CELL 8 by Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström

criminal records.”
    Jens Klövje put what he’d got in a plastic envelope, weighed it absently in his hand.
    “How does he speak?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Does he speak Swedish?”
    Hermansson visualized John Schwarz sitting silent in the back of the car, his face hidden in his hands, screaming in English in the holding cell corridor with his arms waving in front of him.
    “He hasn’t said much. But from what I’ve heard, on the stairs when we went to get him . . . yes, he does.”
    “Accent?”
    “British. Or American. The passport is Canadian.”
    Klövje smiled.
    “Narrows the search down a bit.”
    He put the plastic folder in a tray by the computer.
    “I’ll send this out in fifteen minutes. I’ll stick to English-speaking countries to begin with. It will take a few hours, time differences and all that, but I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear anything.”
    She nodded to him, he nodded back. She turned around and moved to leave.
    “By the way, I agree with Grens.”
    He kept on talking as she left.
    “We’ve got him.”
    THE OLD STONE STAIRWELL ECHOED WITH THE SOUND OF THE GUARDS’ hard heels, mixed with the monotonous sound that the man who called himself John Schwarz made as they went up into the courtroom on the second floor of Stockholm City Hall. He’d been making the noise ever since one of the guards had locked the handcuffs around one of his thin wrists—an irritating shrill sound that pierced through your head and got louder the closer they got.
    The oversized clothes John wore were made from a fabric that scratched and was too thin. He was freezing; it was cold outside and almost as cold inside the vast, high-ceilinged building, and the radiators were few and far between. Same officers as yesterday afternoon, the older one with the silver hair and the younger one who was tall and had blue spectacle frames; they walked beside him, one step for every step he took, but he barely noticed them, just increased the force of the noise that locked his jaws shut and stared straight ahead.
    The door was wooden; it was open and there were people inside.
    Public prosecutor Lars Ågestam (LÅ): During a search of John Schwarz’s apartment on Monday, these pants and these shoes were found.
    For the defense, Kristina Björnsson (KB): Schwarz pleads guilty to kicking Ylikoski in the head.
    Someone turned on the ceiling lights. It was still a long time until dusk, but it was one of those days when the light seems to have petered out by midmorning and a gloom held the capital in its great embrace. The silverhaired guard looked him in the eye and unlocked the handcuffs. The man who called himself John Schwarz kept making the grating noise as he looked out of the large window that flashed in the artificial light. It was a long way down to the ground—he’d considered it, of course he had—but he didn’t dare jump.
    LÅ: A forensic analysis has shown traces of Ylikoski’s saliva on the pants, and Ylikoski’s hair and blood on the shoes.
    KB: Schwarz pleads guilty but states that his intention was to force Ylikoski to stop harassing a woman on the dance floor.
    He sat beside his lawyer. She was stressed, he could feel it, but her smile was friendly.
    “That noise. I wish you’d stop it.”
    He didn’t hear what she said, the sound was in the way and he didn’t dare stop, it kept his jaws together, if he let it stop then only the scream would be left.
    “It might not be to your advantage. Making that noise.”
    The sound. He wouldn’t let it go.
    “Don’t you understand what I’m saying? Would you prefer me to speak English? These are the committal proceedings. From experience, I know that suspects get a more favorable hearing if they behave as normally as possible.”
    He lowered the volume.
    But it was still there.
    The sound was his, the only thing in the room.
    LÅ: Schwarz is not named Schwarz. He has no identity. I request that he is held in custody on charges of aggravated assault, due