Read Online Box 21 by Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström
Tags: Fiction, General, Fiction - General, Noir fiction, Mystery & Detective, Police, Revenge, Criminals, Sweden, Human Trafficking, Prostitutes, Stockholm (Sweden), Police - Sweden, Criminals - Sweden, Human trafficking - Sweden, Prostitutes - Sweden, Human trafficking victims
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a moment, just a few more seconds, on his own. It had been a long day, and for some reason he had seen more young people than usual, his own age or younger. He had mended their damaged bodies as best he could, knowing that none of them would carry on living as they had until now. They would always carry today inside them, wouldnt be able to let go, regardless of what showed externally.
He studied her face. Somehow she didnt look Swedish. From somewhere not very far away, though. She was blonde and probably pretty. She reminded him of someone, but he didnt know whom. The ambulance staff had jotted down some details and he pulled the notes out of the plastic pocket. He learned that her name was Lydia Grajauskas, or at least that was what another woman had stated, the one who was in the flat where the abuse had taken place.
He looked at her.
All these women.
What had the expression on her face been while he beat her?
What had she said?
Green- and white-clad staff came hurrying along and sought some kind of confirmation from the doctor with the dark, exhausted eyes, indicating that they were ready to start. The patient was wheeled into the trauma room, expertlylifted on to a theatre trolley and wired up for monitoring her pulse, ECG and blood pressure. They opened her mouth to introduce a tube into her stomach and sucked away its contents. She became less human, less of a body, more statistics and graphs, it was easier then, easier to deal with.
Had she actually said anything?
Or screamed? What do you scream when someone is beating you?
He, of the tired eyes, couldnt bring himself to leave her.
He wanted to see . . . What? He didnt know what he wanted to see.
One of his colleagues had now taken over and was standing about a metre away carefully moving the woman they knew was called Lydia Grajauskas, turning her light body on its side to inspect the blood-soaked, shredded skin.
The sight upset him.
Hey, somebody! I need a hand.
The tired young doctor stepped forward and saw what the doctor beside him had seen.
He counted.
When he reached thirty he stopped.
The stripes were red and swollen.
He sensed the tears coming and forced himself to hold them back. It happened from time to time. The obligation to stay professional took a physical effort. Must see her as statistics, as a set of graphs. I dont know her, I dont know her ; it didnt do the trick, not this time. Today there had been too much of this pointlessness he couldnt understand.
This torn, red mess.
He said it out loud, maybe to hear what it sounded like, maybe to inform everyone, he couldnt be sure which.
Shes been flogged!
He repeated it more slowly, in a quieter voice.
She has been flogged. Multiple injuries. From the backof her neck all the way down to her behind. Her skin is . . . has been lacerated.
The flat was lovely, he had to admit it. High ceilings, sanded floorboards and a tall tiled stove in every room. A home like this ought to be peaceful. Ewert Grens had settled down on one of the four folding plastic chairs in the kitchen. With Sven and two technicians in tow, he had investigated all the rooms now.
Who was the woman called Lydia Grajauskas? Who was her friend, who said her name was Alena Sljusareva? And who was the would-be Lithuanian diplomat, who said the flat was foreign territory and was known as Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp for short?
After the beaten Grajauskas woman had been carried off on a stretcher and before the technicians turned up on the scene, the other one, Sljusareva, had disappeared. Both women were prostitutes and came from one of the Baltic states, or possibly Russia. He had come across the sort before. The story was always the same. Some guy with the gift of the gab would arrive in the village and target girls with promises of work and good money in a Scandinavian welfare state. Young and poor, the girls would
He studied her face. Somehow she didnt look Swedish. From somewhere not very far away, though. She was blonde and probably pretty. She reminded him of someone, but he didnt know whom. The ambulance staff had jotted down some details and he pulled the notes out of the plastic pocket. He learned that her name was Lydia Grajauskas, or at least that was what another woman had stated, the one who was in the flat where the abuse had taken place.
He looked at her.
All these women.
What had the expression on her face been while he beat her?
What had she said?
Green- and white-clad staff came hurrying along and sought some kind of confirmation from the doctor with the dark, exhausted eyes, indicating that they were ready to start. The patient was wheeled into the trauma room, expertlylifted on to a theatre trolley and wired up for monitoring her pulse, ECG and blood pressure. They opened her mouth to introduce a tube into her stomach and sucked away its contents. She became less human, less of a body, more statistics and graphs, it was easier then, easier to deal with.
Had she actually said anything?
Or screamed? What do you scream when someone is beating you?
He, of the tired eyes, couldnt bring himself to leave her.
He wanted to see . . . What? He didnt know what he wanted to see.
One of his colleagues had now taken over and was standing about a metre away carefully moving the woman they knew was called Lydia Grajauskas, turning her light body on its side to inspect the blood-soaked, shredded skin.
The sight upset him.
Hey, somebody! I need a hand.
The tired young doctor stepped forward and saw what the doctor beside him had seen.
He counted.
When he reached thirty he stopped.
The stripes were red and swollen.
He sensed the tears coming and forced himself to hold them back. It happened from time to time. The obligation to stay professional took a physical effort. Must see her as statistics, as a set of graphs. I dont know her, I dont know her ; it didnt do the trick, not this time. Today there had been too much of this pointlessness he couldnt understand.
This torn, red mess.
He said it out loud, maybe to hear what it sounded like, maybe to inform everyone, he couldnt be sure which.
Shes been flogged!
He repeated it more slowly, in a quieter voice.
She has been flogged. Multiple injuries. From the backof her neck all the way down to her behind. Her skin is . . . has been lacerated.
The flat was lovely, he had to admit it. High ceilings, sanded floorboards and a tall tiled stove in every room. A home like this ought to be peaceful. Ewert Grens had settled down on one of the four folding plastic chairs in the kitchen. With Sven and two technicians in tow, he had investigated all the rooms now.
Who was the woman called Lydia Grajauskas? Who was her friend, who said her name was Alena Sljusareva? And who was the would-be Lithuanian diplomat, who said the flat was foreign territory and was known as Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp for short?
After the beaten Grajauskas woman had been carried off on a stretcher and before the technicians turned up on the scene, the other one, Sljusareva, had disappeared. Both women were prostitutes and came from one of the Baltic states, or possibly Russia. He had come across the sort before. The story was always the same. Some guy with the gift of the gab would arrive in the village and target girls with promises of work and good money in a Scandinavian welfare state. Young and poor, the girls would
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