Читать книгу Camilla Lackberg Crime Thrillers 4-6: The Stranger, The Hidden Child, The Drowning - Camilla Lackberg - Страница 14

The smell of salt water. Screeching birds in the sky above and the blue that stretched as far as he could see. The feeling of a boat’s rocking motion. The feeling that something was different. Someone had disappeared. Something that had been warm and soft had instead become hard and sharp. Arms that held him but bore a sharp, nasty smell, which sat in the clothing and on the skin. But the worst smell of all came out of the mouth of the woman. He couldn’t remember who she was. And he didn’t know why he was trying to remember. It seemed that he had dreamed something during the night, something nasty, but still familiar. Something he wanted to know more about.

And he couldn’t stop his questions. He didn’t know why. Why couldn’t he just accept everything, as his sister did? She always looked so scared when he asked questions. He wished he could leave her alone. But he couldn’t. Not when he smelled the salty water and remembered the wind in her hair. And the man who used to swing him and his sister high up in the air. While the other one, the woman with the voice that first was soft and then turned hard, stood beside him and watched. Sometimes, in his memory, he thought he saw her smile.

But maybe it was like she said. She who was real and beautiful and loved them. That it was only a dream. A bad dream that she would replace with lovely, fine dreams. He didn’t contradict her. But sometimes he caught himself longing for that salty smell. And the screeching birds. Even for the hard voice. But he never dared say so.

‘Martin, what the hell are we doing?’ Patrik flung down his pen in frustration. It bounced off the desk and onto the floor. Martin calmly picked it up and put it in Patrik’s pen holder.

‘It’s only been a week, Patrik. It takes time, you know that.’

‘All I know is, the statistics show that the longer an investigation takes the less likely it is that the case will be solved.’

‘But we’re doing everything we can. There aren’t any more hours in the day.’ Martin studied Patrik for a moment. ‘Apropos that, shouldn’t you take the morning off, take a nice long shower, relax? You look exhausted.’

‘Relax? In the middle of this circus? I don’t think so.’ Patrik ran his hand through his hair, which was already so dishevelled that it stood on end. The phone rang shrilly, and both of them jumped. Annoyed, Patrik picked up the receiver and hung it up again. It was silent for a minute and then rang again. In frustration Patrik went out in the hall and yelled, ‘Damn it, Annika, unplug my phone, will you?’ He went back into his office and slammed the door behind him. Several other telephones at the station rang almost non-stop, but with the door closed they weren’t as loud.

‘Come on, Patrik, you’re practically climbing the walls. You have to get some rest. You have to eat. And it’s probably a good idea for you to go out there and apologize to Annika, otherwise she’s going to put the evil eye on you. Or seven years’ bad luck. Or you may never get another taste of her home-baked muffins on Friday afternoons.’

Patrik sat down heavily in his chair again, but couldn’t help but smile. ‘Muffins, you say. You think she would be so Machiavellian as to deny me my muffins?’

‘Maybe even the special basket with homemade toffee and fudge at Christmas.’ Martin nodded, feigning seriousness.

Patrik played along and opened his eyes wide. ‘No, not the fudge, she couldn’t be that mean.’

‘I think she could,’ said Martin. ‘So it would be best if you went down there and apologized.’

Patrik laughed. ‘Oh, all right.’ He ran his hand through his brown hair again. ‘I just never expected this … siege. These reporters don’t seem to have any scruples at all. Don’t they realize they’re sabotaging the investigation, hounding us like this? It’s impossible to get any work done!’

‘I think we’ve accomplished quite a bit in a week,’ Martin said calmly. ‘We’ve interviewed all of Lillemor’s fellow cast members, we’ve examined the video from the night of the party when she disappeared, and we’re checking out every tip we get from the public. I think we’ve been doing a hell of a job. The fact that things have been extra chaotic because of Sodding Tanum, well, there isn’t much we can do about that.’

‘Can you believe that they decided to keep broadcasting that crap?’ Patrik threw his hands in the air. ‘A girl is murdered and they use it as entertainment in prime time. And the rest of Sweden sits back and watches it. I think it shows an incredible lack of respect.’

‘True,’ said Martin. ‘But what can we do about it? Mellberg and the odious Erling W. Larson are so intent on sucking up to the media that they didn’t even consider shutting down the production. The rest of us just have to keep doing our job. The situation isn’t going to change. And I still say that both you and the investigation would benefit from a short break.’

‘I’m not going home, if that’s what you’re hinting at. I don’t have time. But we could have lunch at the Gestgifveri. Would that count as a break?’ He glared at Martin but knew that his colleague had a point.

‘It’ll have to do, I suppose,’ said Martin, getting up. ‘And make sure you apologize to Annika on the way out.’

‘Yes, Mamma,’ said Patrik. He took his jacket and followed Martin down the hall. Only now did he realize how hungry he was.

All around them the telephones were ringing.

Kerstin couldn’t face going to work. She didn’t really have to, because she was still on sick leave and the doctor had told her to take it easy. But she had been brought up with a strong work ethic that compelled her to tend to her job, no matter what the cost. According to her father, the only valid reason for not going to work was if you were at death’s door. The only problem was, she actually felt that way. Her body was functioning; it moved, ate food, washed itself, and did everything it should, but mechanically. Inside she might just as well have been dead. Nothing seemed important any longer. Nothing aroused any feeling of joy, or even interest. Everything seemed cold and dead. The only thing left inside her was a pain that was sometimes so strong it made her double over.

Two weeks had passed since the police had delivered the news. Every night when she went to bed and tried to sleep, the argument she’d had with Marit played back in her head. She would never be able to escape the knowledge that the last conversation they’d had was in anger. Kerstin wished that she could have taken back at least some of the harsh words she’d flung at Marit. But what did it matter now? Why couldn’t she have just let her be? Why had she wanted Marit to take a stand and make their relationship public? The most important thing should have been that they were together. What other people knew or thought or said had now become so insignificant. And she couldn’t understand why, in the distant past that was actually only two weeks ago, she had thought it crucial.

Unable to decide what to do, Kerstin lay down on the sofa and turned on the TV with the remote. She pulled a blanket over herself, the blanket that Marit had bought during one of her infrequent visits home to Norway. It smelled of wool and Marit’s perfume. Kerstin buried her face in the blanket and breathed deeply, hoping that the fragrance might fill up the emptiness inside her. A few bits of woollen fluff went up her nose and made her sneeze.

She suddenly longed for Sofie. The girl who reminded her so much of Marit, and very little of Ola. Sofie had come by to see Kerstin twice. She’d done what she could to console Kerstin, in spite of the fact that she looked as if she would break down at any moment. The girl had suddenly acquired an adult look which had never been apparent before. A hint of painful maturity that was new. Kerstin wished she could take it away, wished that she could turn back the clock and bring back the naïve callowness that girls of Sofie’s age were supposed to have. But it was gone for good. And Kerstin also knew that she was going to lose Sofie. The girl didn’t yet realize it; no doubt she had every intention of sticking by her mother’s partner. But life would not permit that. There were so many other things pulling at her, things that would take over as the grief faded: friends, boyfriends, parties, school, all the things that should be part of a teenager’s life. And besides, Ola would make it hard for her to stay in touch. Over time Sofie wouldn’t be able to keep fighting. The visits would grow less frequent and finally stop altogether. In a year or two Kerstin and Sofie might say hi if they ran into each other on the street, maybe exchange a few words, but then turn away and go on about their business. The only thing left would be the memories of another lifetime, memories that like wisps of fog would scatter if they tried to hold on to them. She was going to lose Sofie. That’s the way it was.

Kerstin flipped listlessly through the channels. It was mostly a bunch of programmes where the viewers were supposed to ring in and guess words. Terribly boring. Her thoughts moved on to the subject that had preoccupied her over the past two weeks. Who had wanted to harm Marit? Who had snatched her in the midst of her despair over their argument, in the midst of her anger? Had she been scared? Was her death quick or slow? Had it been painful? Did she know she was going to die? All these questions tumbled about in Kerstin’s head without finding any answers. She had followed the reports on the murder of the girl in the reality show, both in the papers and on TV, but she felt oddly removed from it all; she was already filled to the brim with her own pain. Instead she had worried that this second murder might be taking resources away from the investigation of Marit’s death. The media attention would make the police spend all their time on trying to find the girl’s killer, and they would no longer care about Marit.

Kerstin sat up and reached for the phone on the coffee table. If no one else was going to do anything, she would at least see to it that Marit’s interests were protected. She owed her that much.

Since Barbie’s death they had gathered in a circle in the middle of the community centre once a day. At first this had been met with protests. Sullen silence had been followed by scathing remarks, but after Fredrik had explained that this was what it would take for them to continue with the shoot, they had all reluctantly agreed to cooperate. After about a week they had even begun in some awkward way to look forward to the group meeting with Lars. He didn’t talk down to them, he listened, made comments that didn’t seem misplaced, and spoke with them on their own terms. Even Uffe had reluctantly begun to like Lars, although he would rather die than admit it openly. The group sessions had also been supplemented with individual counselling, and though no one in the group was exactly jubilant about the therapy process, an air of resigned acceptance now prevailed.

‘How have you felt about the past few days? With all that’s happened?’ Lars looked from one person to the next, waiting for someone to start talking. His eyes stopped on Mehmet.

‘I think it’s been okay,’ Mehmet said after a moment. ‘It’s been such chaos that we, like, almost haven’t had time to think.’

‘Think about what?’ said Lars.

‘About what happened. About Barbie.’ Mehmet looked down at his hands. Lars moved his gaze from him and let it sweep over the others.

‘Do you think that’s a good thing? That you don’t have to think about it? Is that how the rest of you have experienced it? That the chaos has been positive?’

Another moment’s silence.

‘Not me,’ said Jonna gloomily. ‘I think it’s been tough. Really tough.’

‘In what way? What aspect of it has been tough?’ Lars cocked his head to one side.

‘Thinking about what happened to her. Seeing the images in my mind. How she must have died and things like that. And the way she was dumped there in that … rubbish bin. That was disgusting.’

‘Do the rest of you see images too?’ Lars’s gaze stopped on Calle.

‘‘Course we do. But thinking about it won’t do any good. Barbie is still going to be dead.’

‘So you don’t think it would be better for you to deal with these images? Confront them?’

‘Shit, it’s better to just have another beer. Don’t you think so, Calle?’ Uffe kicked Calle on the shin and laughed, but then retreated behind his usual sullen expression when he noticed that nobody was buying it. Now Lars shifted his focus to Uffe, which made him squirm uncomfortably in his chair. He was the only one who still stubbornly refused to go along with the process, as Lars called it.

‘Uffe, you always put on a tough exterior. But what comes to mind when you think about Barbie? What sort of mental images go through your head?’

Uffe looked around as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. What mental images he had of Barbie? He laughed and looked at Lars. ‘Well, anybody who says that her boobs aren’t the first thing that springs to mind is a liar. Talk about silicone bombshells!’ He held up his cupped hands and then looked around to seek support in the group. But nobody seemed to be amused this time either.

‘Jesus, Uffe, shut up,’ said Mehmet in annoyance. ‘Are you as stupid as you seem, or are you just showing off?’

‘Where the hell do you get off criticizing me?’ Uffe leaned towards Mehmet with a hostile expression, but then withdrew into sullen silence. Nobody had liked her when she was alive, but now they all talked about her as if they’d lost their best friend in the whole world.

‘Tina, you haven’t said much. How has Lillemor’s death affected you?’

‘I think it was just so tragic.’ She had tears in her eyes and was shaking her head. ‘I mean, she had her whole life ahead of her. And a worldwide career, sort of. She was going to do a photo shoot for Slitz magazine when the series was over, that was already a sure thing, and she’d talked to some guy about going to the States and trying to get into Playboy. I mean, she could have been the next Victoria Silvstedt. Victoria is almost an old lady by now, and Barbie was ready to take over. We talked a lot about it, and she was so ambitious. Cool, too. This fucking sucks, it’s so tragic.’ Now the tears were rolling down, and she wiped them away with her hand, careful not to smear her mascara.

‘Yes, it’s so-o-o tragic,’ said Uffe. ‘The world has lost the next Victoria Silvstedt. Like, what is the world going to do now?’ He laughed but held up his hands when he saw the dirty looks that were aimed at him. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll shut up. Just sit there and blubber, you bunch of hypocrites.’

‘You seem to be feeling a lot of frustration about all this, Uffe,’ Lars said gently.

‘It’s not frustration. I just think they’re so fucking phoney. Sniffling over Barbie, when they didn’t give a shit about her when she was alive. At least I’m being honest.’ He threw out his hands.

‘You are not honest,’ Jonna muttered. ‘You’re just being a jerk.’

‘Check it out, the psycho wreck is talking. Pull up your sleeves so I can see the latest artwork. You fucking psycho.’ He laughed and Lars stood up.

‘I don’t think we’re going to get much further today. Uffe, I think you and I should have our individual meeting now.’

‘Fine, fine. But don’t think I’m going to sit in there and cry. The rest of these fools do it so well.’ He got up and slapped the back of Tina’s head, which made her turn round and aim a blow at him. He just laughed and sauntered after Lars. The others watched him go.

Rose-Marie was coming to Tanumshede for lunch. This was their first meeting since the dinner at the Gestgifveri, and Mellberg was waiting for the clock to strike twelve with feverish excitement. He looked at the clock, which still read ten minutes to, as he stood stamping outside the entrance. The hands crept forward and he glanced back and forth from the clock to the vehicles that turned into the car park now and then. He had suggested the Gestgifveri again. For a romantic atmosphere, there was no better place.

Five minutes later he saw her red Fiat. His heart began pounding in a strange way and he felt his mouth go dry. Reflexively he checked that his hair was in place. He wiped his hands on his trousers and went over to meet her. Her face lit up when she caught sight of him, and he had to curb an impulse to bend her backward and give her a really long kiss in the middle of the car park. The strength of his feelings surprised him. They hugged and shook hands, and he let her precede him into the restaurant. His hand trembled slightly as he touched her back for a second.

When they entered the restaurant he gasped with surprise. At one of the window tables sat Hedström and Molin staring at him in amazement. Rose-Marie looked with curiosity at him and then at his two colleagues, and reluctantly Mellberg realized that he’d have to make introductions. Martin and Patrik shook hands with Rose-Marie, smiling broadly. Mellberg sighed. This would be certain to set the office rumour mill in motion. On the other hand … Rose-Marie was not a woman he was ashamed to be seen with.

‘Would you like to join us?’ Patrik gestured to the two empty seats at their table.

Mellberg was about to decline when he heard Rose-Marie happily say yes. He swore under his breath. He’d been looking forward to his time with her alone. A lunch together with Hedström and Molin wouldn’t provide the romantic intimacy he had envisioned. But he would have to grin and bear it. He gave Patrik an annoyed look behind Rose-Marie’s back. Then, resigned, he pulled out a chair for her. Hedström and Molin looked as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. Striplings their age had probably never even heard of the word ‘gentleman’.

‘How nice to meet you … Rose-Marie,’ said Patrik, looking at her across the table. She smiled and the laugh lines around her eyes deepened. Mellberg couldn’t stop looking at her. There was something about the way her eyes sparkled and her lips turned up in a smile that … no, he just couldn’t put it into words.

‘Where did you two meet, then?’ Molin’s voice had a slightly amused tone, and Mellberg gave him a frown. He really hoped they didn’t think that they were going to have some fun at his expense. And Rose-Marie’s.

‘At the barn dance. In Munkedal.’ Rose-Marie’s eyes shone. ‘Bertil and I were both dragged there by our friends and we weren’t that enthusiastic about it all. But sometimes fate steers you onto the right path.’ She beamed at Mellberg and he felt himself blushing with happiness. So he wasn’t the only one who was a sentimental fool. Rose-Marie had also felt that there was something special on that first evening.

The waitress came over to their table to take their orders. ‘Have whatever you like, it’s my treat today!’ Mellberg heard himself say, to his great astonishment. For an instant he regretted it, but the look of admiration he got from Rose-Marie strengthened his resolve. He realized, for perhaps the first time in his life, the true value of money. What were a few hundred kronor compared with the appreciation he saw in a beautiful woman’s eyes? Hedström and Molin gave him an astounded look and he snorted in irritation, ‘Look here, just order before I change my mind and dock your pay instead.’ Still in a state of shock, Patrik stammered, ‘I’ll have the Torbay sole,’ and Molin, just as flabbergasted, managed only to nod as a sign that he wanted the same thing.

‘I’ll have the hash,’ said Mellberg, then looked at Rose-Marie. ‘And you, my sweet? What does the lady wish to order today?’ Mellberg heard Hedström cough as he choked on a mouthful of water. He gave Patrik a reproachful glance and thought it was embarrassing to be in the company of two grown men who didn’t know how to behave. Today’s youth certainly had big gaps in their upbringing.

‘I’d like the pork loin filet, please,’ said Rose-Marie, unfolding her serviette and placing it in her lap.

‘Do you live in Munkedal?’ asked Martin politely, pouring a little more water for the woman seated beside him.

‘At the moment I’m living in Dingle,’ she said, taking a sip of water before she went on. ‘I got an offer to take early retirement and couldn’t say no, and then I decided to move closer to my family. So now I have temporary lodgings with my sister until I find a place of my own. I’ve lived on the east coast for a long time, so I want to get a proper feeling for the area before I decide where to put down my roots. Once I’m settled they’ll have to carry me out feet first.’

She gave a purling laugh that made Mellberg’s heart skip a beat. As if she could hear it, she went on, with her eyes demurely lowered, ‘We’ll have to see what happens. It all depends on the people that one meets.’ She looked up and met Mellberg’s gaze. He couldn’t remember ever being so happy. He opened his mouth to say something, but just then the waitress came with the food. Rose-Marie turned instead to Patrik with a question.

‘How are things going for all of you with this terrible murder, anyway? From what Bertil tells me, I gather it was something quite horrible.’

For a moment Patrik concentrated on balancing fish, potatoes, sauce, and vegetables on his fork which was heading for his mouth.

‘Yes, horrible is certainly the word for it,’ he said after he finished chewing. ‘And it hasn’t been easy for us with this media circus going on either.’ He looked out of the window towards the community centre.

‘Yes, I don’t understand how people can find it amusing to watch that sort of thing.’ Rose-Marie shook her head. ‘Especially after such a tragic event. People are like vultures!’

‘So true, so true,’ said Martin sombrely. ‘I think the problem is that they don’t view these so-called celebrities as real. That’s the only explanation I can come up with. How else could they revel in such a tragedy?’

‘Do you suspect any of the other cast members of being involved in the murder?’ Rose-Marie had lowered her voice conspiratorially.

Patrik cast a glance at his boss. He didn’t feel entirely comfortable discussing aspects of the investigation with members of the public. But Mellberg remained silent.

‘We’re looking at the case from every possible angle,’ said Patrik cautiously. ‘We haven’t yet focused on any specific individuals.’ He decided to drop the subject.

For a while they ate in silence. The food was good, but the odd quartet had a hard time finding a common topic for conversation. Suddenly the silence was broken by the shrill ring of a phone. Patrik fumbled in his pocket for his mobile and then got up and moved quickly towards the hall as he answered. He didn’t want to disturb the other patrons. After a few minutes he came back. Without sitting down he turned to Mellberg.

‘That was Pedersen. Lillemor Persson’s autopsy report is done. We may have something more to go on.’ His expression was sombre.

Hanna was enjoying the quiet in the house. She had decided to drive home and eat lunch; it took only a few minutes by car. After the past few hectic days at the station, it was lovely to be able to rest her ears for a while from all the ringing phones. Here at home she heard only the distant hiss of the traffic on the road outside.

She sat down at the kitchen table and blew on her food that she’d heated for a couple of minutes in the microwave. It was leftover sausage Stroganoff from yesterday’s dinner, a dish that she always thought tasted better the second day.

It was delightful to be at home alone. She loved Lars dearly. But when he was home there was always that tension, that unspoken worry in the air. She realized how exhausted that made her feel.

The problem was that she knew their relationship was being drained by something that they could never change. The past was like a wet, heavy blanket smothering everything in their lives. Sometimes she tried to get Lars to understand that they had to try and lift that blanket together, let in a little air, a little light. But he knew of no other way to live except in the dark and the damp. At least it was something familiar.

She often longed for something else. Something different from this miserable vicious circle they had ended up in. In recent years she had felt that a child might be able to erase their past. A child who could light up the darkness, relieve the weight and let them breathe again. But Lars refused. He wouldn’t even discuss the subject. He had his job, he said, and she had hers; that was enough. But she knew it wasn’t. Something was always missing. It never ended. A child would make it all stop. Discouraged, she put her fork down on her plate. She had lost her appetite.

‘How’s it going with you?’ Simon gave Mehmet a look of concern as he sat across the table from him in the corner of the bakery. They had been working hard and were allowing themselves a short break. But it meant that Uffe had to take care of the orders in the shop, so Simon kept glancing uneasily in that direction.

‘He can’t ruin anything in five minutes. I don’t think so, anyway,’ said Mehmet with a laugh.

Simon relaxed and laughed too. ‘Unfortunately I’ve lost all my illusions when it comes to that particular “addition” to my staff,’ he said. ‘I must have drawn the short straw when the cast assignments were made.’ He took a sip of coffee.

‘Could be. But you got me!’ said Mehmet with a big grin. ‘So if you combine Uffe and me you get one middling employee.’

‘Yes, there is that. I got you too!’ said Simon with a laugh. Then he turned serious and gave Mehmet a long look, but Mehmet chose not to respond. There were so many questions and unspoken words in that look, and he couldn’t deal with them at the moment. If ever.

‘You never answered my question. How’s it going with you?’ Simon insisted.

Mehmet felt nervous twitches in his hands. He tried to brush off the question. ‘Oh, I’m okay. I didn’t know her very well. But there’s been such an uproar around everything. At least the TV people are happy. The ratings are breaking all records.’

‘Yes, I see enough of you two in the shop every day, so I haven’t managed to watch a single episode yet.’ Simon had now toned down the intensity of his gaze. Mehmet allowed himself to relax. He took a big bite of a freshly baked bun, enjoying the taste and aroma of warm cinnamon.

‘How was it? Being questioned by the police?’ Simon also reached for a bun and swallowed nearly a third of it in one bite.

‘It wasn’t so bad.’ Mehmet wasn’t comfortable talking about this with Simon. Besides, he was lying. He didn’t want to tell the truth about how humiliating it had felt to sit there while the questions rained down on him, and how the answers he gave were never satisfactory. ‘They were polite. I don’t think they seriously suspect any of us.’ He avoided Simon’s eyes. Images flashed through his mind, but he dismissed them at once. He refused to accept what they wanted to remind him of.

‘That psychologist you all talk to, is he any good?’ Simon leaned forward and took another huge bite of the bun as he waited for Mehmet’s reply.

‘Lars is all right. It’s been good to be able to talk to him.’

‘How is Uffe taking it?’ Simon nodded towards the shop, where they could see Uffe dash past the doorway as he played air guitar with a baguette. Mehmet couldn’t help laughing. ‘What do you think? Uffe is … well, Uffe. But it could have been worse. Even he doesn’t dare bring up every subject with Lars. No, he’s fine.’

An elderly lady came into the bakery, and Mehmet saw her shrink back from Uffe’s wild dance. ‘I think it’s time to rescue the customers.’

Simon turned to see what Mehmet was looking at and got up at once. ‘Oh dear, Mrs Hjertén will probably have a heart attack if we don’t.’

When they stepped into the shop, Simon’s hand happened to brush Mehmet’s. Mehmet pulled his hand back as if he’d been burnt.

‘Erica, I have to go down to Göteborg this afternoon, so I’ll be home a bit late. Around eight, I think.’

As Patrik listened to Erica’s reply, he could hear Maja babbling in the background. All at once he felt an acute homesickness. He would give anything to say the hell with all this, go home, throw himself on the floor and play with his daughter. He’d also grown very close to Emma and Adrian in the past months, and he longed to spend time with them too. And he felt guilty that Erica had to take care of so much before the wedding, but as things looked now, he had no choice. The investigation was in its most intense stage and he had no time for any anything else.

It was lucky that Erica was so understanding, he thought as he got into the car. At first he’d considered asking Martin to come with him, but it wouldn’t take two of them to drive down and see Pedersen. Martin deserved a chance to go home early to Pia. He too had been working hard recently. Just as Patrik put the car in gear and was about to drive off, the phone rang again.

‘Hedström,’ he said, slightly irritated because he was expecting another barrage of questions from a reporter. When he heard who it was he regretted his impatient tone of voice.

‘Hi, Kerstin,’ he said, turning off the motor. The vague sense of guilt that he’d felt for over a week now struck him full force. He’d neglected the investigation of Marit’s death because he’d been working on Lillemor’s case. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but the media pressure in the wake of the girl’s murder had been too relentless to do otherwise. With a grimace he listened to what Kerstin had to say and then replied, ‘We … we haven’t found out much yet, I’m afraid.’

‘I understand, you must have been rather busy lately.’

‘Let me assure you that we haven’t lost our focus on investigating Marit’s death.’ He grimaced again, finding it distasteful that he had to lie. But all he could do now was try and make up for lost time. He sat for a moment in thought after he clicked off the call. Then he rang another number and spent the next five minutes talking with someone who sounded very confused by what he had to say. Relieved, Patrik then headed off towards Göteborg.

Two hours later he arrived at Forensic Medicine HQ. He quickly found his way to Pedersen’s office and knocked on the door. They usually communicated by fax or phone, but this time Pedersen had insisted on discussing the autopsy results in person. Patrik suspected that the media furore had made them even more cautious than usual.

‘Hello, it’s been a while,’ said Pedersen when Patrik came in. He stood up and shook hands. Though big and tall, he had a gentle nature that was in stark contrast to the brutality he encountered in his profession. His glasses were constantly sliding down to the tip of his nose, and his slightly greying hair was always rather dishevelled. His appearance might fool an observer into believing that he was absent-minded and sloppy. But that was far from the truth. The papers on his desk lay in neat stacks, and the folders and binders were carefully labelled on the shelves. Pedersen was meticulous with details. Now he picked up a bunch of papers and studied them before he looked up at Patrik and spoke.

‘The girl was strangled, without a doubt. There are fractures of the hyoid bone as well as the superior cornu of the thyroid cartilage. But she had no furrows from cord, only these bruises on both sides of the neck, which correspond well with manual strangulation.’ He placed a large photograph before Patrik and pointed at the bruises to which he was referring.

‘So you’re saying that somebody strangled her with his hands.’

‘Yes,’ said Pedersen. He always felt great empathy for the victims that ended up on his autopsy table, but he seldom showed it in his tone of voice. ‘An additional indication of strangulation is that she had petechia, or point-bleeding in the conjunctiva of the eyes and in the skin around the eyes.’

‘Does it require a lot of strength to strangle someone in this way?’ Patrik couldn’t take his eyes off the pictures of Lillemor, her face pale and slightly bluish.

‘More than one might think. It takes quite a while to strangle someone, and one would have to keep a strong, constant pressure on the throat. But in this case,’ he coughed and turned away for a moment before continuing, ‘in this case the perpetrator made it a bit easier on himself.’

‘How do you mean?’ Patrik leaned forward with interest. Pedersen skimmed through the pages until he found the place he was looking for.

‘Here – we found traces of a sedative in her system. Apparently she fell asleep first, and was then strangled.’

‘Oh shit,’ said Patrik, again looking at the photos of Lillemor. ‘Was it possible to determine how the sedative was administered?’

Pedersen shook his head. ‘Her stomach contents were a real devil’s cocktail. I have no idea what she drank, but the odour of alcohol was striking. The girl was extremely drunk at the time of her death.’

‘Yes, we heard she was partying hard that evening. Do you think she was given the sedative in one of her drinks?’

Pedersen threw out his hands. ‘Impossible to say.’

‘Okay, so she fell asleep and was then strangled. We know that much. Is there anything more to go on?’

Pedersen looked through his papers again. ‘Yes, there were other injuries. She seems to have taken some blows to the body, and one cheek also had a subcutaneous bleed as well as in the musculature, as if she’d been given a powerful slap.’

‘That corresponds well with what we know about that evening,’ said Patrik grimly.

‘She also had some deep cuts on her wrists. They must have bled heavily.’

‘Cuts,’ said Patrik. He hadn’t noticed that when he saw her in the rubbish truck. On the other hand, he hadn’t got a good look at her. He’d glanced at the body and then quickly turned away. This information was undeniably of interest.

‘What can you tell me about the cuts?’

‘Not much.’ Pedersen roughed up his hair, and Patrik had a sense of déjà vu, thinking about his own image that he’d seen in the mirror the past few days.

‘Judging by the location of the wounds I don’t believe they were self-inflicted. Even though it’s rather popular these days, particularly among young girls, to cut themselves.’

Patrik saw the image of Jonna in the interview room, with her arms lacerated all the way from her wrists to her elbows. An idea was beginning to take shape. But that would have to wait until later.

‘And the time?’ Patrik asked. ‘Can you say about what time she died?’

‘The temperature of her body when she was found indicates that she died sometime after midnight. Around three or four is my professional guess.’

‘Okay,’ said Patrik, looking thoughtful. He didn’t bother to take notes. He knew that he’d receive a copy of the autopsy report before he left.

‘Anything else?’ He could hear how hopeful he sounded. A week had gone by with no leads to advance the investigation. He was grasping at the slightest straw.

‘Well, we were able to pull some interesting hairs out of her hand. I’m guessing that the perpetrator undressed her to remove any possible evidence, but missed the fact that she had grabbed onto something, presumably when she was dying.’

‘So they couldn’t have come from the rubbish bin?’

‘No, not considering the way they were gripped in her fist.’

‘Yes?’ Patrik felt the impatience like a heat in his body. He saw from Pedersen that this was good, that they would finally get something useful. ‘What sort of hairs are they?’

‘Actually, “hairs” was a somewhat inaccurate description on my part. It’s fur from a dog. From a wire-haired Galgo Español to be exact. All according to the National Crime Lab.’ He placed the paper with NCL’s report before Patrik. It mercifully covered the photo of Lillemor.

‘Is it possible to match the fur with a specific dog?’

‘Yes and no,’ replied Pedersen shaking his head a bit regretfully. ‘Canine DNA is just as specific and identifiable as human DNA. But just as with people, the follicle has to be attached to extract DNA. And when dogs shed their hair, the follicle is not usually included. In this case there were no follicles. On the other hand, it’s a plus that the Galgo Español is a very uncommon breed of dog. There are probably only about two hundred in all of Sweden.’

Patrik looked at him with wide-eyed amazement. ‘Do you know this off the top of your head?’

Pedersen laughed. ‘Those CSI series on TV have given our reputation a terrific boost. Everybody thinks we know everything about everything! But unfortunately I have to disappoint you. It just so happens that my father-in-law is one of the two hundred people who own a Galgo Español. And every time we meet I get to hear everything about that damn dog.’

‘I know what you mean. My ex-wife’s father was the same, only with him it was cars.’

‘Yes, in-laws can get obsessed about things – but I suppose we all can.’ Pedersen laughed but then turned serious. ‘If you have any questions about the dog hairs that were found, you’ll have to ask NCL directly. All I know is what they told me in this report, and I’ll give you a copy.’

‘Great,’ said Patrik. ‘I just have one more question. Was there any sign of sexual assault in connection with Lillemor’s death?’

Pedersen shook his head. ‘There was no indication of that. Which doesn’t mean that the murder wasn’t sexually related, but there’s no evidence pointing to rape.’

‘Thank you for your help,’ Patrik said, starting to get up from his chair.

‘How’s it going with your other case?’ Pedersen said all of a sudden, and Patrik fell back into his chair. There was guilt written all over his face.

‘That … that has been badly neglected,’ he said, shamefaced. ‘What with the TV and newspapers and bosses ringing every five minutes asking if we’re getting anywhere with the Lillemor murder the other case has more or less been put on the back burner. But that’s going to change now.’

‘Well, whoever did it is someone the police should catch ASAP. I’ve never seen anything like it. What a cold-blooded way to kill someone.’

‘Yes, I agree,’ said Patrik listlessly. He was thinking of Kerstin’s voice on the telephone a couple of hours earlier. How lifeless and hopeless she had sounded. He couldn’t forgive himself for neglecting the investigation of Marit’s death. ‘But I hope to get some answers today.’ He got up, took the stack of papers that Pedersen handed him, and thanked him with a handshake.

Back in his car, he headed for the place where he hoped to find a few more answers. Or at least some new questions to ask.

‘Did you get anything good out of Pedersen?’ Martin listened on the phone and took notes as Patrik gave him a quick rundown of what Pedersen had said.

‘That part about the dog hair should prove useful. At least it gives us something specific to go on.’ He kept listening.

‘Cuts? Yes, I understand what you’re getting at. One person seems of particular interest.

‘Another interview? Okay, sure. I can take Hanna along and we’ll bring her in. No problem.’

After he put the phone down, Martin sat quietly for a moment. Then he went to find Hanna.

Exactly half an hour later they were sitting in the interview room with Jonna facing them. They hadn’t had to go far to find her. She was at her job at Hedemyr’s, just across the street from the station.

‘So, Jonna. Last time, we spoke with you about Friday night. Is there anything you’d like to add?’ Out of the corner of his eye Martin saw how Hanna was watching Jonna like a hawk. She had an ability to look so stern that even he felt compelled to reel off all his sins. He hoped she would have the same effect on the girl in front of them. But Jonna averted her eyes, looked down at the table, and simply mumbled a reply.

‘What did you say, Jonna? You’ll have to speak up, because we can’t hear what you’re saying!’ said Hanna insistently. Martin saw how the sharpness in her voice forced Jonna to look up. It was impossible not to obey Hanna’s demands.

Quietly, but now clearly, Jonna said, ‘I’ve told you all I know about Friday.’

‘I don’t believe you have.’ Hanna’s voice cut through the air like one of the razor blades Jonna used on her arms. ‘I don’t think you’ve told us even a fraction of all you know!’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Nervous, Jonna tugged at her sleeves compulsively. Martin glimpsed the scars under her jumper and shuddered.

‘Stop lying to us!’ Hanna spoke with such force that even Martin gave a little start. Damn, she was tough.

Hanna continued, now in an insidiously low voice, ‘We know that you’re lying, Jonna. We have evidence that you’re lying. Now is your chance to tell us exactly what happened.’

A shadow of uncertainty passed over Jonna’s face. Her fingers were picking incessantly at her big knitted jumper. After a moment’s hesitation she said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Hanna’s hand slammed the tabletop. ‘Stop talking shit! We know that you cut her.’

Jonna’s eyes anxiously found Martin’s, and he said in a calmer tone of voice, ‘Jonna, if you know anything more, we need to hear it. Sooner or later the truth will come out, and it would look much better for you if you could give us an explanation.’

‘But I …’ She glanced nervously at Martin, but then her body slumped. ‘Yes, I cut her with a razor blade,’ she said quietly. ‘When we were arguing, before she ran off.’

‘Why did you do that?’ said Martin calmly.

‘I … I … don’t really know. I was just so mad. She’d been talking a lot of trash about me, because I, like, cut myself, and I just wanted her to know how it feels.’

She shifted her gaze from Martin to Hanna.

‘I don’t get why … I mean, I don’t usually get mad like that, but I’d been drinking a bit and …’ She stopped talking and looked down at the table.

Her entire demeanour was so withdrawn and sad. Martin had to stop himself from giving her a hug. But he reminded himself that she was being interviewed in a murder case. He glanced at Hanna. Her face was rigid, her expression remote, and she didn’t seem to have any sympathy for the girl.

‘Then what happened?’ she said harshly.

Jonna fixed her eyes on the table as she answered. ‘That was when you showed up. You talked to the others and with Barbie too.’ She raised her eyes and looked at Hanna.

Martin turned to his colleague. ‘Did you see that she was bleeding?’

Hanna seemed to think it over, but then slowly shook her head. ‘No, I must admit I missed that. It was dark, and she had her arms crossed, so it was hard to see. And then she ran off.’

‘Is there anything else you haven’t told us?’ Martin’s tone was gentle, and Jonna replied by giving him a grateful look.

‘No, nothing. I promise.’ She shook her head vigorously, and her long hair fell over her face. When she swept it back they saw the whole network of cuts on her forearm, and Martin couldn’t help gasping. Jesus Christ, that must have caused her so much pain. He could hardly bear to tear off a plaster, and the thought of slicing into his own flesh … no, he could never do that.

After a questioning look at Hanna, which she answered with a shake of her head, he gathered up his papers.

‘We’re going to want to talk with you some more, Jonna. I need hardly add that it doesn’t look good that you withheld information in a murder investigation. I trust that you will notify us voluntarily if you remember or hear anything more.’

She nodded softly. ‘Can I go now?’

‘Yes, you may go,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll show you out.’

As he left the interview room he turned to look at Hanna, who was sitting at the table rewinding the tape recorder. Her expression was grim.

It took Patrik a while to find his way in Borås. He’d been given directions how to get to the police station, but once he was in Borås nothing seemed to add up. But after a little assistance from some locals he managed to find the station and park the car. He didn’t need to wait more than a few minutes in reception before Inspector Jan Gradenius appeared and showed him to his office. After saying a grateful yes to a cup of coffee, Patrik sat down in one of the guest chairs. The inspector sat down behind his desk and gave him a curious look.

‘Well,’ said Patrik, taking a sip of the very good coffee, ‘we’ve got a pretty strange case on our hands in Tanumshede.’

‘You’re referring to the murder of that reality-show girl?’

‘No,’ said Patrik. ‘We got a call about a car accident the week before the murder of Lillemor Persson. A woman had driven off the road, down a steep slope, and crashed into a tree. At first it looked like a single-car accident with a fatality, which was backed up by the fact that the woman had been extremely drunk before she died.’

‘But that wasn’t what happened?’ Inspector Gradenius leaned forward with interest. He was pushing sixty, Patrik guessed, tall and athletic and with a thick mane of hair that was now grey, but probably used to be blond. Patrik couldn’t help feeling jealous when he compared his receding hairline with Gradenius’s abundant growth. He realized that the way things were going he would probably look more like Mellberg than Gradenius when he reached that age. Patrik sighed to himself, took another gulp of coffee and then answered the inspector’s question.

‘No. The first sign that something didn’t add up was that everyone who knew the victim swore that she never touched even a drop of alcohol.’ He saw Gradenius’s eyebrows shoot up but continued his account. In time the inspector would draw his own conclusion.

‘That was undeniably a warning flag, and when the autopsy later indicated some odd circumstances, then … well, we finally concluded that the victim had been murdered.’ Patrik could hear how dry and impersonal police language sounded when he had to describe what was actually a tragedy. But it was the language they both knew and whose nuances they understood.

‘And what did the autopsy show?’ said Gradenius, his eyes fixed on Patrik. He looked as though he already knew the answer.

‘That the victim had a blood alcohol level of point six-one, but a large part of the alcohol was found in her lungs. There were also signs of trauma and bruises around her mouth and inside her throat, and tape residue on the lips. There were also marks around her ankles and wrists, which indicated that the victim had been bound in some manner.’

‘I recognize everything you’re telling me,’ said Gradenius, picking up a folder lying on his desk. ‘But how did you find out about me?’

Patrik laughed. ‘Overzealous documentation, according to one of my colleagues. We were both at the conference in Halmstad a couple of years ago. One of the assignments was to agree on an unsolved case to present in each group. Something that we were puzzled about but didn’t know how to proceed. You presented a case that made me think about our current one. I had saved my notes, so I was able to check that my memory jibed before I rang you.’

‘Not bad, I must say. I’m impressed that you would remember. It’s lucky for both of us. That case has bothered me for years, but the investigation came to a dead end. I’ll be happy to give you all the information we have, and maybe we can get yours in return?’

Patrik nodded his assent and took the stack of papers that Gradenius handed him.

‘Can I take these with me?’

‘Certainly, they’re just copies. Would you like to go through the information together?’

‘I’d like to look through it on my own first. Then I can phone you; I’m sure I’ll have plenty of questions. And I’ll see to it that you get a copy of our material tomorrow.’

‘Excellent,’ said Gradenius, standing up. ‘It would be good to resolve this matter. The victim’s mother was completely shattered, and is still suffering. She rings me occasionally. I’d like to have something to tell her.’

‘We’ll do our best,’ said Patrik. He couldn’t wait to get back and read through the file. He had a feeling that this would mark a turning point. It had to.

Lars flung himself on the sofa and put his legs up on the coffee table. He’d been so tired lately. That constant, paralysing weariness that overwhelmed him and refused to let go. His headaches had also been more frequent; it was as if one gave birth to the next. The exhaustion and the headaches formed an endless spiral that dragged him down deeper and deeper. He cautiously massaged his temples, relieving the pain a bit. When he felt the pressure of Hanna’s fingers on his, he put his hands in his lap, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Her fingers continued to massage and knead. She knew precisely the place to rub. She’d had a lot of practice lately.

‘How are you feeling?’ she said softly as she gently moved her fingers back and forth.

‘Fine,’ said Lars, noticing how the concern in her voice seeped inside him and settled like an unwelcome irritant. He didn’t want her to worry. He hated it when she worried.

‘You don’t look it,’ she said, stroking his forehead. The caress was wonderful, but he couldn’t relax because of all her unspoken questions. Annoyed, he swept away her hands and sat up.

‘I feel fine, I said. Just a little tired. It’s probably spring fever.’

‘Spring fever,’ said Hanna with a laugh that was both bitter and ironic. ‘Are you blaming springtime now?’ She was still standing behind the sofa.

‘Yeah, what the hell else is there to blame it on? Maybe the fact that I’ve been working non-stop lately. Both on the book and trying to keep those fucking idiots over at the community centre on the straight and narrow.’

‘Such a respectful way to talk about your clients, or patients rather. Do you actually tell them that you think they’re idiots? A good way to facilitate the therapy, I should think.’

Her voice was sharp, and she clearly intended for him to feel its sting. He didn’t understand why she did that. Why couldn’t she simply leave him alone? Lars reached for the remote and sat back down on the sofa, with his back to Hanna. After surfing through the channels for a while, he stopped on Jeopardy and tested his knowledge against the contestants. He knew all the right responses.

‘Do you have to work so much? And with that show?’ she added. Everything she left unsaid charged the air between them.

‘I have to do some sort of work,’ Lars replied, wishing that she would shut up. Sometimes he wondered if she understood him at all. Understood all the things he did for her sake. He turned to look at her.

‘I’m doing what I have to do, Hanna. Just like always. You know that.’

Their eyes locked for a second. Then Hanna turned and left. He watched her go. A while later he heard the front door shut.

On the TV Jeopardy was still spitting out challenges.

They were all much too easy.

‘Well, what do you think of the show so far?’ Uffe cracked open a beer for each of the girls, who giggled as they took them.

‘Great,’ said the blonde.

‘Yeah, great,’ said the brunette.

Calle knew he wasn’t in the mood to do this tonight. Uffe had dragged in two of the groupies that hung about outside the community centre, and now he was in the midst of a big charm offensive. As well as he could manage, anyway. Charm wasn’t exactly his strong suit.

‘Who do you like best then?’ Uffe put his arm round the blonde girl and moved closer. ‘Me, right?’ He poked her in the side and laughed, receiving a delighted giggle in reply. Encouraged, he continued, ‘Well, it’s not much of a competition. I’m the only real man here.’ He took a swig of beer straight from the bottle and then pointed his beer bottle at Calle.

‘Take this guy, for example. One of those typical slick Stureplan dudes, not the sort for a pair of lovelies like you. All they know how to do is whip out their pappa’s credit card.’ The girls giggled again and he went on. ‘Mehmet, on the other hand.’ He pointed to Mehmet who was lying on his bed reading a book. ‘He’s about as far from a slick dude as you can get. A real, genuine working-class greaseball. He’s the guy who knows how to get ahead. But he can’t escape the fact that Swedish flesh is the best.’ He stretched out his arms and then tried to slip his hand under the blonde’s jumper. She instantly caught on to what he was up to, and after an anxious glance at the camera, she shoved his hand away discreetly. Uffe looked displeased for a moment, but quickly recovered. It would take a while for the girls to forget the presence of the camera. But after that it would be clear sailing. His goal with these few weeks on the show was to do a bit of bumping and humping under the covers. Shit, he could become a legend by doing that. He’d got pretty close on the island, if only that lame chick from Jokkmokk had been a little drunker.

‘Cool it, Uffe, let’s just take it easy, okay?’ Calle could feel himself getting more and more annoyed.

‘What do you mean, take it easy?’ Uffe tried to sneak his hand in again, but got no further this time either. ‘We’re not here to take it easy. And here I thought you were the biggest party animal around! Or are you too good to party anywhere but around Stureplan?’

Calle looked for support from Mehmet, but he seemed completely engrossed in his fantasy book. Calle felt once more how sick he was of this shit. He didn’t even know why he’d auditioned in the first place. Survivor had been one thing, but this! Locked up with these losers. He demonstratively slipped in his earphones and lay back, listening to music on his iPod. The high volume mercifully drowned out Uffe’s babbling, and he let his thoughts roam free. He was inexorably drawn back in time. The earliest memories first. Images from his childhood, grainy and jerky, as if played on Super-8 film. Himself running straight into his mamma’s arms. The smell of her hair, which was mixed with the fragrance of grass and summertime. The feeling of security as her arms wrapped around him. He also saw his pappa laughing and looking at them with love in his eyes, but he was always on the way out, on the way somewhere else. Never any time to stop and share in their embrace. Never any time for him to smell Mamma’s hair. The scent of Timotej shampoo, which he could still recall so strongly.

Then the film wound forward until it stopped at an image that was much more distinct. Fully in focus. The image of her feet when he opened the door to her bedroom. He was thirteen. It was many years since he had run into her arms. So much had happened. So much had changed.

He remembered that he had called out. A bit annoyed. Asked why she didn’t answer him. But when he pushed open the door, he felt the oppressive silence and the first icy sensation in his stomach that something was wrong. Slowly he had approached her. She looked like she was asleep. She was lying on her back, her hair that had been long when he was little was now short. There were lines of weariness and bitterness etched into her face. For a second he thought she really was sleeping. Sleeping deeply. Then he caught sight of the empty pill bottle lying on the floor next to the bed. It had fallen out of her hand when the pills started to work, and she was finally able to flee from the life that she could no longer handle.

Ever since that day he and his father had lived side by side, in silent hostility. Nothing had ever been said about what happened. Nothing had ever been mentioned about his father’s new woman moving in a week after his mother’s funeral. Nobody had ever confronted the truth about the harsh words that had led to his mother’s final act, the way she’d been tossed aside like an old winter coat.

Instead, money had done all the talking. Over the years it had grown to an enormous debt, a debt of conscience that seemed to have no end. Calle had accepted the money, he had even demanded it, but without mentioning what they both knew was the reason for all the payments. That day. When the silence had echoed through the house. When he had called out but received no answer.

The film was winding backwards again. It sucked him back, faster and faster, until the grainy, jerky images were again what he saw in his mind’s eye. In his memory he ran toward his mother’s outstretched arms.

‘I’d like to have a meeting at nine o’clock. In Mellberg’s office. Can you let the others know?’

‘You look tired; were you out partying last night?’ Annika looked at him over the top of her computer glasses. Patrik smiled, but his smile didn’t reach his weary eyes.

‘If only. No, I sat up half the night reading through reports and documents. And that’s why I need to call a meeting.’

He walked toward his office and looked at his watch. Ten past eight. He was dead tired, and his eyes felt gritty after too much reading and too little sleep. But he had fifty minutes to collect his thoughts; then he would have to tell them about what he’d found.

Fifty minutes went by much too fast. When he entered Mellberg’s office, the whole team was gathered. He had briefed Mellberg by phone on his way into the station this morning, so the chief knew more or less what Patrik was going to say. The others looked mystified.

‘In recent days we’ve put too much emphasis on the investigation of Lillemor Persson’s murder, at the expense of our investigation of the death of Marit Kaspersen.’ Patrik stood next to the flip chart, with his back to Mellberg’s desk, and gazed with a serious expression at his colleagues. No one was missing. Annika had brought pen and paper and was taking notes as usual. Martin sat next to her, his red hair standing on end. His freckles shone against his winter-pale skin, and he waited eagerly for what Patrik had to say. Next to Martin sat Hanna, as cool, calm and collected as they had come to expect from her during the two weeks she’d been working with them. It felt as though she’d been there much longer. Gösta as usual sat slumped in his chair. There was no spark of interest in his eyes; he looked as though he wished he were somewhere else entirely. But that’s how Gösta always looked outside the golf course, Patrik thought in annoyance. Mellberg, on the other hand, had leaned his big body forward as a sign that he was paying close attention. He knew where Patrik was going with this; not even he could ignore the connections that Patrik had uncovered.

‘As you know, at first we regarded Marit’s death as an accident. But the forensic examination and autopsy showed that this was not the case. Someone tied her up, forced an object of some kind into her mouth and down her throat, then poured a large quantity of alcohol into her, which by the way was the cause of death. Then the perpetrator, or perpetrators, placed her body in her car and attempted to make the crash look like an accident. We don’t know much more than that. Nor have we made any great effort to look into anything further, since our more …’ Patrik searched for the right word, ‘media-related investigation has taken up all our energy. Consequently, we’ve allocated our resources in a way which in hindsight I find extremely unfortunate. But it’s no use crying over spilt milk. We’ll simply have to make a greater effort and try to make up for the time we’ve wasted.’

‘You did have a tentative lead –’ Martin began.

Patrik cut him off impatiently. ‘Indeed, I found a possible connection and I followed up on it yesterday.’ He turned round and picked up the stack of papers he had put on Mellberg’s desk.

‘I went to Borås yesterday and met with a colleague named Jan Gradenius. We both attended a conference in Halmstad two years ago. At that time he recounted the details of a case in which he’d been involved, where he suspected that the victim had been murdered but there was insufficient evidence to prove it. I was given access to all the information about the case, and …’ Patrik paused for effect and looked out over the small gathering, ‘and that case happens to have remarkable similarities to the circumstances leading to Marit Kaspersen’s death. That victim also had an absurd amount of alcohol in his body, including his lungs. And this in spite of the fact that the victim never drank alcohol, according to testimony of his next of kin.’

‘Was there the same physical evidence?’ Hanna asked with a frown. ‘Bruises round the mouth, tape residue, et cetera?’

Here Patrik, frustrated, scratched his head. ‘Unfortunately we don’t have that information. This victim, a thirty-one-year-old man by the name of Rasmus Olsson, was judged at the time to have committed suicide by first guzzling a bottle of vodka and then jumping from a bridge. So the investigation was based on that assumption. And they weren’t as exacting with the evidence as they should have been. But there are photos from the autopsy, and I’ve been allowed to see them. From a layman’s point of view it looked as though there were traces of bruises around the wrists and around the mouth, but I sent the photos to Pedersen for his evaluation. Then I sat up all last night studying the material I was given, and there is no doubt in my mind that some sort of connection exists.’

‘So what you’re saying,’ said Gösta in a sceptical tone, ‘is that somebody first murdered this guy in Borås a couple of years ago, and then decided to kill Marit Kaspersen here in Tanumshede. Sounds a bit far-fetched if you ask me. What sort of connection is there between the victims?’

Patrik understood Gösta’s scepticism, but it still irritated him. He was convinced that there was a link.

‘That’s what we have to find out,’ said Patrik. ‘I thought we’d begin by writing down what little we know, then maybe together we can find a way to proceed.’ He took off the cap of a marker and drew a vertical line down the middle of the paper on the flip chart. At the top of one column he wrote ‘Marit’ and on the other he wrote ‘Rasmus’.

‘So, what do we know about the victims? Or rather, what do we know about Marit? I’ll fill in the information about Rasmus Olsson’s death because I’m the only one here who’s had access to the information. But I’ll give you copies of everything later.’

‘Forty-three years old,’ said Martin. ‘Lived with her partner Kerstin, had a daughter aged fifteen, owned her own shop.’

Patrik wrote down everything Martin said, then turned with the pen in his hand, waiting for more.

‘Teetotaller,’ said Gösta, looking alert for a moment.

Patrik pointed at him emphatically and wrote ‘TEETOTALLER’ on the chart. Then he quickly wrote the corresponding information in Rasmus’s column: Thirty-one, single, no children, worked in a pet shop. Teetotaller.

‘Interesting,’ said Mellberg.

‘Anything else?’

‘Born in Norway, divorced, had a falling-out with her ex-husband, conscientious …’ Hanna threw out her hands when she couldn’t come up with more. Patrik wrote down all those points. Marit’s column was getting much longer than Rasmus’s. Patrik added ‘conscientious’ to his column too; he had learned that from the interviews with the man’s next of kin. After thinking for a moment he wrote ‘accident?’ on Marit’s side of the paper, and ‘suicide?’ on Rasmus’s side.

The silence from the others confirmed that there wasn’t much more to add for the moment.

‘We have two apparently very different individuals who were murdered in the same unusual way. They’re different ages, different gender, with different employment, different domestic situations; they don’t seem to have the slightest thing in common except that they both were teetotallers.’

‘Teetotallers,’ said Annika. ‘To me that has almost a religious sound to it. From what I understand, Marit was not particularly involved in any type of formal religion; she simply did not drink alcohol.’

‘Yes, that’s something we have to find out about Rasmus. Since this is the only common denominator we can find, it’s as good a place to start as any. I thought that Martin and I would drive down to Borås and talk with Rasmus’s mother. Then you, Gösta, can take Hanna and talk with both Marit’s partner and her ex-husband. Find out as much as you can about the part of her life having to do with her sobriety. Was there any particular reason for it? Did she belong to any sort of organization? Anything that could give us a lead to what sort of connection she might have had to a single guy in Borås. Where did she live previously, for example. Did she ever live anywhere in the Borås area?’

Gösta gave Hanna a weary look. ‘I suppose we can get that done this morning.’

‘No problem,’ said Hanna, but she looked anything but happy about the task.

‘Is there something wrong?’ said Patrik peevishly.

‘Not at all,’ said Hanna, sounding annoyed. ‘I just think it seems a bit vague. I wish we had more to go on so we don’t end up down a blind alley. I mean, can we actually conclude that a connection exists? Maybe it’s just a coincidence that they died the same way. Since there isn’t any obvious link between the victims, the whole thing seems a bit hazy. But that’s just my opinion.’ She threw out her hands in a way that indicated she thought everyone should agree with her.

Patrik replied curtly with an icy tone to his voice that sounded out of character even to himself. ‘Then I think you ought to keep that opinion to yourself for the time being, and do the job you’ve been assigned.’

He felt the others staring at him in astonishment as he left Mellberg’s office. It wasn’t like him to lose his temper. But Hanna had put her finger on a tender spot. What if his gut feeling was leading him astray?

‘Yes?’ asked Kristina, sipping her tea with a grimace. To Erica’s great surprise she had declared that she no longer drank coffee because of her ‘tender tummy’, patting her stomach with a regretful sigh. As long as Erica had known her, Kristina had been a big coffee drinker, so it would be interesting to see how long this decision would hold.

‘Is this Grandma’s little sweetie? Yes, it is Grandma’s little sweetie, her little cutie-wootie-pie,’ Kristina cooed. Maja stared at Kristina in amazement. Sometimes Erica thought that her daughter already seemed smarter than her mother-in-law, but so far she had managed to refrain from propounding this theory to Patrik. As if Kristina could hear Erica’s thoughts, she turned to her daughter-in-law and skewered her with her gaze.

‘So, how’s it going with this … wedding?’ she said with no trace of baby-talk. She pronounced the word ‘wedding’ with the same distaste as if she were saying ‘dog shit’. At least she didn’t expect to be involved in all the planning.

‘It’s going splendidly. Thanks for asking,’ said Erica, flashing her loveliest smile. Inside she was rattling off the worst, most disgusting swear words she could think up. A sailor would have envied her rich vocabulary.

‘I see,’ said Kristina crossly. Erica sensed that she had asked the question in the hope of getting at least a glimmer of impending disaster.

Anna, who was sitting on the sidelines observing with amusement her sister’s interaction with her mother-in-law, now decided to throw Erica a lifeline. ‘Everything is coming along nicely. We’re even ahead of schedule, aren’t we, Erica?’

Erica nodded with obvious pride. But now all the silent epithets were replaced with a big question mark. What was Anna talking about, ahead of schedule? That was pushing it. But Erica didn’t let her confusion show. She had learned to think of her mother-in-law as a shark. If Kristina got the slightest scent of blood, sooner or later somebody was going to lose an arm. Or a leg.

‘What about the music?’ said Kristina, making a new attempt to sip her tea. Erica took a big gulp of her coal-black coffee and waved her cup about so that the aroma would spread over to Kristina’s side of the table.

‘We’ve hired a band from Fjällbacka. They’re called Garage, and they’re really good.’

‘I see,’ said Kristina with undisguised ill-humour. ‘So it’s going to be some of that pop music that you young folks listen to. Those of us who are a bit older will probably have to leave early.’

Erica could feel Anna kicking her in the shins. She didn’t dare look at her sister for fear of bursting out laughing, even though she didn’t find the situation that funny.

‘Well, I hope at least you’re thinking about the guest list. I couldn’t possibly attend unless Aunt Göta and Aunt Ruth are invited too.’

‘Really?’ said Anna innocently. ‘Patrik must be very close to them. Did he spend a lot of time with his aunts when he was growing up?’

Kristina hadn’t expected that topic to prompt such an insidious attack. ‘Well, no, I can’t say that –’

Anna interrupted her, speaking in the same innocent voice. ‘When was the last time Patrik saw them? I can’t recall him ever mentioning his aunts.’

With a stern frown Kristina was forced to retreat. ‘I suppose it was a while ago. Patrik was about … ten, as I recall.’

‘Then perhaps we should save those places on the guest list for someone Patrik has seen within the past twenty-seven years,’ said Erica, fighting an urge to give her sister a high-five.

‘I suppose you’ll do what you like anyway,’ said Kristina, annoyed. She realized that this point on her agenda could now be considered lost. But taking yet another sip of the disgusting tea she deployed her coup de grâce, keeping her eyes fixed on Erica. ‘I hope that Lotta will get to be maid of honour!’

Erica gave Anna a desperate look. She hadn’t even considered asking Patrik’s sister to be maid of honour; she naturally wanted Anna to play that role. Erica sat in silence for a moment, pondering how to counter Kristina’s latest manoeuvre. Then she decided simply to lay her cards on the table.

‘Anna is going to be maid of honour,’ she said calmly. ‘And as to the other details of the wedding, I want them to be a surprise. You’ll just have to wait until the wedding day.’

Kristina opened her mouth to protest, but she saw the steely glint in Erica’s eyes and stopped. Instead she contented herself with muttering, ‘Well, I was just trying to help. That’s all. But if you don’t want my help then …’

Erica didn’t say a word. She merely smiled and took another gulp of her coffee.

Patrik slept all the way to Borås. He was worn out after everything that had happened in the past few weeks, and after sitting up all night reading through Gradenius’s documents. When he woke up, just at the outskirts of Borås, he had a nasty crick in his neck from sleeping with his head leaning on the window. With a grimace he massaged the sore spot as he blinked at the light.

‘We’ll be there in five minutes,’ said Martin. ‘I talked to Eva Olsson and got directions to her home. I think we’re close.’

‘Good,’ said Patrik, trying to collect his thoughts before the interview. Rasmus Olsson’s mother had sounded so eager when they rang. She invited them to stop by and have a chat. ‘Finally,’ she said, ‘finally somebody is going to listen to me.’ Patrik sincerely hoped they wouldn’t have to disappoint her.

The directions she had given Martin were excellent, and it didn’t take long before they found the block where she lived. They pressed the button for her flat and were buzzed in. Two flights up the door opened as soon as they set foot on the landing. A small dark-haired woman stood waiting for them. They shook hands and she showed them into the living room. She had set out coffee on a table with a lace tablecloth; dainty cups and elegant serviettes and cake forks. There was milk in a slender pitcher and sugar in a bowl with silver tongs. Everything was so delicate and refined that the table seemed to be set for a doll’s tea party. Five kinds of pastries were also arranged on a big china platter decorated with the same pattern as the cups.

‘Please have a seat,’ she said, pointing to a sofa with floral upholstery. The flat was filled with light. The triple-paned window kept out the traffic noise from the street; the only sound was the ticking of an old clock on the wall. Patrik recognized the elaborate gold pattern and shape of the clock. His grandmother used to have one just like it.

‘Do you both drink coffee? Otherwise I have tea.’ She gave them an eager glance. She wanted so much to please them that it cut Patrik to the heart. He sensed that she didn’t often have visitors.

‘We’d love some coffee,’ he said with a smile. As she carefully filled their cups he reflected that she looked just as small and delicate as the crockery. She was probably between fifty and sixty, he guessed, but it was hard to tell because she had an air of eternal sadness about her. As if time had stopped. Oddly enough she seemed to know what he was thinking.

‘It’s almost three and a half years since Rasmus died,’ she said. She looked over at the photographs that were displayed on a large secretaire at one end of the room. Patrik looked too and recognized the man from the photos in the folder that Gradenius had given him. But the circumstances of those pictures bore little resemblance to the settings of the photos in the room.

‘May I take a pastry?’ Martin asked.

Eva Olsson nodded as she tore her eyes away from the photos of her son. ‘Yes, please do, be my guest.’

Martin reached for a pastry and placed it on the plate before him. He looked at Patrik, who took a deep breath before he spoke.

‘As I told you on the phone, we’re taking another look into Rasmus’s death.’

‘Yes, I understand that,’ said Eva, and there was a spark of interest round the sadness in her eyes. ‘What puzzles me is why the police from – Tanumshede, was it? – are taking a closer look. Shouldn’t it be the police here in Borås?’

‘Yes, technically it should be. But the investigation here has been closed, and we think we may have found a connection to a case we have in our district.’

‘A different case?’ said Eva in surprise, stopping with her cup halfway to her lips.

‘Yes. I can’t go into the details at present,’ said Patrik. ‘But it would help us a great deal if you could tell us everything that happened when Rasmus died.’

‘Well,’ she began, but then hesitated. Patrik realized that no matter how glad she was that they would now be investigating her son’s death, she was terrified of digging up old memories. He gave her time to collect her thoughts. After a few moments she continued, though with a light tremor to her voice.

‘It was the second of October three years ago, now almost three and a half years. Rasmus … was living here with me. He couldn’t manage setting up his own place. He went to work every day, leaving at eight o’clock. He’d had that job for eight years and got along well with everybody. They were very nice to him.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘He always used to come home at three. He was never more than ten minutes late. Never. Then …’ The words stuck in her throat but she went on. ‘Then it was suddenly a quarter past three, then three thirty, and finally four. By then I knew something was wrong. I knew something had happened. And I rang the police at once, but they, they wouldn’t listen to me. They just told me that he’d probably be home soon, that he was a grown man and they couldn’t put out a missing persons report on him yet, not on such tenuous grounds. That’s exactly what they said, “not on such tenuous grounds”. Personally, I don’t think there are any stronger grounds than a mother’s intuition, but what do I know?’ She gave them a wan smile.

‘How …’ Martin fumbled for the best way to express it, ‘how much help did Rasmus need on a daily basis?’

‘You mean, how retarded was he?’ Eva said straight out, and Martin nodded reluctantly.

‘In the beginning, not at all. Rasmus had top grades in most subjects, and he was an enormous help around the house as well. It was just the two of us, from the beginning.’ She smiled again, a smile that was so full of love and sorrow that Patrik had to look away. ‘It was after he was involved in a traffic accident when he was eighteen that he … changed. He suffered a head injury and was never the same again. He couldn’t take care of himself, make plans for his life, or move away from home like other boys his age. He stayed here, with me. And we made a life together. A good life; I think both Rasmus and I viewed it that way. The best we could do under the circumstances, at any rate. Of course he had his dark moments, but we got through them together.’

‘Those “dark moments” were the reason the police didn’t investigate his death as a murder, am I right?’

‘Yes. Rasmus tried to take his own life once. Two years after the accident. When he finally realized how much he had changed, and that nothing was ever going to be the same. But I found him in time. And he promised me he’d never try it again. I know that he kept his promise.’ She looked first at Patrik and then at Martin.

‘So what happened then? What happened on the day that he died?’ Patrik asked cautiously. He reached for a hazelnut and almond tart. His stomach was growling, telling him that it was past lunchtime, but he could probably stave off the hunger for a while with the help of a little sugar.

‘They rang the doorbell. Just before eight. I knew as soon as I saw them.’ Mrs Olsson took her serviette and carefully blotted a tear that was on its way down her cheek. ‘They told me they’d found Rasmus. That he had jumped off a bridge. It … it … was so absurd. He would never do that. And they said it seemed as though he’d had a lot to drink beforehand. But that made no sense at all. Rasmus never touched alcohol. He couldn’t after the accident. No, it was all wrong, and I told them so. But nobody believed me.’ She lowered her eyes and wiped away another tear. ‘They closed the case after a while, wrote it off as a suicide. But I’ve rung Inspector Gradenius at regular intervals, just so he won’t forget. I do think he believed me. At least partially. And now you show up.’

‘Yes,’ said Patrik, looking thoughtful. ‘Now we show up.’ He knew only too well how difficult it was for family members to accept the idea of suicide. How they searched for any reason at all to explain why the one they loved would have voluntarily chosen to leave them and cause them so much pain. Often they knew deep inside that it was suicide. But in this case Patrik was inclined to believe the mother’s statements. Her story raised as many questions as did Marit’s death, and his gut feeling that there was a connection grew even stronger.

‘Do you still have the things that were in his room?’ he said impulsively.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Eva, getting to her feet. She seemed grateful for the interruption. ‘I’ve left it untouched all this time. It might seem … sentimental, but it’s all I have left of Rasmus. Sometimes I go in and sit down on the edge of his bed and talk to him. Tell him how my day has been, what the weather is like, what’s been happening in the world. Silly old woman, aren’t I?’ she said with a laugh that opened up her whole face.

Patrik could see that she must have been very pretty when she was young. Not beautiful, but pretty. A photo they passed in the hallway confirmed this. A young Eva holding a baby in her arms. Her face beamed with happiness even though it must have been hard to be on her own with a baby. Especially back in those days.

‘Here it is,’ said Eva, showing them into a room at the end of the hall. Rasmus’s room was just as elegant and neat as the rest of the flat. But the room had its own atmosphere. It was obvious that he had furnished it himself.

‘He liked animals,’ Eva said proudly, sitting down on the bed.

‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Patrik with a laugh. There were pictures of animals everywhere. He had animal pillows, an animal bedspread, and a big rug with a tiger motif on the floor.

‘His dream was to work as a zookeeper. All the other boys wanted to be firemen or astronauts, but Rasmus wanted to be a zookeeper. I thought he would grow out of it, but he was very determined. At least until …’ Her voice faded. She cleared her throat and carefully ran her hand over the bedspread. ‘After the accident he still had a strong interest in animals. It was … a godsend that he was allowed to work at the pet shop. He loved his job, and he was good at it too. He was responsible for feeding the animals and cleaning the cages and aquariums. And he took great pride in doing it well.’

‘Could we take a look around?’

Eva got up. ‘Take as long as you like, ask me whatever you like, just so you do your best to give me, and Rasmus, peace.’

She left the room, and Patrik exchanged a look with Martin. They didn’t need to say a thing. Both of them felt the responsibility that was weighing heavily on their shoulders. They didn’t want to dash Rasmus’s mother’s hopes, but it was impossible to promise that their investigation would lead anywhere. Yet they still intended to do everything they could.

‘I’ll look through the drawers, and you can take the wardrobes,’ said Patrik, pulling out the top bureau drawer.

Martin headed for the wall with the simple white wardrobes. ‘Is there anything in particular we’re looking for?’

‘No idea, to be honest,’ Patrik said. ‘Anything that could give us a lead to what sort of connection there might have been between Rasmus and Marit.’

‘Okay,’ Martin sighed. He knew that it was hard enough to find something when they knew what they were looking for; searching for something unknown and indeterminable was a virtually impossible task.

For an hour they carefully went through everything in Rasmus’s room. They found nothing to arouse their interest. Absolutely nothing. Dejectedly they went back to Eva, who was busy cleaning up the kitchen. She met them in the doorway.

‘Thanks for letting us look in Rasmus’s room.’

‘Not at all,’ she said, looking at them with a hopeful expression. ‘Did you find anything?’ Their silence told her the answer, and hope was replaced by dejection.

‘What we’re looking for is a connection with the victim in our district. A woman named Marit Kaspersen. Does that ring a bell? Could Rasmus have met her somewhere?’

Eva thought about it, but then slowly shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t recognize the name.’

‘The only apparent connection we’ve found is that Marit didn’t drink alcohol either, yet she had a great quantity of alcohol in her blood when she died. Rasmus wasn’t a member of some temperance society, was he?’ Martin asked.

Once again Eva shook her head. ‘No, nothing like that.’ She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘No, he didn’t belong to any group like that.’

‘Okay,’ said Patrik. ‘Thank you for your help, and we’ll be in touch. I’m sure we’ll have more questions.’

‘Call me in the evening if you like. I’m always here.’

Patrik had to resist the urge to take a few steps forward and give the little woman with the sad squirrel-brown eyes a big hug.

Just as they were about to go out the front door, she stopped them. ‘Wait, there’s one more thing that might be of interest to you.’ She turned on her heel and went into her bedroom. After a moment she returned. ‘This is Rasmus’s knapsack. He always had it with him. He had it when he …’ Her voice broke. ‘I couldn’t get myself to take it out of the bag it was in when I got it back from the police.’

Eva handed Patrik the transparent plastic bag containing the knapsack. ‘Go ahead and take it with you. Maybe it contains something of interest.’

When the door closed behind them, Patrik stood with the bag in his hand. He looked at the knapsack. He recognized it from the pictures that were taken at the site after Rasmus died. What hadn’t been visible in the photos, which were taken in the evening, was that it was covered with dark spots. Patrik realized that it was dried blood. Rasmus’s blood.

She leafed impatiently through the book as she talked on her mobile.

‘Sure, I have it here.

‘But what are you willing to pay?

‘That’s all?’ She frowned in disappointment.

‘But this is good stuff. You could run a whole series.

‘No, then I’ll call Hänt instead.

‘Okay, ten thousand will work. I can deliver it tomorrow. But the money has to be in my account by then, otherwise the deal’s off.’

Pleased, Tina flipped the lid closed on her mobile. She walked away from the community centre and sat down on a rock to read. She had never got to know Barbie. Had never wanted to either, for that matter. But it felt a bit weird to be getting inside her head after the fact. She turned pages in the diary, reading greedily. She could already picture how the excerpts were going to look in the evening paper, with the best bits underlined. What dismayed her most about the diary was that Barbie wasn’t as stupid as Tina had thought. Her thoughts and observations were well formulated and occasionally even rather witty. But Tina frowned when she got to the part that had made her decide to sell the stuff to the evening papers. She was going to tear out this page first, of course.

It said, ‘I listened today when Tina performed her song. She’s going to sing it tonight at the community centre. Poor Tina. She has no idea how terrible she sounds. I wonder how that could be; how can something that sounds so bad on the outside sound so good on the inside to the person singing it? Because that’s what the whole Idol concept is based on, so maybe it shouldn’t seem so odd. Clearly it was her mother who put the idea in her head that she could be a singer. Tina’s mum must have been tone-deaf. That’s the only explanation I can think of. But I don’t have the heart to tell Tina. So I play along, even though I basically think I’m doing her a disservice. I talk to her about her music career, all the success she’s going to have, all the concerts, all the tours. But I feel like a shit, because I’m lying to her face. Poor Tina.’

Angrily Tina ripped out the page and tore it into tiny bits. That fucking bitch! If she’d ever felt the least bit sorry that Barbie died, she certainly didn’t now. That bitch had got what she deserved! She didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. Tina ground the bits of paper into the gravel with her heel.

Then she turned to the part that had surprised her. On one of the pages, which was written soon after they’d arrived in Tanum, Barbie had written:

‘There’s something familiar about him. I don’t know what it is. It feels like my brain is running at high speed trying to find something that lies buried there. But I just don’t know what it could be. Something about the way he moves. Something about the way he talks. I know I’ve seen it before, but I don’t know where. All I know is that I feel an uneasiness that keeps getting worse and worse. It’s like something is turning over in my stomach and I can’t make it stop. Not until I know.

‘I’ve thought so much about Pappa lately. I don’t know why. I thought I’d closed off that part of my memory long ago. It hurts too much to remember. Hurts too much to see his smile, hear that rumbling voice, and feel his fingers on my forehead when he would smooth back my hair to kiss me good night. Every night. Always a kiss on the forehead and one on the tip of my nose. I remember that now. For the first time in years I can remember it. And I see myself, sort of from the outside. I see what I’ve done to myself, what I’ve let other people do to me. I can see Pappa’s eyes on me now. I can see his confusion, his disappointment. His Lillemor is so far away now. She’s hidden somewhere behind all this anxiety and peroxide and terror and silicone. I put on a masquerade costume that I could hide behind. So that Pappa’s eyes couldn’t find me, couldn’t look at me. It hurt too much to remember the way he looked at me. The way it was just me and him for so many years. How safe and warm it was. The only way to survive the cold that came afterwards was to forget the warmth. But now I can feel it again. I remember. I feel it. And something is calling to me. Pappa is trying to tell me something. If I only knew what. But it has something to do with him. That much I know.’

Tina read through that section several times. What in the world was Barbie talking about? Had she recognized someone here in Tanum? Tina’s curiosity was aroused. She tied her long dark hair into a ponytail draped over one shoulder. With the diary on her lap she lit a cigarette and took a couple of pleasurable drags before she continued paging through the book. Except for the part she’d just read, she didn’t find much more of interest. A few accounts of how Barbie had viewed the other cast members, a few thoughts about the future, the same boredom that they were all starting to feel about daily life here. For an instant Tina thought that the police might be interested in the diary. But then she saw the bits from the page she’d torn out and rejected that idea. She would enjoy seeing Barbie’s private thoughts in big black headlines in the newspapers. It served her right, that lying, hypocritical bitch.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Uffe coming towards her. No doubt he wanted to bum a cigarette. She hurried to stuff the diary inside her jacket and put on a nonchalant expression. This was her discovery, and she had no intention of sharing it.