somewhere. Probably with that boy,” said Krister. He meant to calm her, but his words pushed Irene’s worry to the verge of panic.
“We don’t even know his last name, just Markus!”
Silently they turned toward home. The gloriously cozy mood was gone, replaced by a terror as black as the November night all around them.
Their cluster of row houses came into view just as Irene saw two skinheads coming toward them. Involuntarily she thought of her memories that had been replayed early that morning. She was glad to have the dog with her.
A few meters before they would pass each other, one of the skinheads stopped abruptly. Sammie began to pull on his leash and bark. Astonished, Irene heard that he didn’t sound angry, but glad and eager. The skinhead, who stopped abruptly, then spoke, saying in a quavering voice, “Hi, Mamma and Pappa.”
Chapter Twelve
SOME MONDAY MORNINGS WERE more “Monday” than others. Feeling tired and heavy-headed, Irene Huss entered her office at police headquarters just before seven-thirty. The night had been largely sleepless.
Tommy Persson came through the doors at the same moment and started pulling off his old leather jacket. He greeted her hastily, “’Morning!”
“Hi, Tommy,” said Irene, grumpily.
Tommy gave her a searching look. It wasn’t necessary to have known Irene for seventeen years to see that something was wrong. He waved his hands dismissively.
“Don’t tell me! Krister took off with that delicious little blond waitress!”
Irene reluctantly managed a smile before she sighed, “No, but Jenny shaved off her hair. She’s a skinhead, but ‘only because she likes the music.’ We had a fight, spent all day yesterday arguing and pleading. But it just made her more stubborn. She’s a skinhead because her boyfriend is. And because they play in the same skinhead band. Oh Tommy, she doesn’t understand!”
Irene sank down on her desk chair and hid her face in her hands. Neither of them said a word. When she finally removed her hands she glanced up at him. She had never seen him look so serious. In a sharp voice he said, “She has to understand. If she’s shaved off her hair and claims that she’s a skinhead, she’ll also have to take the consequences. You can’t be a little bit skinhead. You have to make it clear to her what the shaved head stands for!”
“We tried! But whenever we mention Nazism and racism, she denies that the Holocaust ever happened. And according to her we’re racists ourselves. It’s true that both Krister and I have griped about certain immigrants who come here and live off our taxes. And as a cop I’ve seen a lot of felonies committed by immigrants.”
“But how do you think these young criminal immigrants are supposed to have any feeling of solidarity with Swedish society? They’re consistently locked out of everything! They live in suburban ghettos, they’re outsiders at school and outsiders in terms of the language. Many of them can’t speak either Swedish or their native language correctly. And they’re outsiders in the job market too. If an employer sees that someone has a name he can’t pronounce, that person isn’t even called for an interview. It doesn’t matter how good an education he has. Under-the-table cleaning jobs are the only thing they seem to be good for in Sweden!”
“Like Pirjo Larsson.
“Like Pirjo. The only thing that gives many immigrant kids a sense of security and belonging is the gang. We’ve both seen what a lot of these gangs get up to. We don’t see the ones who aren’t criminals, just the ones who are. I’m never astonished by what kids are doing. I’m just terrified at what kind of society we’re creating for our kids. And now I’m thinking about our own kids! It’s our kids who are shaving their heads. It’s our kids who get into fights with immigrant kids. Often they’re injured, and sometimes, somebody dies. Our kids don’t feel any sense of belonging in Swedish society either; they just cling to ready-made, cheap solutions. ‘March with us, for a pure Aryan society!’ ‘Throw out all the niggers and Northern Europe will become the eternally happy thousand-year Reich! Sieg Heil!’ And so our kids put on their boots and go marching off to Hell!”
Speechless, she stared at him. She had never heard him react so powerfully. To her he was even-keeled Tommy, the calm, secure father of three and also her oldest friend from the police academy. He was so worked up that he was pacing around their little office and