Hidden in Snow (The ?re Murders, #1)(96)

“What was the name of this other girl?”

“I’m not sure—it sounded kind of like Zara.”

It must have been Zuhra.

“What did she say to Amanda?” Hanna tries to hide her excitement.

“That she was like . . . a slave. She worked all the time, but hardly got paid any money. Apparently there were three girls of our age who were in the same situation. They just wanted to go back home, but they couldn’t because they owed so much for their journey to Sweden.”

“Who did they owe this money to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was it Linda who was forcing the girl to work so hard?”

Ebba nods, then suddenly looks unsure. “There was someone else involved—a man. Amanda spoke to Linda, told her she couldn’t treat the girl like that, but then Linda said it wasn’t her idea. She claimed that her boss called all the shots, and he got really mad if anyone complained.”

Hanna’s brain is buzzing. This is really serious—a full-blown trafficking operation in ?re. Amanda could have gotten herself mixed up in dangerous criminal activity.

“Do you know if this young woman was also forced into prostitution?” she asks.

Both Ebba and her mother look horrified.

“I don’t know,” Ebba says. “Amanda was the only one who met her.”

“Did she have any idea who the boss was? Someone local?”

“I don’t think so.”

Hanna feverishly makes notes. “Did she say anything else? I’m very grateful for anything you can remember, even the smallest detail.”

Ebba chews on her thumbnail, her lips trembling.

“Amanda . . .” She hesitates. “Amanda said she had to help the girl and her friends. She couldn’t let it go, she kept talking about it. At one point she said she was going to make an anonymous call to the police, tip them off.” She spreads her hands helplessly. “But I don’t think she got a chance . . .”

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105

The corridor in the hospital at ?stersund where Harald is sitting on a bench is painted an odd shade of pinkish brown.

He has been waiting for hours while the doctors and nurses take care of Lena.

She is still unconscious.

The light from the fluorescent tubes on the ceiling is reflected in the linoleum flooring. A beeping noise is coming from one of the rooms, while the red lamp over the door flashes, demanding attention.

People are constantly coming and going in Lena’s room.

He has watched as machines are wheeled in, drip stands brought out, but no one has sat down beside him to explain what is going on.

The children are still in ?re. Harald’s mother picked them up at about the same time as the ambulance took Lena. He drove to the hospital in his own car.

He stares at the wall opposite, not really seeing the picture of colorful flowers. His phone rings, but he doesn’t answer. He is still so shocked that he can’t even turn the pages of a newspaper, let alone conduct a conversation.

He buries his face in his hands.

If only he had made more of an effort to check on Lena, ask how she was feeling. Why didn’t he go into the bedroom, try and talk to her? Why did he leave her lying there, hour after hour, without at least speaking to the doctor who had prescribed the sleeping pills?

What will happen to Mimi and Kalle if they lose their mother too?

The door opens and a woman emerges. She glances around, spots Harald, and comes over. Her name badge informs him that she is a senior doctor.

“How are you doing?” she asks.

Harald has no idea what to say. The whole situation is unreal.

“Your wife hasn’t woken up yet. We’ve irrigated her stomach and given her charcoal to try to neutralize the medication she’d taken. The problem is that we don’t know exactly when she took the pills, so I can’t be sure how she’s going to respond.” She pushes her hands into the pockets of her scrubs. “It’s good that you brought the packaging with you,” she continues. “That’s very helpful.”

“How is she?” Harald doesn’t recognize his own voice. It sounds cracked and strained; his vocal cords refuse to cooperate. He clears his throat, tries again. “Can I see her?”

“You can, but you need to be prepared for the fact that it could be . . . alarming. She has several electrodes attached to her body so that we can monitor her breathing.

She’s on oxygen, and we’ve set up a drip.” She pauses. “But her condition is stable.”

Harald tries to translate the medical terminology. What does that actually mean? Can you be stable even if you’re dying?

“Is she going to get better?” he somehow manages to ask.

“It’s too early to say.”

“Is there a risk of brain damage?” He stumbles over the last two words.

“I’m sorry, but again I can’t really answer that until she wakes up.”

Harald is overwhelmed by a great weariness. He rests the back of his head against the wall, closes his eyes for a few seconds. His eyelids are impossibly heavy.

“Maybe you should go home for a while, try to get some rest.”

“I live in ?re.”

“I understand. It’s a long drive.” The doctor checks her watch; no doubt she needs to move on to her next patient.