she pushes it open, she finds herself in a home office. There is a desk and computer by the window. She goes over and immediately sees documents bearing the Fj?ll-st?d logo.

Bingo.

She moves the mouse, and the screen lights up, but the computer asks for a password that she doesn’t have. There is no point in guessing; it could be anything. She flips through the documents, which show long columns of figures, then takes out her phone and photographs everything.

Suddenly Hanna hears the sound of an engine. She freezes, then peers out of the small window. Twin headlights turn into the drive. She can’t tell if they belong to the dark-gray Golf.

She presses herself against the wall, her brain working overtime. If the front door opens, she will have to hide until she can sneak out. She can’t be caught, not under any circumstances. How could she be so stupid, entering a house without permission?