Читать книгу Camilla Lackberg Crime Thrillers 4-6: The Stranger, The Hidden Child, The Drowning - Camilla Lackberg - Страница 15

The longing for the world outside only grew stronger. Sometimes she let them run about on the grass, but only for short periods. And always with an anxious look in her eyes that made him keep scouting for the monsters that she said were hiding out there, the monsters that only she could protect them from.

But despite the terror it was wonderful. Being able to feel the sunshine warming their skin and the way the grass tickled the soles of their feet. They used to go wild, he and sister, and sometimes even she couldn’t help laughing at the way they scampered about. Once she had played tag with them and rolled around with them on the lawn. At that moment he had felt pure and genuine happiness. But the sound of a car in the distance had made her stand up and, with fear in her eyes, yell at them to run inside. They had to run fast! And chased by the nameless terror they had rushed to the door and up to their room. She had run after them and locked all the doors in the house. Then they had huddled in the room with their arms round each other, quivering in a heap on the floor. She had promised them over and over again that nobody was going to take them away. That nobody would ever be allowed to hurt them again.

He had believed her. He was grateful that she was protecting them, like a last outpost against all those who wanted to harm them. But at the same time he couldn’t help longing to go back outside. To the sunshine. To the grass under his feet. To freedom.

Gösta sneaked a look at Hanna as they walked towards Kerstin’s building. He realized that in a surprisingly short time he had become enchanted with Hanna Kruse. Not in some dirty old man way; it was more of a fatherly feeling. She also reminded him a great deal of his late wife when she was young. She’d had the same blonde, blue-eyed looks, and just like Hanna she was petite but strong. Yet it was obvious that talking to the next of kin was not one of Hanna’s favourite assignments. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her jaws clenched, and he had to check himself from putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Something told him that she wouldn’t appreciate it. He might even find himself on the receiving end of a right jab.

They had phoned in advance to tell Kerstin they were coming, and when she opened the door Gösta saw that she’d taken a quick shower before they arrived. Her face was bare of makeup and showed the same resignation he’d seen so many times before. It was an expression that appeared on the faces of loved ones when the worst shock had subsided, making the grief more naked and acute. It was only now that the finality of what had happened had sunk into their brain.

‘Come in,’ Kerstin said, and he noticed that her complexion had the slightly greenish pallor of someone who had been indoors too long.

Yet Hanna looked resolute as they sat down at the table in the kitchen. The flat was clean and neat but smelled a bit stuffy, which confirmed Gösta’s impression that Kerstin apparently hadn’t been out since Marit died. He wondered how she got food, whether she had somebody to shop for groceries. As if in direct reply to his question, she opened the fridge to take out milk for the coffee, and a quick look told him that it was well stocked. She also set out some buns that looked like they’d come from the bakery, so someone was apparently helping her with her shopping.

‘Do we know anything more?’ she said wearily when she sat down. It felt as though she was asking the question simply because she should, not because she cared. That was another effect of facing cold reality. She had realized that Marit was gone for ever. That awareness could overshadow for a while the longing for an answer, an explanation. Although this varied a lot, as Gösta had learned over almost forty years of service. For some loved ones the search for an explanation became more important than anything else, in most cases however it was merely one way to postpone acknowledging and accepting the facts. He had seen relatives who lived in denial for many years, sometimes even till their own journey to the grave. Kerstin was not one of them. She had faced Marit’s death, and that encounter seemed to have sucked all the energy out of her. As if in slow motion she poured the coffee. ‘Pardon me, I think one of you might have wanted tea instead?’ she said in confusion.

Gösta and Hanna shook their heads. They sat quietly for a minute before Gösta finally answered the question that Kerstin had asked.

‘Yes, we’ve received a few leads that we’re following up on.’ He stopped, unsure how much to tell her. Hanna took over.

‘We found some information that points to a connection with another murder. In Borås.’

‘Borås?’ Kerstin echoed, and for the first time since they arrived they saw a spark of interest in her eyes. ‘But … I don’t understand. Borås?’

‘Yes, we were surprised too,’ said Gösta, reaching for a bun. ‘And that’s why we’re here. To see if there’s any connection that you know of between Marit and the victim in Borås.’

‘What … who?’ Kerstin’s eyes shifted. She tucked her hair behind her right ear.

‘It was a man in his thirties. Rasmus Olsson was his name. He died three and a half years ago.’

‘But didn’t they ever solve the case?’

Gösta glanced at Hanna. ‘No, the police there decided that it was suicide. There were various indications that …’ He threw out his hands.

‘But Marit never lived in Borås. Not as far as I knew, at least. Although you might want to check with Ola.’

‘Naturally we’ll have a chat with Ola too,’ said Hanna. ‘But there’s no possible connection that you know of? One of the similarities in Rasmus’s and Marit’s death was that …’ she hesitated, ‘at the time of their death they had been forced to drink large quantities of alcohol, although they never drank. Marit wasn’t a member of any temperance society, was she? Or a member of some religious congregation?’

Kerstin laughed, and her smile gave her face a hint of colour. ‘Marit? Religious? No, I would have known about it if she was. We always went to the early service on Christmas Day, but that was probably the only time Marit ever set foot in the church here in Fjällbacka. She was like me. Not actively religious in any way, yet she retained some of her childhood faith, a conviction that there was something greater. I hope she did, at least, now more than ever,’ she added quietly.

Neither Hanna nor Gösta said a word. Hanna looked down at the table and Gösta thought he saw her eyes glistening. He understood. Even though it had been years since he had cried in the presence of the grief-stricken. But they were here to do a job, so he continued cautiously, ‘And the name Rasmus Olsson doesn’t ring a bell?’

Kerstin shook her head and warmed her hands on her coffee cup. ‘No, I’ve never heard that name before.’

‘Then we won’t take up any more of your time. If you think of anything, please call us.’ Gösta got up and Hanna followed suit. She looked relieved.

‘I’ll be in touch in any case,’ said Kerstin, remaining seated.

In the doorway Gösta couldn’t resist turning round and telling her, ‘Go out and take a walk, Kerstin. It’s such nice weather. And you need to get some fresh air.’

‘Now you sound like Sofie,’ said Kerstin, smiling again. ‘But I know you’re right. Maybe I’ll take a walk this afternoon.’

‘Good,’ said Gösta and closed the door. Hanna didn’t look at him. She was already headed for the station.

Patrik carefully set down the plastic bag containing the knapsack on his desk. He didn’t know whether it was necessary, since the Borås police had already gone through the contents three and a half years earlier, but for safety’s sake he put on rubber gloves, and not only for forensic reasons. He didn’t like the idea of touching the dried blood on the knapsack.

‘What a lonely life. So tragic,’ said Martin, who stood next to him, watching.

‘Yes, it seems as though her son was the only person she had in the world,’ said Patrik with a sigh as he unzipped the knapsack.

‘Couldn’t have been easy. Having a kid and raising him all by herself. And then the accident …’ Martin paused, ‘and the murder.’

‘And then no one believed her,’ Patrik added as he took an object out of the knapsack. It was a music player with built-in headphones. He doubted that it still worked. It seemed to have been damaged in the fall from the bridge, and it rattled ominously when Patrik picked it up.

‘How far did he fall?’ asked Martin, pulling up a chair and sitting down next to Patrik’s desk.

‘Ten metres,’ said Patrik, still concentrating on emptying the knapsack.

‘Ugh,’ said Martin with a grimace. ‘Couldn’t have been a pretty sight.’

‘No,’ said Patrik. The photos from the scene flashed before his eyes. He changed the subject.

‘I’m worried about having to divide up our resources now that we have to work on two investigations at once.’

‘I know,’ said Martin. ‘And I can guess what you’re thinking. That we made a mistake letting the media force us into a situation where we dropped the investigation of Marit’s death. But what’s done is done, and we can’t change anything now. Except distribute our favours more wisely.’

‘Yeah, I know you’re right,’ said Patrik, taking out a wallet which he laid on the desk. ‘But I’m still having a hard time forgetting about all the things we should have done differently. And I have no idea how to proceed with the Lillemor Persson investigation.’

Martin thought for a moment. ‘All we have to go on are the dog hairs and the videos we got from the production company.’

Patrik opened the wallet and began going through it. ‘Yeah, that’s about what I was thinking. The dog hairs present a very interesting lead that we have to keep working on. According to Pedersen it’s a rather unusual breed of dog; maybe there’s a list of owners, clubs, something we can use to trace the owner. I mean, with only two hundred dogs like that in all of Sweden, it should be relatively easy to trace an owner in this area.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Martin. ‘Do you want me to do it?’

‘No, I was thinking Mellberg should do it. Then it’ll be done properly.’ Martin gave him a dirty look, and Patrik laughed. ‘It was a joke! Of course I want you to do it!’

‘Ha ha, that’s hilarious.’ Martin turned serious and leaned over the desk. ‘What have you got there?’

‘Nothing particularly exciting. Two twenties, a ten-krona, an ID card, and a piece of paper with his home address and his mother’s phone numbers, both home and mobile.’

‘Is that all?’

‘No, here’s a picture of him and Eva.’ He held it up for Martin. A young Rasmus had his arm around his mother’s shoulders, and they were both smiling at the camera. Rasmus towered over his mother, and there was something protective about his pose. It must have been taken before the accident. After that their roles had been reversed. Patrik carefully put the photo back in the wallet.

‘There are so many lonely people,’ said Martin, staring into the middle distance.

‘Yes, there certainly are. Are you thinking of anyone in particular?’

‘Well … I was thinking of Eva Olsson. But also of Lillemor. Imagine not having anyone to mourn you. Both of her parents dead. No other relatives. Nobody to notify. The only thing she leaves behind are a couple of hundred hours of recorded reality shows that’ll gather dust in some archive.’

‘If she’d lived closer I would have gone to her funeral,’ Patrik said quietly. ‘No one deserves to be buried without someone mourning her. But I hear the funeral is in Eskilstuna, so I won’t be able to attend.’

They sat in silence for a while. They could both envision a coffin being lowered into the ground, with no family and no friends present. So inexpressibly sad.

‘A notebook,’ Patrik suddenly exclaimed, breaking the silence. It was a thick black book with gold edges. It seemed that Rasmus had taken good care of it.

‘What’s in it?’ asked Martin.

Patrik leafed through some of the pages, which were covered with writing. ‘I think they’re reminders about the animals at the pet shop. Look here: “Hercules, pellets three times a day, give fresh water often, clean cage every day. Gudrun, one mouse per week, clean the terrarium once a week.”’

‘Sounds like Hercules is a rabbit or guinea pig or something, and I would guess that Gudrun is a snake.’ Martin smiled.

‘Yes, he was certainly meticulous, that Rasmus. Just as his mother said.’ Patrik went through all the pages in the notebook. They all seemed to be notes about the animals. There was nothing to arouse their interest.

‘That seems to be everything.’

Martin sighed. ‘Well, I didn’t expect we’d find anything earthshattering. But we could always hope.’

Patrik was putting the notebook at the bottom of the knapsack when a sound made him react. ‘Wait, there’s something else in here.’ He took out the notebook again, put it down on the desk, and reached his hand into the bag. When he pulled out what was lying on the bottom, he and Martin gave each other an incredulous look. This wasn’t anything they’d expected to find. But it proved beyond all doubt that there was a connection between the deaths of Rasmus and Marit.

Ola didn’t sound particularly happy when Gösta rang him on his mobile. He was at work and would have preferred that they wait to interview him. Gösta, annoyed at Ola’s superior attitude, was not in a generous mood; he told Ola to expect them at the Inventing company within half an hour. Ola muttered something about ‘the power of authority’ in his melodic Norwegian-Swedish, but he knew better than to object.

Hanna still seemed to be in a bad mood, and Gösta wondered why as they got into the car and headed for Fjällbacka. He got the feeling that she might have problems on the home front, but he didn’t know her well enough to ask. He only hoped that it wasn’t something serious. She didn’t seem at all interested in small talk, so he left her alone. As they drove past the golf course at Anrås, she looked out of the window and said, ‘Is this a good golf course?’

Gösta was more than willing to accept this peace offering. ‘The best! The seventh hole is notorious. I once made a hole-in-one here – not on the seventh though.’

‘Well, I’ve learned enough about golf to know that a hole-in-one is good,’ said Hanna with a smile, the first of the day. ‘Did they break out the champagne in the clubhouse? Isn’t that the custom?’

‘Indeed,’ said Gösta, his face lighting up at the memory. ‘They did offer me champagne, and all in all it was the most fantastic round of golf. My best to date, actually.’

Hanna laughed. ‘Yes, it’s probably no exaggeration to say that you’ve been bitten by the golf bug.’

Gösta looked at her with a smile, but he had to shift his eyes back to the road when they entered the narrow road past Mörhult. ‘Well, I don’t have much else to do,’ he said, and his smile died.

‘You’re a widower, I understand,’ Hanna said kindly. ‘No kids?’

‘No.’ He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t want to talk about the boy, who would have been a grown man by now, if he’d survived.

Hanna didn’t ask anymore, and they rode in silence all the way to Inventing. When they climbed out of the car they saw many curious eyes turned towards them. An annoyed Ola met them as soon as they stepped inside the doors.

‘Well, this had better be important, now that you’re disturbing me at work. Everybody is going to be talking about this for weeks.’

Gösta understood what he meant, and actually they could have waited another hour. But there was something about Ola that rubbed Gösta the wrong way. His reaction might not be dignified or professional, but that’s how he felt.

‘Let’s go into my office,’ said Ola. Gösta had heard Patrik and Martin describe Ola’s extremely orderly home, so he wasn’t surprised when he saw the office. Hanna, on the other hand, hadn’t heard that information, and so she raised an eyebrow. The desk was clinically clean. Not a pen, not a paper clip marred the shiny surface. The only thing on the desk was a green blotter to write on, and it was placed in the exact centre of the desktop. Against one wall stood a bookcase filled with binders of correspondence. Arranged in tight, upright rows, with neatly handwritten labels. Nothing was out of place.

‘Have a seat,’ said Ola, pointing to the visitor chairs. He sat down behind the desk and leaned his elbows on the desktop. Gösta couldn’t help wondering whether he was going to get shiny spots on his suit from all the polish that must have been applied. He could probably see his face in it.

‘So what’s this about?’

‘We’re investigating a possible connection between the death of your ex-wife and another murder.’

‘Another murder?’ asked Ola, seeming for an instant to drop his controlled mask. A second later it was back in place. ‘What murder is that? Not that bimbo who was killed?’

‘You mean Lillemor Persson?’ said Hanna. Her expression showed quite clearly what she thought of Ola speaking so disparagingly about the murdered girl.

‘Yes, yes.’ Ola waved his hand dismissively, showing with equal clarity that he didn’t give a toss about Hanna’s opinion of the way he expressed himself.

Gösta had an overwhelming urge to provoke the guy. He would have liked to take his car keys and put a big scratch across the top of that shiny desk. Anything to knock Ola off balance and disrupt his repulsive perfection.

‘No, we’re not talking about the murder of Lillemor Persson.’ Gösta’s tone was icy. ‘We’re talking about a murder in Borås. The victim’s name was Rasmus Olsson. Do you have any knowledge of him?’

Ola looked genuinely shocked. But that didn’t mean a thing.

‘Borås? Rasmus Olsson?’ His words sounded like an echo of the conversation they’d had with Kerstin an hour earlier. ‘No, I don’t recognize that name. Marit never lived in Borås. And she absolutely didn’t know any Rasmus Olsson. At least not as long as we were together. After that I have no idea what she did. Anything is possible, considering the depths she had sunk to.’ His voice was dripping with contempt.

Gösta stuck his hand in his pocket and touched his car keys. His fingers were itching to disfigure that desk.

‘So you don’t know of any connection between Marit and Borås, or the person we mentioned?’ Hanna repeated Gösta’s question and Ola looked at her.

‘Am I not making myself clear? Instead of forcing me to repeat everything, maybe you should take notes.’

Gösta took a tighter grip on his car keys. But Hanna didn’t seem fazed by Ola’s sarcastic tone. She went on calmly, ‘Rasmus was also a teetotaller. Could that be the connection? Any sort of temperance group or the like?’

‘No. There isn’t any connection, and I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal about the fact that Marit didn’t drink. She simply wasn’t interested.’ He stood up. ‘If you don’t have any more relevant questions, I’ll get back to work. Next time I’d prefer that you visit me at my home.’

Lacking any more questions and sincerely wanting to leave the office and get far away from Ola, Gösta and Hanna stood up too. They didn’t bother to shake his hand or say goodbye. All such pleasantries seemed a waste of time.

The meeting with Ola hadn’t yielded any new information. And yet there was something that kept bothering Gösta as he and Hanna drove back to Tanumshede. There was something about Ola’s reaction, something in what was said, or not said, that continued to nag at him. But for the life of him he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

Hanna was silent as well. She stared out at the landscape and seemed wrapped in her own world. Gösta felt like reaching out his hand to say something consoling. But he let it be. He didn’t even know if there was anything to console her about.

With her father at work it was nice and peaceful in the flat. Sofie preferred to be at home alone. Her dad was always nagging at her about homework, asking where she’d been, where she was going, who she had talked to on the phone, how long she’d talked. Nag, nag, nag. And besides, she had to check all the time that everything was neat and orderly. No rings from glasses on the coffee table, no dishes left in the sink; her shoes had to be in straight rows in the shoe rack, there mustn’t be any hairs in the bathtub after she showered. The list was endless. She knew that this was one of the reasons why Marit had decided to leave; Sofie had heard the arguments and by the age of ten she knew every nuance in their quarrels. But her mother had seized the opportunity to leave. And as long as Marit was alive, Sofie had enjoyed a breathing space every other week, far away from the strict perfection demanded by her father. With Kerstin and Marit she could put her feet up on the coffee table, set the mustard in the middle of the fridge instead of in the door compartment, and leave the fringes of the rya rug in a blessed mess instead of in straight, combed rows. It had been wonderful, and it also made her able to endure the following week of stern discipline. But now there was no more freedom, no escape. She was stuck here among everything shiny and clean, where she was always being interrogated and questioned. The only time she could even breathe was when she came home early from school. Then she permitted herself little rebellious pranks. Like sitting on the white sofa with her O’Boy chocolate drink, playing pop music on Ola’s CD player, and messing up the sofa cushions. But she made sure to put everything back in place before he came home. Not a trace of disarray was in evidence when Ola came in the front door. Her only worry was that he might come home early from work one day and catch her. Although that was highly improbable. Her pappa would have to be sick unto death even to think of leaving work a minute early. As the manager of Inventing he felt he needed to set an example, and he had zero tolerance for tardiness, taking sick days, or going home early – not for himself or his subordinates.

It was Marit who had represented warmth. Sofie saw that clearly now. Ola had represented all that was obvious, clean, and cold, while Marit had been security, warmth, and a hint of chaos and joy. Sofie had often wondered what they saw in each other in the beginning. How had two people who were so different found each other, fallen in love, married and had a child? For Sofie that had seemed a mystery for as long as she could remember.

Something suddenly occurred to her. There was about an hour left before her pappa came home from work. She headed for Ola’s bedroom, which had previously belonged to her mother. She knew where everything was. In the wardrobe in the far corner. A big box with all the things Ola had called ‘Marit’s sentimental nonsense’ but he still hadn’t got rid of it. Sofie was surprised that her mamma hadn’t taken the box with her when she left, but maybe she wanted to leave everything behind when she began her new life. All she had wanted to take with her was Sofie. That was enough.

Sofie sat down on the floor and opened the box. It was full of photographs, news clippings, a lock of Sofie’s hair from when she was a baby, and the plastic bracelets that had been put on her and Marit at the maternity ward to show that they belonged together. Sofie picked up a little box that rattled, and when she opened it she was disgusted to find two tiny teeth inside. They had to be her own. But that didn’t make them any less disgusting.

She spent half an hour slowly going through the contents of the box. After she had scrutinized all the objects she set them in neat piles on the floor. It was a shock to see that the old photos of a teenage Marit showed a girl who looked exactly like her. She had never thought that they were very similar. But it made her happy. She looked intently at Marit and Ola’s wedding picture in an attempt to suss out all the problems that would follow. Did they already know back then that their marriage would never last? She thought she could almost sense that they had. Ola looked stern but pleased. Marit wore an expression that was almost indifferent; she seemed to have blocked out all emotion. She definitely did not look like a radiantly happy bride.

The clippings from the newspaper were yellowing slightly, and they rustled when Sofie touched them. There was the wedding announcement, Sofie’s birth announcement, instructions for how to knit baby socks, recipes for festive dinners, articles on children’s illnesses. Sofie felt as though she were holding her mother’s life in her hands. She could almost feel Marit sitting next to her and laughing at the articles she had torn out about how best to clean an oven and how to cook the perfect Christmas ham. She felt Marit put a hand on her shoulder and smile when Sofie picked up a photo of her mother in the maternity ward, holding a wrinkled red bundle. Marit looked so happy in that one. Sofie put a hand on her own shoulder, imagining it lying on top of her mother’s hand. Feeling the warmth spread from Marit’s hand to her own. But reality intruded again. She felt only the wool of her own jumper under her hand, and her hand was cold as ice. Ola always wanted to keep the heat low to save on the cost of electricity.

When she got to the article lying on the bottom of the box, at first she thought it had been put there by mistake. She couldn’t make sense of the heading, and she turned the article over to see what was on the back that would make Marit tear it out of the newspaper. But it was only an advert for laundry soap. Uneasy, she began to read the article, and after only one sentence she felt her whole body stiffen. With incredulous eyes she kept reading until she had swallowed every sentence, every single letter of every word. This couldn’t be right. It simply couldn’t be.

Sofie carefully returned everything to the box and put it in its place inside the wardrobe. In her head her thoughts were spinning wildly.

‘Annika, could you help me with something?’ Patrik plopped down on a chair in Annika’s office.

‘Sure, no problem,’ she said, giving him a worried look. ‘You look a mess.’ Patrik couldn’t help laughing.

‘Thanks for that, now I feel much better.’

Annika didn’t care for his sarcastic tone but she kept on chiding him. ‘Go home, eat, get some rest. The pace you’ve been keeping lately is inhuman.’

‘Yes, thanks, I know,’ Patrik said with a sigh. ‘But what else can I do? Two murder investigations at the same time, the media attacking us like a pack of wolves, and now one of the investigations is pointing to a connection reaching far beyond the county line. That’s actually what I wanted your help with. Could you contact all the other police districts in the country and do a search for all unsolved murder cases or investigations into fatal accidents or suicides with the following characteristics?’

He handed Annika a list with some points he’d jotted down. She read them carefully, was startled by the last one, and then looked up at him.

‘You think there are more?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Patrik, closing his eyes for a moment as he massaged the bridge of his nose. ‘But we can’t find the link between Marit Kaspersen’s death and the case in Borås, and I just want to make sure that there aren’t any other similar cases.’

‘Are you thinking serial killer?’ said Annika, obviously a bit reluctant even to mention the idea.

‘No, not really. Not yet at least. But we may have missed an obvious connection between the two victims. Though the definition of a serial killer is two or more victims in a row, so I suppose that technically that’s what we’re looking for.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘But don’t tell that to the press. You can just imagine what a feeding frenzy that would cause. Think of the headlines: “Serial killer ravages Tanumshede”.’ He laughed, but Annika didn’t see the humour in it.

‘I’ll send off a search request. But go home now. Right this minute.’

‘It’s only four o’clock,’ Patrik protested, despite the fact that he wanted nothing more than to take Annika’s advice. She had a maternal quality about her that made even grown men want to crawl up in her lap and let her stroke their hair. Patrik thought it was such a shame that she didn’t have any kids of her own. He knew that she and her husband Lennart had tried for years without success.

‘You’re not doing anybody any good in the state you’re in, so go home and rest and come back refreshed tomorrow. And I’ll take care of this, you know that.’

Patrik wrestled with himself for a moment, and with his guilty conscience, but decided that Annika had a point. He felt squeezed dry and of no use to anyone.

Erica put her hand in Patrik’s and turned to look at him. She gazed out over the water as they walked through Ingrid Bergman Square. She took a deep breath. The air was cold but springtime fresh, and the twilight was painting a reddish tinge along the horizon.

‘I’m so glad you were able to come home early today. You’ve been looking exhausted,’ she said as she leaned her cheek against his shoulder. Patrik pulled her closer.

‘I’m glad I could come home too. Besides, I had no choice; Annika just about pushed me out of the station.’

‘Remind me to thank her the first chance I get.’ Erica felt light-hearted. Although not very light on her feet. They had only come halfway up the Långbacken hill, and both she and Patrik were already a bit out of breath.

‘We’re not exactly in the best shape, are we?’ she said, panting like a dog to show how short of breath she was.

‘No, I don’t suppose we are,’ said Patrik with a gasp. ‘It’s all right for you, with a job where you can sit on your behind all day, but I’m a disgrace to the force.’

‘No way,’ said Erica, tweaking his cheek. ‘You’re the best they have.’

‘God help the residents of Tanumshede in that case,’ he said with a laugh. ‘But I must say it seems that your sister’s diet has worked, at least a bit. My trousers felt looser this morning.’

‘That’s good. But you do realize there are only a few weeks left, don’t you? So we have to keep it up until then.’

‘Then we can gorge ourselves and get fat together,’ said Patrik, turning left at Eva’s Grocery.

‘And old. We can grow old together.’

He pulled her closer and said seriously, ‘And grow old together. You and me. At the old folks’ home. And Maja will come to visit once a year. Because we’ll threaten to cut her out of the will if she doesn’t.’

‘Stop it, you’re horrible,’ said Erica, punching him in the arm. ‘We’re going to live with Maja when we’re old, you know that. Which means that we’re going to have to chase off all her future suitors.’

‘No problem. I’ve got a licence to carry a gun.’

They reached the church and stopped for a moment. They both looked up at the steeple towering high above them. The church was a solid structure, built of granite and located high above the town of Fjällbacka, with a view of the water that stretched for miles.

‘When I was little I dreamed about what it would be like to get married here,’ Erica said. ‘And that day always felt so far away. But now I’m here. Now I’m grown up, have a child, and I’m getting married. Doesn’t it feel a bit absurd sometimes?’

‘Absurd is only the start of it,’ said Patrik. ‘Don’t forget that I’m also divorced. That counts for the most grown-up points.’

‘How could I forget Karin?’ Erica said with a laugh. And yet there was a bitterness in her voice, as there always was when she spoke of Patrik’s ex-wife. Erica wasn’t jealous by nature, and she certainly wouldn’t have wanted Patrik to have been a thirty-five-year-old virgin when she met him, but she still didn’t like to think of him with another woman.

‘Shall we see if it’s open?’ said Patrik, walking towards the church door.

They found it unlocked and cautiously went inside, unsure if they were breaking some unwritten rule. A figure up by the altar turned round.

‘Well, hello there.’ It was Fjällbacka’s pastor Harald Spjuth, and he looked as cheerful as always. Patrik and Erica had heard only good things about him and looked forward to having him marry them.

‘Are you here to practise a bit?’ he said, coming to greet them.

‘No, we were out walking and just thought we’d drop in,’ said Patrik, shaking the pastor’s hand.

‘Well, don’t let me bother you,’ said Harald. ‘I’m just pottering about, so make yourselves at home. And if you have any questions before the wedding ceremony, feel free to ask. I thought we’d have a rehearsal about a week before.’

‘That sounds great,’ said Erica, growing more and more fond of him by the minute. She’d heard that he’d found love at a mature age, and that pleased her. Not even the oldest and most devout ladies had expressed any complaints about the fact that he still hadn’t married Margareta, whom he had met through a personals ad. They were ‘living in sin’ together in the parsonage. Such general tolerance said a lot about how popular he was.

‘I thought we’d have red and pink roses decorating the church. What do you think of that?’ said Erica, looking around.

‘That sounds great,’ said Patrik absentmindedly. When he saw the expression on her face he felt a pang of guilt. ‘Erica, I’m so sorry you have to carry such a heavy load. I wish I were more involved in the wedding plans, but …’ Erica took his hand.

‘I know, Patrik. And you don’t have to keep apologizing. I have Anna to help out. We’re going to take care of everything. I mean, it’s only a small wedding, how hard could it be?’

Patrik raised an eyebrow and she laughed. ‘Okay, it’s taking a lot of work. And planning. And trying to keep your mother in check isn’t easy. But it’s fun too. Really it is.’

‘All right then,’ said Patrik, feeling bit less guilty.

When they left the church, twilight had given way to evening. They walked slowly back the way they had come, down Långbacken and south in the direction of Sälvik. They had both enjoyed the walk and the time to talk, but they were eager to get home before it was time to put Maja to bed.

It had been a long time since Patrik had felt so content with his life. Thank goodness there were things that outweighed all the evil. That filled him with enough light and energy to be able to go on.

Darkness was descending over Fjällbacka. The church steeple loomed over the town. Watching. Protecting.

Mellberg was dashing about with the frenzy of a madman. He was now feeling how idiotic it had been to invite Rose-Marie to his place for dinner with so little time to prepare. But he had such an intense longing for her. He wanted to hear her voice, talk with her, find out how her day had been, know what she was thinking. So he had phoned her. And heard himself asking whether she’d like to come over for dinner at eight.

So now he was in full panic mode. He had rushed home from the station at five and stood in bewilderment as he stared at all the wares in the Konsum supermarket. His brain was utterly paralysed. Not a single idea for dinner had popped into his mind, and considering his limited skills in cooking, that was perhaps not so odd. Mellberg had enough sense of self-preservation to realize that he probably shouldn’t try any sort of haute cuisine; something ready-cooked was more like it. He wandered up and down the aisles helplessly until the friendly little Mona who worked there came over and asked if he was looking for something in particular. Abruptly he spilled out his dilemma, and she piloted him calmly over to the deli counter. Starting with grilled chicken she then helped him locate potato salad, lettuce and veggies for a tossed salad, fresh-baked baguettes, and Carte d’Or ice cream for dessert. It might not be gourmet fare, but at least it was something that even he couldn’t ruin.

When he got home he rushed about for an hour in an attempt to restore the order in his flat that had prevailed as recently as the previous Friday. Now he stood there trying to make as charming a presentation as possible. It turned out to be a bigger challenge than he thought. With sticky hands he glared at the grilled chicken, which seemed to be staring back at him with contempt. Quite a feat seeing that its head had been chopped off long ago.

‘How the hell …’ he swore, pulling at a wing. How was he going to arrange this thing in an appetizing manner on the serving platter? It was as slippery as an eel. At last he grew tired of trying to do it neatly and simply tore off a breast and a drumstick for each of them and placed them on the platter. That would have to do. Then he spooned a hefty portion of potato salad next to it and started on the salad. Slicing cucumbers and tomatoes was at least something he could handle. He dumped the salad into a big plastic bowl. It was red and slightly scratched, but he didn’t have much else in the way of serving dishes. Besides, the most important thing was the wine. He uncorked a bottle of red and set it on the table. Just in case, he had another two bottles in the cupboard. He didn’t intend to leave anything to chance. Tonight’s the night, he thought, whistling contentedly. At least she couldn’t complain that he hadn’t made an effort. He had never gone to this much trouble for a woman. Ever. Not even if you put all of them together.

The last detail required for the sake of the mood was the music. His CD collection was fairly meagre, but he did have one with Sinatra’s greatest hits. He’d bought it on sale at the Statoil petrol station. At the last moment he thought he should light some candles too, then he took a step back and admired the scene. Mellberg congratulated himself on a job well done.

He had just managed to change his shirt when the doorbell rang. He saw by the clock that she was ten minutes early, so he quickly tucked the tail of his shirt into his trousers. ‘Damn it,’ he swore as his comb-over flopped down. When the doorbell rang again he dashed into the bathroom to try and coil up his hair. He was used to doing this, so in no time he’d managed a careful concealment of his bald pate. After one last look in the mirror he though he looked very stylish.

From the admiring look he got from Rose-Marie when he opened the door he knew that she shared that view. The mere sight of her took his breath away. She wore a shimmering red dress, with a heavy gold necklace as her only jewellery. As he took her coat he inhaled the scent of her perfume and closed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t know what it was about this woman that affected him so much. He felt his hands trembling when he hung up her coat, and he forced himself to take a few deep breaths to collect himself. It wouldn’t do to act like a nervous teenager.

Their conversation flowed easily during dinner. Rose-Marie’s eyes danced in the glow of the candles. Mellberg told her many stories from his police career, encouraged by her obvious interest. They polished off two bottles of wine as they ate the entrée and dessert. Then they moved over to the living-room sofa for coffee and cognac. Mellberg felt the tension in the air and felt pretty sure that she would take him for a ride tonight. Rose-Marie gave him a look that could mean only one thing. But he didn’t want to risk making his move at the wrong moment. He knew how sensitive women were to timing. Finally he couldn’t resist any longer. He looked at the sparkle in Rose-Marie’s eyes, took a big gulp of cognac, and launched himself.

Oh yes, she took him for a ride all right. Mellberg thought that he’d died and gone to heaven. That night he fell asleep with a smile on his lips, as he floated off at once into a lovely dream about Rose-Marie. For the first time in his life Mellberg was happy in the arms of a woman. He turned over on his back and began to snore. In the dark next to him lay Rose-Marie looking up at the ceiling. She was smiling too.

‘What the hell is this?!’ Mellberg came storming into the station at ten o’clock. He was no morning person, but today he looked more worn-out than usual.

‘Did you see this?’ He waved a newspaper and stormed past Annika, flinging open Patrik’s door without knocking.

Annika craned her neck to get a better view of what was happening but she could hear only scattered oaths coming from Patrik’s office.

‘What are you talking about?’ said Patrik calmly once Mellberg stopped spewing abuse. He gestured to his boss to have a seat. Mellberg looked as though he might have a heart attack any second, and even though Patrik in his weaker moments might have wished the man dead, he didn’t want him to expire in his office.

‘Have you seen this? Those bloody …’ Mellberg was so furious that he couldn’t even get any words out. Instead he slammed the newspaper down on Patrik’s desk. Unsure what he was supposed to look at, but filled with foreboding, Patrik turned the paper round so that he could read the front page. When he saw the black headline he felt anger begin to boil within him as well.

‘What the hell?’ he said, and Mellberg could only nod and fall into the chair facing Patrik’s desk with a thud.

‘Where did they get it from?’ said Patrik, waving the paper.

‘I have no idea,’ said Mellberg. ‘But when I get hold of that –’

‘What else does it say? Let’s see, centre section.’ With trembling fingers Patrik turned to the centre section and began reading, his expression getting angrier by the second. ‘Those … those … fucking –’

‘Yes, it’s a fine establishment, the fourth estate,’ said Mellberg with a shake of his head.

‘Martin has got to see this,’ said Patrik, getting up. He went to the door, called his colleague, and then sat back down.

A few seconds later Martin was standing in the doorway. ‘Yes?’ Without a word Patrik held up the front page of the evening paper.

Martin read aloud: ‘Today: Exclusive – excerpt from the murder victim’s diary. Did she know her killer?’ He was struck speechless and gave Patrik and Mellberg an incredulous look.

‘In the centre section there’s an excerpt from her diary,’ Patrik said grimly. ‘Here, read it.’ He handed the paper to Martin. No one said a word as he read.

‘Can this be real? Did she have a diary? Or did the newspaper just make it all up?’

‘We’ll have to find out. Do you want to come with us, Bertil?’ he asked dutifully.

Mellberg seemed to consider it for a moment but then shook his head. ‘No, I’ve got important matters to attend to. You two go.’

As tired as Mellberg looked, the important matters probably consisted of taking a nap, Patrik thought. But he was glad Mellberg wasn’t coming along.

‘Okay we’re off,’ said Patrik, nodding at Martin.

They walked rapidly over to the community centre. The police station stood at one end of Tanumshede’s short high street and the community centre at the other, so it took less than five minutes to walk there. The first thing they did was knock on the door of the bus that was parked outside. If they were in luck, the producer would be there; otherwise they’d have to phone him.

They were in luck, because the voice that told them to come in unquestionably belonged to Fredrik Rehn. He was going over the morning’s broadcast with one of the technicians and turned round in annoyance when they entered.

‘What is it this time?’ he said, not hiding the fact that he viewed the police investigation as a disruptive intrusion into his work. Much as he loved the attention that the investigation brought to the series, he hated the fact that the police occasionally had to take up his time and also bother the cast members.

‘We’d like to have a talk with you. And the cast members. Call together the whole group and tell them to come to the community centre. Immediately.’ Patrik’s patience was waning, and he had no intention of wasting time on polite phrases.

Fredrik Rehn, failing to grasp the gravity of the anger he was facing, began to object in a whining voice: ‘But they’re working. And we’re shooting. You can’t just –’

‘NOW!’ yelled Patrik, and both Rehn and the techs jumped in fright.

Muttering, the producer took his mobile and began ringing round to the mobile phones the cast were equipped with. After five calls he turned to Patrik and Martin and said sourly, ‘Assignment complete. They’ll be here in a few minutes. May I ask what is so bloody important that you barge in here and interrupt me in the middle of a million-kronor project? Which by the way happens to have the full support of your local leadership because it’s of great benefit to this very community!’

‘I’ll tell you in a few minutes,’ said Patrik as he left the bus with Martin. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rehn snatch up the phone again.

One by one the cast members trooped into the community centre. Some seemed annoyed at being pulled away from work on such short notice, while others, such as Uffe and Calle, seemed to welcome the interruption.

‘What’s this all about?’ said Uffe, sitting down on the edge of the big stage. He took out a pack of cigarettes and began to light one. Patrik snatched the unlit fag out of his mouth and tossed it in a wastepaper bin.

‘No smoking in here.’

‘What the fuck?’ said Uffe angrily, but didn’t dare protest anymore vigorously. Something about Patrik and Martin’s expressions told him they weren’t here to talk about the fire regulations.

Exactly eight minutes after Patrik had knocked on the bus door, the last participant sauntered in.

‘What now? God it’s like a funeral in here,’ said Tina with a laugh as she dropped onto one of the beds.

‘Shut up, Tina,’ said Rehn leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He intended to make sure that this interruption was as brief as possible. And he’d already begun ringing his contacts. He was in no mind to put up with any bloody police harassment. He was much too well paid for that.

‘You’re all here because we want to know one thing.’ Patrik looked round the room, locking eyes with each and every cast member in turn. ‘I want to know who found Lillemor’s diary. And who sold it to an evening newspaper.’

Rehn frowned. He looked taken aback. ‘Diary? What diary?’

‘The diary that the Evening News published extracts from today,’ said Patrik without looking at him. ‘All over the front page.’

‘Are we on the front page today?’ said Rehn, brightening up. ‘Wow, that’s great, I’ve got to see that …’

A look from Martin shut him up. But he couldn’t repress a smile. A headline was pure gold. Nothing else jacked up the ratings so high.

All the cast sat in silence. Uffe and Tina were the only ones who looked at the officers. Jonna, Calle and Mehmet stared at the floor, looking uncomfortable.

‘Either you tell me where this diary came from,’ Patrik continued, ‘who found it and where it is now, or I’m going to do everything in my power to shut you down. You’ve been able to continue filming only because we’ve allowed you to do so, but if you don’t tell me now …’ He left the words hanging in the air.

‘Jeez, somebody speak up,’ said Rehn, sounding stressed out. ‘If you know something, spit it out. If you know about it but refuse to talk, I’m going to squeeze the shit out of you and see to it that you never get near a television camera again.’ He lowered his voice and hissed, ‘I mean it. Spill the beans this minute or you’re terminated. Get it?’

Everyone squirmed. The silence was total in the big hall of the community centre. Finally Mehmet cleared his throat.

‘It was Tina. I saw her take it. Barbie kept it under her mattress.’

‘Shut the fuck up, you wanker!’ Tina snarled, her eyes shooting daggers at Mehmet. ‘They can’t do anything. Don’t you get it? Oh, you’re such a moron – all you had to do was keep your mouth shut.’

‘Now it’s your turn to shut up!’ yelled Patrik, walking over to Tina. She stopped talking as ordered and for the first time looked scared.

‘Who did you give the diary to?’

‘I can’t reveal my sources,’ Tina muttered in one last attempt to act cocky.

Jonna sighed and said, ‘You’re the one who’s the source, you prat.’ She was still looking at the floor and didn’t seem bothered that Tina turned and glared at her.

Patrik repeated his question, stressing every word, as if talking to a child. ‘Who – did – you – give – the – diary – to?’

Tina reluctantly gave the name of the journalist, and Patrik turned on his heel without wasting another word on her.

As he swept past Fredrik Rehn, the producer said wretchedly, ‘Now what happens? You didn’t really mean anything by … I mean, we can keep on shooting, can’t we? My boss …’ Rehn realized he was talking to deaf ears and shut up.

At the door Patrik turned round. ‘You can keep on making fools of yourselves on TV. But if you interfere with this investigation again in any way whatsoever …’ He let the threat hang in the air without finishing it.

Behind him he left a silent, depressed cast. Tina looked crushed, but she gave Mehmet a glare that told him she had more to say to him.

‘Back to work. We have camera time to make up.’ Rehn waved them out of the community centre. They shuffled off in the direction of the street. The show had to go on.

‘What happened?’ Simon cast a worried look at Mehmet as he put his apron back on.

‘Nothing. Just a bunch of shit.’

‘Do you think this is healthy? To keep filming after a girl was killed? It seems a bit –’

‘A bit what?’ said Mehmet. ‘A bit unfeeling? A bit tasteless?’ He raised his voice. ‘And we’re just a bunch of brain-dead cretins who get drunk and fuck on TV and make fools of ourselves. Right? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? Did you ever think that it might be a better option than what we have at home? That it’s a chance to escape from something that’s going to catch up with us in the end?’ The words stuck in his throat, and Simon gently pushed him down onto a chair in the back of the bakery.

‘What’s all this about, anyway? For you, I mean,’ said Simon, and sat down facing him.

‘For me?’ Mehmet’s voice was filled with bitterness. ‘It’s about rebelling. Trampling everything that has any value. Trampling everything to bits until they can’t try to make me glue all the pieces back together.’ He hid his face in his hands and sobbed. Simon ran his hand down Mehmet’s back with soft, rhythmic strokes.

‘You don’t want to live the life they want you to live?’

‘Yes and no.’ Mehmet raised his eyes and looked at Simon. ‘It’s not that they’re forcing me, or threatening to send me back to Turkey or anything like that. Not the sort of thing you Swedes always think is foremost on the mind of every immigrant. It’s more a matter of expectations. And sacrifices. Mamma and Pappa have sacrificed so much for us, for me. So that we, their children, could have a better life in a country where we have all sorts of opportunities. They left everything behind. Their home, their families, the respect they had from their peers, their professions, everything. Solely so that we could have a better life than they did. For them it only got worse. I can see that. I see the longing in their eyes. I see Turkey in their eyes. That country doesn’t mean the same thing to me. I was born here in Sweden. Turkey is a place we go to in the summertime, but it’s not inside my heart. But I don’t belong here either. Here in this country where I’m supposed to fulfil their dreams, their hopes. I’m not a studious type. My sisters are, but oddly enough I, the son, am not. Yet I’m the bearer of my father’s name. The one who will carry it forward to the next generation. I just want to work. With my hands. I don’t have any great ambitions. It’s enough for me to go home and feel that I’ve done good work with my hands. But my parents refuse to understand. So I have to crush their dream, once and for all. Stamp it out. Until there’s nothing left.’ The tears were streaming down Mehmet’s cheeks, and the warmth he felt from Simon’s hands only intensified the pain. He was so tired of it all. He was so tired of never being good enough. He was so tired of lying about who he was.

He slowly raised his head. Simon’s face was only a few inches from his own. Simon gave him a questioning look as his warm hands that smelled like fresh bread wiped away Mehmet’s tears. Then Simon gently brushed his lips against his. Mehmet was surprised how right it felt, with Simon’s lips pressed to his. Then he lost himself in a reality that he’d always glimpsed but never dared see.

‘I’d like to have a word with Bertil. Is he in?’ said Erling, winking at Annika.

‘Go on through,’ she said curtly. ‘You know where his office is.’

‘Thank you,’ said Erling, winking again. He couldn’t understand why his charm didn’t seem to work on Annika.

He hurried off to Mellberg’s office and knocked on the door. There was no answer, so he knocked again. Now a vague mumbling was heard, followed by what sounded like something being knocked over, then more mumbling. Finally the door opened. Mellberg looked groggy. Behind him a blanket and pillow lay on the sofa. There was also a clear impression left by the pillow on Mellberg’s face.

‘Bertil, are you taking a nap in the middle of the morning?’ Erling had given a lot of thought to what sort of attitude he should take with the chief of police, and had decided to start with a light, comradely tone and then transition to a more serious approach. He didn’t usually have much trouble handling Mellberg. Whenever matters landed on his desk that involved the police, he had always secured a painless and smooth cooperation with the help of flattery and an occasional bottle of fine whisky. He saw no reason it should be any different this time.

‘Well, you know,’ said Mellberg, looking embarrassed. ‘There’s been a lot going on lately, and it’s rather exhausting.’

‘Yes, I understand that you’ve been working hard,’ said Erling. To his surprise he saw a deep blush spread over the chief’s face.

‘How can I assist you?’ said Mellberg, pointing to a chair.

Erling sat down and said with a deeply concerned expression, ‘Well, I just got a phone call from the producer of Sodding Tanum. Evidently some of your officers threatened to shut down the production. I have to say that I was both surprised and dismayed when I heard about it. I thought we’d established good cooperation. So, Bertil, I was very disappointed. Do you have any explanation?’

Far from looking suitably cowed, the chief stared back at him, making no attempt to reply to the accusation. Erling began to feel uneasy. Maybe he should have brought along a bottle of whisky. Just in case.

‘Erling …’ Mellberg said, and his tone of voice gave Erling W. Larson a feeling that maybe he’d gone a bit too far this time. ‘We’re conducting a homicide investigation. In case you had forgotten, a young woman has been brutally murdered. Someone associated with the production has not only withheld important evidence from us but also sold it to the press. Frankly, I’m inclined to agree with my colleagues that the best solution would be to shut the whole thing down.’

Erling could feel himself starting to sweat. Rehn had omitted to mention this minor detail. This was bad. He stammered, ‘Is it … Is it in today’s paper?’

‘Yes,’ said Mellberg. ‘On the front page and then in the centre section of the paper. Extracts from a diary that the murdered woman apparently was keeping, although we didn’t know about it. Someone withheld the information from us. Instead, the individual chose to go to the Evening News and sell the diary.’

‘I had no idea,’ said Larson, going over in his mind the conversation he was going to have with Rehn as soon as he left the police station.

‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t pull the plug on this project this instant.’

For once, Erling was lost for words. He looked at Mellberg, who chuckled.

‘Defenceless at last. I never thought I’d see the day. But I’ll be fair. I know there are plenty of people who enjoy looking at this shit. So we’ll let it continue for a while yet. But at the first sign of trouble …’ Mellberg pointed a threatening finger and Erling nodded gratefully. He’d been lucky. He shuddered at the thought of how humiliating it would have been to stand before the town council and confess that the project couldn’t go on.

He was on his way out the door when he heard Mellberg say something. He turned round.

‘You know, my supply of whisky at home is running low. You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle to spare, would you?’

Mellberg winked, and Erling gave him a strained smile. He would have liked to ram the bottle down Mellberg’s throat. Instead he heard himself say, ‘Certainly, Bertil, I’ll take care of it.’

The last thing he saw before the door closed behind him was Mellberg’s satisfied smile.

‘Talk about low,’ said Calle with a look at Tina as she loaded a tray with drinks to take over to a table.

‘Easy for you to say, swimming in your pappa’s cash!’ Tina snapped, about to tip over the glass of beer she’d just set on the tray.

‘You know, there are some things people don’t do for money.’

‘“There are some things people don’t do for money”,’ Tina mocked him in falsetto, with a grimace. ‘Jesus Christ, where do you get off, being so self-righteous? And that fucking Mehmet! I’m going to kill that shithead!’

‘Oh, cool it,’ said Calle, leaning on the bar. ‘They were threatening to lock down the whole shoot unless somebody talked. But you seemed more interested in saving your own skin. You have no right to drag the rest of us down with you.’

‘They were just bluffing, don’t you get it? No fucking way would they shut down the only thing that’s ever brought any attention to this town. They’re living for this!’

‘Well, at any rate I don’t think it’s Mehmet’s fault. If I’d seen you take that diary I would have grassed too.’

‘I bet you would, you fucking wimp,’ said Tina. She was so furious that her hands were shaking as she held the tray. ‘The problem with you is that you spend all your time waving your pappa’s credit card, gliding through life, refusing to do anything useful, and getting a free ride off everybody else. It’s so fucking pathetic! And then you think you can tell me what’s right and what’s wrong! At least I’m doing something with my life and have a bit of ambition. And I have talent, no matter what Barbie said!’

‘So that’s what this is all about,’ said Calle scornfully. ‘She wrote something about your so-called singing career and you decided to throw her to the wolves in the media. I heard what you were on about the night she died. You couldn’t stand the fact that she was saying what everyone else was thinking.’

‘She told everyone I would never amount to anything, that I had no talent. And then she tried to deny it. She said that she was being set up, and that somebody was lying. But then I saw that she’d written it in her diary, so it was true after all! She really had gone round spreading shit about me to everybody else.’ Tina knocked over one of the glasses. The glass shattered, spilling beer all over the place.

‘FUCK!’ said Tina, setting down the tray with the remaining beers. She grabbed a broom and began sweeping up the glass shards. ‘Jesus H. Fucking Hell.’

‘Hey,’ Calle said calmly. ‘I never heard Barbie say a mean word about you. What I heard was that she tried to encourage you. And you said the very same thing in that last session with Lars. You cried some crocodile tears too, as I recall.’

‘You don’t think I’m so daft that I would talk shit about a dead person, do you?’ she said, sweeping up the last of the broken glass.

‘No matter what she wrote in her diary, you can’t blame her. She was just writing the truth. You can’t sing worth shit, and if I were you I’d start filling out my application to McDonald’s right now.’ He laughed and cast a hasty glance at the camera.

Tina dropped her broom on the floor and took a quick step towards him. She put her face up to his and hissed, ‘You should talk, Calle. You weren’t the only one who heard what was said the night she died. You were going at her pretty hard too. Something about the fact that your mother committed suicide because of your father. But she claimed she didn’t say that either. So I’d keep my mouth shut if I were you.’

She picked up the tray and went out the door to the restaurant. Calle’s face had lost all colour. Inside he was playing back all the taunts and the harsh words he’d flung at Barbie on that night. He also remembered everyone’s look of disbelief when he shouted his accusations at her. Her tear-filled assurance that she’d never said, and never could have said, anything like that. The worst thing was that he couldn’t shake off the feeling that she had spoken the truth.

‘Patrik, have you got a minute?’ Annika stopped talking when she saw he was on the phone.

He held up a finger as a sign for her to wait. He seemed to be winding up his conversation.

‘Okay, agreed then,’ Patrik said in annoyance. ‘We’ll get access to the diary and you’ll receive first-hand information when and if we apprehend the perpetrator.’

He slammed down the receiver and turned to Annika with a harassed expression. ‘Fucking idiots,’ he said with a sigh.

‘The reporter from the Evening News?’ said Annika, taking a seat.

‘Yep. Now I’ve officially made a pact with the Devil. I might have been able to worm the diary out of him, but it would have taken time. We’ve already wasted three days on this. So I’ve promised to toss them their pound of flesh.’

‘Right,’ said Annika. Only now did Patrik notice that she was impatient to say something.

‘And what do you have on your mind?’

‘The APB that I sent out on Monday has produced a result,’ she said, unable to hide her satisfaction.

‘Already?’ said Patrik in surprise.

‘Yes, for once the media attention that’s been directed at Tanumshede has actually proved useful.’

‘So what have you got?’

‘Two more cases,’ she said, looking at her notes. ‘At least the way they died matches one hundred per cent. And … in both cases the police found the same anomalies that we found after Rasmus and Marit died.’

‘No shit?’ said Patrik, leaning forward. ‘Tell me everything you know.’

‘One case is from Lund. A man in his fifties who died six years ago. He was a serious alcoholic, and even though they noticed some questionable injuries, it was assumed that he had drunk himself to death.’ She looked up at Patrik, who motioned her to go on.

‘The second fatality took place ten years ago. This time in Nyköping. A woman in her seventies. It was labelled a murder, but the case was never solved.’

‘So we have two more murders,’ said Patrik, feeling the enormity of the responsibility now resting on his shoulders. ‘Making a total of four murders that seem to be linked.’

‘That’s what it looks like,’ said Annika, removing her glasses and twirling them in her fingers.

‘Four murders,’ said Patrik wearily. Fatigue had cast a grey pallor over his face.

‘Four. Not to mention the murder of Lillemor Persson. I must say I think we’ve reached the limit of our capacity,’ said Annika gravely.

‘What are you saying? You think we should call in the National Criminal Police?’ Patrik gave her a thoughtful look, sensing that she had a point. On the other hand, they were the ones who could see the big picture, which might bring together all the pieces of the puzzle. It would take cooperation among the districts, but he still believed that they were capable of pulling it off.

‘We’ll start on our own, then see whether we need help,’ he said, and Annika nodded. If that was what Patrik wanted, then that was how things would be done.

‘When do you intend to present this information to Mellberg?’ she said, waving her notes.

‘As soon as I’ve spoken with whoever was in charge of the investigations in Lund and Nyköping. Have you got the contact info?’

Annika nodded. ‘I’ll leave my notes with you. Everything you need is there.’

He gave her a grateful look. She stopped as she was going out the door.

‘Serial killer, you think?’ she said, hardly believing that she was saying such a thing.

‘Looks like it,’ said Patrik. Then he picked up the phone and started making calls.

‘What a nice place you have.’ Anna looked around the ground floor of the house.

‘Well, it’s a bit cold. Pernilla took half the furniture, and I … I haven’t managed to buy replacements. And now it looks like it’s not such a great idea. I have to sell the house, and I won’t be able to squeeze much into the new flat.’

Anna gave him a sympathetic look. ‘That is tough,’ she said, and he nodded.

‘Yes, it is. But I mean, compared with what you’ve been through, well …’

Anna smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t expect everyone to compare their troubles with mine. Everyone has their own problems. I understand that.’

‘Thanks,’ said Dan with a big smile. ‘So what you’re saying is that I’m entitled to grumble as much as I like?’

‘Well, maybe not that much,’ said Anna with a laugh. She went to the stairs and pointed up with a questioning look.

‘Sure, go up and take a look. I even made the beds and picked up the laundry from the floor today, so there’s no danger that you’ll be attacked by any boxer shorts.’

Anna grimaced and then laughed again. She’d been laughing a lot lately. It seemed as though she had a couple of months’ worth of laughing to catch up on.

By the time she came back downstairs, Dan had made a few open sandwiches for them.

‘Mmm, looks good,’ she said, sitting down at the table.

‘I thought you looked a bit peckish. Sandwiches are all I can offer. The girls cleaned out the fridge, and I haven’t had time to shop.’

‘Sandwiches are fine,’ said Anna, taking a big bite of the bread and cheese.

‘How’s it going with planning the festivities?’ Dan asked. ‘From what I hear, Patrik’s been working round the clock, and it’s less than four weeks until D-Day!’

‘Yes, you might say that we have to get a move on … But Erica and I are doing our best. So I think we’ll manage. As long as Patrik’s mother stays out of it.’

‘What’s that about?’ Dan asked, and got a lively description of Kristina’s latest visit.

‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ he said, but he still couldn’t help laughing.

‘I swear,’ said Anna. ‘It really was that bad.’

‘Poor Erica,’ said Dan. ‘And here I thought that Pernilla’s mother was an interfering old bat when we got married.’ He shook his head.

‘Do you miss her?’ Anna asked, and Dan pretended to misunderstand.

‘Pernilla’s mother? No, not a bit, actually.’

‘Oh, come on, you know who I mean.’ She gave him a searching look.

Dan paused to think for a moment. ‘No, I can honestly say that I don’t anymore. I did for a while, but I’m not so sure that it was Pernilla I missed. It was more what we had, as a family, if you know what I mean.’

‘Yes and no,’ said Anna, all at once looking extremely sad. ‘What I think you’re saying is that you missed the daily life, the security, the predictability. I never had that with Lucas. Ever. But in the midst of the fear, and then the terror, that was probably what I was longing for most. Daily routines, predictability. Ordinary life.’

Dan placed his hand on hers. ‘You don’t have to talk about it.’

‘That’s okay,’ she said, blinking back the tears. ‘I’ve talked so much these past few weeks that I’m getting tired of hearing my own voice. And you’ve listened and listened to all my miseries. You must be sick of hearing my voice.’ She laughed and wiped away her tears with the paper napkin.

Dan still had his hand on hers. ‘I’m not at all sick of listening to you. As far as I’m concerned, you could keep talking twenty-four seven.’

A comfortable silence followed as they looked at each other. The warmth of Dan’s hand spread through Anna’s body, thawing out parts that she hadn’t even known were frozen. Dan opened his mouth to say something, but just then Anna’s mobile rang. They gave a start and Anna pulled away her hand to fish out her phone. She looked at the display.

‘Erica,’ she said, and got up to take the call.

This time Patrik had chosen to meet with his colleagues in the kitchen. What he intended to present was a bit overwhelming, to say the least, and strong coffee and some buns would probably be welcome. He waited for the others to sit down but remained standing. They all looked at him in suspense as they came in. It was plain that something was going on, but Annika hadn’t said a word, so none of the others knew what it was about. Only that it was something big. A bird flew past the kitchen window, and everyone’s eyes reflexively followed the movement but quickly turned back to Patrik.

‘Get yourselves some coffee and buns, then we’ll get started,’ Patrik said, his voice solemn. They’d all poured themselves a cup and murmured to one another to pass around the basket of buns. Then they fell silent.

‘Annika sent out a nationwide query at my request on Monday. Asking about fatalities which showed similarities with the murders of Rasmus and Marit.’

Hanna raised a hand. ‘What exactly did the query say?’

‘What we sent out was a list of items that were common to both murders: the way the victims died and the objects found near the bodies.’

The latter was news to Gösta and Hanna, and they leaned forward to hear more.

‘What sort of objects?’ said Gösta.

Patrik glanced over at Martin and said, ‘When Martin and I went through the knapsack that Rasmus had with him when he died, we found something that was also found near Marit. In her case it was on the seat next to her in the car. We didn’t pay attention to it at first, since we thought it was simply some junk that was in the car. But when we found the same thing in the knapsack, then …’ He threw out his hands.

‘Well, what was it?’ Gösta leaned forward even more.

‘A page torn out of a book. A children’s book,’ Patrik said.

‘A children’s book?’ Gösta repeated incredulously. Hanna also looked confounded.

‘Yes, the pages were from Hansel and Gretel. You know, from the Grimms’ fairy tale.’

‘You’re kidding,’ said Gösta.

‘Sadly I’m not. And that’s not all. That information, combined with details about the way Rasmus and Marit died, have led us to two other cases that might be connected to ours.’

‘Two more cases?’ Now it was Martin who sounded incredulous.

Patrik nodded. ‘Yes, the information came in this morning. Two other fatalities that fit the pattern. One in Nyköping and one in Lund.’

‘Two more cases?’ Martin seemed to be having trouble taking in the facts that Patrik was presenting. Patrik understood why.

‘Are you certain that these four cases are related?’ said Hanna. ‘The whole thing sounds too unbelievable.’

‘The victims all died in exactly the same way, and there were pages torn out of the same book placed near each body. We can assume that the cases are related,’ Patrik said dryly. He was surprised and offended at being doubted. ‘In any event, we’re going to proceed with the investigation, or investigations, based on the assumption that there is a connection.’

Martin raised his hand. ‘Were the other victims also teetotallers?’

Patrik shook his head slowly. That was the one thing that bothered him the most. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The victim in Lund was a confirmed alcoholic, and the police had no information about the drinking habits of the victim in Nyköping. But I thought you and I should drive over and talk with them. Check out the details.’

Martin nodded. ‘When do we leave?’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Patrik. ‘If nobody has anything to add, perhaps we can adjourn the meeting and get to work. If there’s anything that seems unclear, I suggest that you read through the summary I’ve prepared. Annika has made copies, so you each can take one on the way out.’

As they broke up, nobody spoke. They were each thinking about the scope of the investigation they were now facing. And they all tried to accept the idea that ‘serial killer’ would have to become part of their vocabulary. That had never been necessary in the history of the Tanumshede police force.

Gösta turned round when he heard someone behind him in the doorway.

‘Martin and I are leaving tomorrow. We should be gone two days,’ said Patrik.

‘Yes?’ said Gösta.

‘I thought you and Hanna could work on some other angles in the meantime. Check through Marit’s file, for instance. I’ve read it so many times now that I think it would be good to have a fresh pair of eyes. And do the same thing with whatever we have on Rasmus Olsson. Martin has started compiling a list of people who own Galgo Español dogs; it would be good if we could keep working on that aspect too. Talk to Martin this afternoon and see how far he’s got. What else? Oh yes, the reporter at the Evening News faxed over some copies from Lillemor’s diary. We’re getting the original too, but it’s coming by mail and we can’t wait for it. I’m taking along a set of copies in the car, but you and Hanna might as well take a look at them too.’

Gösta nodded wearily.

‘That’s it,’ said Patrik. ‘We’re taking off. Will you fill Hanna in?’

Gösta nodded. Even more wearily. It was a pain to have to work so hard. He was going to be exhausted by the time the golf season started.