Thursday Afternoon

After a couple of rather bland sausages with completely tasteless potatoes in white sauce at a roadside tavern, and a few moments of escape from reality into a gossip magazine, Sjöberg was back in the car. Now he was almost at Solberga and found himself on a long lane that led up to a majestic building with yellow plastered walls and white corners, flanked by two free-standing wings. The buildings were surrounded on three sides by meadowland. He guessed that the lake mentioned in the brochure was located on the far side of the estate.

He drove on to the verge and turned off the engine. Before he continued up to the nursing home he wanted to exchange a few words with Hamad and get a progress report, so he took out his mobile and entered the speed-dial number.

‘Hamad.’

‘You answered before there was any ringtone.’

‘The phone buzzed. How’s it going?’

Sjöberg gave a brief and perfunctory account of his unproductive meeting with Ingegärd Rydin.

‘So we can forget her. Now I’m standing outside Solberga, about to go in and talk to Einar’s wife. How’s it going with you?’

‘No Einar Eriksson has left the country by air anyway. He hasn’t booked boat or train tickets in his own name either, so he must have bought a ticket on site, driven a car or made use of false identity documents.’

‘We’re working on the assumption that he is still in the country and still alive,’ Sjöberg pointed out.

Hamad mumbled something inaudible in response.

‘You’re doubtful?’

‘I think he’s fled the country, because the passport is gone. Or possibly he’s hiding himself somewhere in the country, but that seems a little stupid. Then we would get him sooner or later. We’re finding traces of him in particular everywhere, not of anyone else. And with the blood on the shoes too –’

‘Have you spoken to Sandén?’

‘Yes.’

Sjöberg felt a certain irritation, but didn’t show it as he presented his line of reasoning as factually as he was able for Hamad too.

‘I hear what you’re saying, but my experience tells me that things are usually what they seem to be.’

At this comment, Sjöberg decided to give up trying to bring his colleagues round to his point of view and to accept their scepticism. He was the one leading the investigation anyway, and they had to follow his orders. He changed the subject.

‘And the computer?’ he asked.

‘So far I haven’t found anything of interest,’ Hamad replied. ‘But there’s a fair amount left to go through.’

‘I want you to go through the papers on Einar’s desk too. And the ones on the bookshelf. Investigate both the jobs he is working on now and old cases and look in particular for someone who could have a motive to get revenge on Einar.’

Hamad let out a long sigh but Sjöberg pretended not to notice it.

‘Okay?’

‘Okay. And the interviews? What do I do about them?’

‘Put those off until you’re finished with the paperwork. There isn’t as much as it seems. Good luck.’

‘The same to you.’

Sjöberg drove the last stretch up to the impressive manor house. He left the car in the car park outside one of the wings and walked across the meticulously raked gravel to the main entrance. The snow had melted here and there in the well-tended flowerbeds next to the wall of the house, and for the first time this year he noticed the snowdrops that stood in white clumps, announcing better times to come. It was still too early for the crocuses they would share the flowerbeds with. A few tender leaves had worked their way up out of the hard ground, but they appeared to be waiting until spring showed its intentions more clearly.

Sjöberg went up the steps and rang the bell by the side of the door, but hearing no sound from inside he opened the door and went in.

Now he suddenly found himself in a very ordinary reception area, which didn’t fit at all with the property’s classic exterior. Behind a semi-glazed wall sat an older woman in a white coat with a pair of glasses hanging on a cord around her neck. She looked up at him as he approached and opened the counter window with a friendly smile.

‘Hi,’ said Sjöberg. ‘I’m here to see Solveig Eriksson.’

‘Oh,’ said the nurse, with a rather surprised expression. ‘She’s in room 230. You take the lift over there up to the third floor. She has the room furthest to the left in the corridor to the right as you leave the lift.’

Sjöberg thanked her and made his way over to the lift, past a group of sofas whose design went better with the institution itself than with the manorial architecture. On the way up it struck him that perhaps he ought to have brought something with him, flowers or a box of chocolates. He rejected the idea, however, remembering that he was there on business and had little knowledge of Solveig Eriksson’s possible allergies or her tastes in general.

The corridor was painted white and the only window was located at the far end. Between the patients’ doors hung framed posters of classic artworks, and here and there some large potted rubber plants had been placed on the floor. Sjöberg drew a leaf between his thumb and index finger and noted that the plants were artificial. Nothing living could survive with so little sunlight. He went over to the last in the row of doors on the left and knocked. Softly at first, but when he got no answer he knocked again, with a little more authority. He got no response this time either, so he pressed down the handle and the door opened.

Like a scene from a film he saw a woman with her back to him in a chair by the window, with a blanket over her legs and her forearms on the armrests. She sat without moving as he stepped into the light room, which to his surprise was personally furnished. It was a corner room and in both windows were living plants in attractive pots. The bed standing against the wall next to the corridor was carefully made and covered with a traditional patchwork quilt, and on the bedside table stood a wedding photo similar to the one he had seen at Einar’s, in a lovely old silver frame. By the other windowless wall was an old-fashioned dresser, and on it stood framed photographs depicting younger versions of the Eriksson couple in various situations. In the middle of the room was a neat little group of rococo-style sofas, and a table adorned with a round lace cloth and a begonia. Books and a TV, it struck Sjöberg, were all that was missing here. This woman must read books, since she was here year in and year out, mustn’t she?

He walked over to the window with deliberately loud steps, so that she would hear him or at least sense that someone was approaching. But she still sat completely motionless.

‘Hi, Solveig,’ said Sjöberg, who could now see her face.

She stared expressionlessly down at the grounds without responding to his greeting. He placed his hand on her shoulder to make his presence felt.

‘My name is Conny Sjöberg and I work with your husband.’

No reaction.

‘Einar,’ said Sjöberg. ‘Einar and I work together in the police.’

Her expression showed no sign that she heard him or understood what he was saying. The beautiful young woman in the bridal photo was unrecognizable in the bent, skinny creature he now saw before him. Her hair was chalk white and cut short and not a hint of life was visible in her eyes. Sjöberg asked himself what could have happened to her. Had she been sitting like this since the mid-seventies? A shiver passed through his body when he thought about Einar, who had taken the trouble to drive here and sit with her every Saturday for so many years. What did he do? Did he talk to her? Did he sit with her on the sofa and put his arm around her and tell her about his week?

Suddenly it occurred to Sjöberg what a great human being Einar must be. So loyal. ‘For better or for worse’ was something Einar Eriksson obviously took with the utmost seriousness. He had not bought the townhouse with the intention of living there himself, but in the hope that Solveig would recover her health so that they could live there together. No one could criticize him for getting involved with another woman in the past two years. Personally Sjöberg would have given up much sooner. But Einar had still not abandoned the woman he had once married, not even since he’d met Catherine Larsson. Sjöberg took Solveig Eriksson’s hand.

‘Solveig,’ he said, ‘can you show me that you hear what I’m saying? Just move your fingers a little. I know Einar, Solveig. Einar.’

The limp fingers in his hand did not move and her gaze was still directed towards something indeterminate outside the window.

‘Do you think Einar is capable of murder, Solveig? Could Einar murder two small children?’

Still no reaction. If she had heard him, registered what he said, wouldn’t she at least have become a little curious? He asked himself how she would react if he struck her, gave her a slap. But that was not a method he intended to try. Instead he tried to seem threatening. Threats and bribes were well-proven methods where children were concerned, but in this case he felt doubtful of success. He let go of her hand and noticed how it landed limply on the blanket on her lap.

‘Einar is gone, Solveig. He has disappeared. If you don’t help me, perhaps he will never come to visit you again.’

But Solveig Eriksson simply stared vacantly ahead of her, so Sjöberg gave up at last and left her.

When he came back down to reception the woman behind the counter window was no longer there. He knocked on the window and a man in his thirties came out from a back room.

‘I would like to speak to someone who knows Solveig Eriksson,’ said Sjöberg.

‘We all do,’ the man said with a smile.

‘Preferably someone who already worked here when she first came. Let’s say the one who has worked at Solberga the longest.’

‘Then, let’s see, that must be Ann-Britt. I’ll call her. Who shall I say is looking for her?’

‘Conny Sjöberg. I’m a chief inspector at the Violent Crimes Unit in Stockholm,’ he added, and the nurse raised his eyebrows in curiosity before he picked up the phone.

After a couple of tries he got a bite. He showed Sjöberg to the seating area and suggested that he should wait there until Ann-Britt showed up.

‘It may take a while. She’s busy with one of the residents right now, but she will come as soon as she’s finished.’

Sjöberg sat down on a rather annoyingly hard waiting-room chair and, incongruously enough, browsed through an interior-decorating magazine while he waited. After ten minutes the man in reception showed up again with a glass of orange juice, which he set in front of Sjöberg.

‘It’s dragged on, I’m afraid,’ he apologized. ‘Ann-Britt is coming as soon as she can.’

Sjöberg smiled gratefully at the nurse, who left an aroma of soap behind him in the waiting room. He happened to think of Margit. Uncalled-for solicitude. Pleasant. Pleasure. Soft sound of feet in sensible shoes. But then: long corridors, stretchers, disinfectant and shiny silver bedpans. From nowhere suddenly he was imagining himself on an operating table. With Margit’s face looming over him, her eyes inspecting him, her mouth covered. He was helpless and dependent; she had stainless-steel instruments and her hands were in gloves. Sterile. Threatening.

The image was so unexpected, so overwhelming that he was trembling as he reached for the glass. Terrified as he was, he noted that his subconscious was doing its part to take the life out of that … affair. That woman.

After another twenty minutes and another two home-decor magazines, Ann-Britt Berg finally appeared. She turned out to be the woman he had spoken to on reception when he arrived. She looked to be in her sixties, so she could conceivably have been an employee when Solveig Eriksson first came here.

‘Ann-Britt Berg,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘I’m sorry I took so long. I was helping a colleague shower a resident who’s a little troublesome, so you can’t do the job alone.’

Sjöberg responded to her greeting and introduced himself as well.

‘I’ve never seen you here before. Are you a relative of Solveig?’ asked the nurse.

‘No, I’m here on duty. I need to speak to someone who has known Solveig a long time and I understand that you’ve been here for a while. Were you by any chance already here when she was admitted?’

‘We don’t usually put it that way,’ Ann-Britt Berg said with a smile. ‘We see it as a residence rather than a hospital. Solveig is not even bedridden, for that matter. But yes, I’ve worked here since 1972, for almost thirty-six years.’

‘What is wrong with her?’

‘That I’m afraid I cannot answer. It’s confidential.’

‘How about if I put it like this,’ Sjöberg attempted. ‘I have visited her and I could see more or less what is wrong with her. She seems catatonic, so I would guess at post-traumatic stress or something similar. Was she like that already when she came here or has that happened since?’

‘You must understand,’ she said imploringly, ‘we really are not allowed to talk about our residents with anyone other than family. I can be reprimanded if I say too much. Even reported to the police.’

Sjöberg put on his most authoritative police face and continued in a very friendly but firm manner.

‘Now it happens to be the case that her only relative, her husband, Einar, has been missing for the past five days. I am investigating his disappearance and I imagine that it is in Solveig’s interest that we find him. For that reason I need answers to certain questions.’

‘But Solveig has no information to give. She doesn’t talk to anyone, not even to Einar, although he sits with her every Saturday.’

‘That’s why I’m asking you. You can just nod or shake your head, can’t you, so no one can blame you for having said too much?’

She did not reply but looked at him with a worried expression.

‘Was she like this when she first came here?’ Sjöberg repeated.

Ann-Britt Berg looked nervously around, but she nodded cautiously. Sjöberg felt relieved that, having had the bad luck to encounter three interviewees who were tongue-tied (including his mother), he might now get something useful out of the fourth. He cast a glance towards the counter window, but saw that it was closed and that no one could hear them right now.

‘Was that the reason she was admitted to Solberga?’ he continued.

The nurse nodded again.

‘There is no other medical reason for her being here?’

She shook her head, starting to look more relaxed now.

‘Does she have any other medical problems?’

No.

‘Has her condition changed during the years she has been here?’

No, it hadn’t.

‘Does she function physically? Can she walk?’

Nod.

‘Does she manage her hygiene herself?’

After some reflection, which Sjöberg put down to general human consideration rather than issues of medical confidentiality, he got a shake of the head in reply.

‘Does she eat on her own?’

No.

‘Is this a question of post-traumatic stress?’

She answered with a light shrug and looked carefully around before she dared to answer verbally.

‘Possibly. It’s hard to make any diagnosis in a case like this. Some doctors call it generalized mutism.’

‘And how does one get it? Is it contagious?’ Sjöberg asked jokingly to lighten the heavy atmosphere a little.

Ann-Britt Berg smiled gratefully at him.

‘Of course it’s not, but presumably it is due to stress. Because you’ve been involved in something traumatic or because you are unhappy and close yourself off from your surroundings.’

‘So you can choose to be like this?’ said Sjöberg, deliberately provocative.

‘Well, you could say that, in a way, but primarily I guess it’s about not being able to cope with life.’

‘A kind of alternative to suicide?’

‘I feel that we’re out on pretty thin ice now,’ she said frankly. ‘I haven’t studied psychology. I’m just a nurse; you should probably speak to a doctor or psychologist about it.’

‘And in Solveig’s case?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What is the reason that Solveig Eriksson suffers from post-traumatic stress?’

‘I really don’t know,’ the nurse replied. ‘I seem to recall that I asked Einar about it a long time ago, but I never got an answer. There were probably some staff who knew, but I was only a young whippersnapper back then and they didn’t tell me everything. But I remember that there was something hush-hush.’

‘What is Einar like? Do you know him?’

‘Of course I know Einar. He’s quiet, you could say. Very friendly. And he is quite fanatical about Solveig, never lets her down. Takes her out on long walks. He usually lets her walk the first stretch, for the exercise, then he pushes her in a wheelchair. I’ve heard him sit and talk to her in her room, and he never gets an answer. He does not get so much as a look and yet he still visits her after all these years.’

‘Do you know anything else about Einar?’ Sjöberg asked. ‘There at least you have no confidentiality rules to break,’ he added with a teasing wink.

‘Well, confidentiality applies equally to the relatives,’ Ann-Britt Berg replied. ‘But I don’t know much. I know he’s a policeman. He continued to live in Arboga for the first two or three years, but then he moved to Stockholm. Perhaps he came to realize that Solveig’s condition would not change, so I guess he made a fresh start. Job-wise, I mean.’

‘He didn’t have a new woman?’

‘I don’t know that, of course. As I said he’s not particularly talkative. But I do think he has seemed a little happier in the past few years.’

‘Really?’

This was not something Sjöberg had noticed at work, but on the other hand Einar’s reputation as a sourpuss had long been solidly established, and he was presumably routinely treated as such. Which contributed to his remaining a sourpuss.

‘I have to admit that I happened to overhear something he said to Solveig on one occasion,’ Ann-Britt said, a little self-consciously. ‘He spoke with warmth about a woman and some small children. He took care of them when the woman was working, he said. Picked them up from preschool and played with them. He said that it was quite wonderful and I interpreted that as more than a normal friendship. But it would be a little strange of course if he were to describe his new family in lyrical terms to his wife. Even if she doesn’t care what he says. I probably misunderstood the whole thing.’

Sjöberg reflected on this for a moment. Perhaps it was still his wife Einar turned to when he needed to talk, as he had once been in the habit of doing. The reserved Einar Eriksson aired everyday concerns and the joys of life to the woman who had once, long ago, chosen to share them with him. Was it because he believed she could hear him? Because she was a person who never could abuse his trust? To fill the silent room with the sound of his voice and formulate thoughts and feelings that otherwise would never be expressed? Or could it be because he believed she might react to this particular information? In that case had he expected a positive or negative reaction? Perhaps he wanted to hurt her. Presumably he just wanted to wake her from this eternal mental lethargy.

‘Does she have any other visitors?’ asked Sjöberg.

‘No, never. Her parents used to come, but they’re both dead, have been for many years. Now it’s only Einar who visits. What do you think could have happened to him?’

‘No idea,’ Sjöberg lied.

He saw no reason to cast Einar in a bad light with the staff at Solberga. The fact that he was missing was enough.

‘So he left Solberga at about nine on Saturday evening?’ he asked instead.

‘Yes, he did,’ Ann-Britt Berg replied. ‘He comes at nine and leaves at nine. Same thing every Saturday.’

‘Does he usually bring her things?’

‘Sometimes. The kind of thing she may have use for: new clothes when they’re needed.’

‘And last Saturday?’

‘Nothing last Saturday. I was the one who received him then.’

‘No farewell gift then. Nothing that suggested that he intended to go away,’ Sjöberg thought out loud.

Nurse Ann-Britt shook her head with a worried expression. Sjöberg changed tack.

‘She doesn’t read? I didn’t see any books, newspapers or a TV in her room.’

‘No, she doesn’t. Solveig is not interested in the outside world whatsoever. We have a TV in the residents’ lounge, and sometimes we sit her there, but she never looks at the TV. Instead she always has her gaze directed at something else in the room. She takes no notice of the other residents either, or the staff for that matter. She screens herself off from everything and everyone.’

‘That sounds like pure torture. She has never injured herself physically? Tried to kill herself?’

‘Nothing like that, but she does not show many human reactions in general, if I may say so. The ones who injure themselves usually do it to feel that they are alive. I have a feeling that Solveig … perhaps does not want to feel that she is alive.’

‘Yet she holds herself prisoner in her own body,’ Sjöberg continued his line of reasoning. ‘Refuses any type of enjoyment. Perhaps she thinks she deserves to die.’

Ann-Britt Berg threw up her hands as if to show that she could not contribute anything else. Sjöberg could not think of anything further to ask and got up stiffly from the uncomfortable little chair.

‘Thanks for taking the time to talk to me,’ he said, extending his hand to the nurse.

She responded to his farewell with a slightly embarrassed expression, but whether it was because she felt she had violated patient confidentiality or because she did not think she had anything substantial to offer he could not decide.

He let her return to her duties, and with the dull thud of the heavy mansion door sounding in his ears he left Solveig Eriksson and her Solberga behind him.

*   *   *

His nose had become so accustomed that only now and then was he overwhelmed with disgust at himself and the miserable little figure he must cut, lying on the floor in the tool shed. Bound hand and foot, his trousers soaked and sticky after five days of imprisonment in an area considerably smaller than the shed itself, limited by the length of the rope that fettered his feet to the wall.

There was not a part of his body that did not ache from the countless hours in unnatural positions, the cold, the filth, his thirst and hunger. The water he managed to lap up from the awkwardly accessible bowl was not nearly enough to quench his thirst, and the crumbs he could get from the pieces of bread on the floor were far from sufficient to satisfy his stomach. For the first few days he had managed to hold back the more troublesome bodily functions. But on the third day he had had diarrhoea, and now he could not or no longer cared to try to control his bowels, he was not sure which.

Two of his teeth had already been kicked out when he was first dumped in the little shed, though he had been unconscious when it happened. One eye was stuck shut with blood from a wound on his forehead, two fingers on one hand were broken and probably also a couple of ribs. Yet it was the biting cold that tormented him most, that made his body shake as he lay there, even though he tried to relax to save energy.

He had given up hope long ago that any passer-by would hear him or get suspicious about the shed. The only hope he had – and it was not much; the ropes sat solid, as if moulded around his wrists – was that he would manage to loosen the knots enough to slip out of his bonds. That was the little straw he clutched at as he again started to work the rope, despite the intense pain these small movements caused him. He pulled and stretched, ten times, twenty … Twenty minutes later he still had not come back to the car. She must have wondered where he had got to, would not understand how it could take him so long at the cobbler’s, but perhaps she assumed there was a long queue or that he had met some acquaintance that out of politeness he could not rush away from without talking for a while first.

Actually he had been one of only two customers in the shop, but the other – a very pregnant woman in her mid-thirties – had suddenly fainted, and he had sat on the floor with her head in his lap, giving out orders. First he got the shaken cobbler to call for an ambulance, then he managed to get him to bring towels and a jug of water. He dabbed water on the woman’s pale face and tried as far as possible to clean the wound she had got on the back of her head. All the while he tried to talk reassuringly to her and the semi-hysterical cobbler, whom he had stationed at the door to keep curious passers-by out of the shop.

As they waited the heat in the car rose under the May sun, and the boys in the back seat started to become insufferable. She suggested that they should play a quiz game and that kept them distracted for a few minutes, until little Tobias lost concentration. She also told them a story, but it was not long before that also got boring for the boys. Then she caught sight of a kiosk a hundred metres further on, where the river curved, and it struck her that it was Saturday after all and that she could spoil the boys with something sweet while they were waiting.

‘I know!’ she said, turning towards the back seat. ‘Let’s drive over to the kiosk up there and each get an ice cream!’

‘Yes, let’s do that!’ the boys answered with one voice.

‘But I want a lollipop instead,’ said Andreas.

She was happy with this suggestion, because lollipops would do less damage to the upholstery of the car than ice cream, she knew that, and she did not feel ready to let these little urchins loose right next to the river.

‘Me too,’ said Tobias, ‘and I can drive the car that short way.’

‘That’s out of the question, Tobias, but you can each have a lollipop.’

‘Can you drive the car then, Lady Girl?’ asked Tobias, noticeable doubt in his voice.

‘Of course, little man. I’m actually the best driver in the family. But you’re not allowed to tell anyone I said that,’ she added with her finger secretively to her lips.

The boys exchanged looks and started giggling, whether in delight at the confidence itself or complicitly finding her statement absurd she could not decide, but in any event they sat quietly and watched large-eyed while she climbed over to the driver’s seat. She turned the ignition key and released the handbrake while the little boys expectantly studied her every move. She felt their eyes on her back and suddenly became almost nervous under their watchful gaze. Then she decisively shook off her discomfort and drove the short distance up to the kiosk, backing down by the side of the little shop so that she stopped facing towards the street, and put on the handbrake.

‘You could drive the car!’ Tobias exclaimed in an impressed tone of voice.

Her gaze met his in the rear-view mirror and his small green eyes glistened eagerly above his freckles.

‘May we go in with you and choose?’ Andreas asked.

‘No, stay in the car. What would you like?’

She turned towards them.

‘I want a big lollipop,’ Andreas replied.

‘I want a red lollipop,’ said Tobias.

‘A big lollipop and a red one,’ she repeated. ‘Does it matter what colour the big lollipop is, Andreas?’

‘Just not liquorice.’

‘My red lollipop should be big too,’ said Tobias. ‘Otherwise a little one is fine.’

‘Just so long as it’s red,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I think I understand.’

She opened the car door and stepped out into the spring sunshine. There was a lovely breeze from the river, and the sweet aroma from a flowering hedge on the other side of the street struck her.

‘Behave yourselves, boys. Don’t kill each other, because then there won’t be any lollipops.’

With a smile and a wink she closed the car door.

*   *   *

Johan Bråsjö, who had just turned ten, had his first bus pass. Ever since the start of term in January he had been allowed to walk to school without a grown-up. Even though Mum or Dad still had to walk with Sanna, who was in the first grade, at about the same time, he would slip out just before them, ring the doorbell of his best friend Max in the building next door and together they enjoyed the newfound privilege of moving freely through the city streets. His mum later revealed that she had sneaked after them a few times in the beginning, to check that they crossed the streets responsibly.

After hard pressure and references to this good behaviour in traffic he also finally managed to get permission to go to and from his guitar lessons on his own. So now, with his instrument on his back and in the company of Ivan, a friend from another class, every Tuesday afternoon he boarded the number 4 bus at Skanstull, showed his coveted bus pass and rode the whole way to Gärdesskolan in Östermalm, where the lessons were held.

Today was Thursday, but the boys were on the bus anyway. Johan had been allowed to go home with Ivan after school. No one was at home at Ivan’s and after some resistance Johan let himself be talked into going to the cinema at Hötorget at Ivan’s expense. Johan had a strong feeling that his parents wouldn’t like this, but on the other hand they did not need to find out about it. Now they were on their way home after the film and Johan started to feel a bit calmer as they approached those parts of Stockholm where he had permission to be.

‘You were a little scared, I could tell,’ said Ivan.

‘Not scared exactly, but the film was exciting,’ Johan replied. ‘Really exciting. Thanks for the popcorn. And the film.’

‘It’s cool. It wasn’t my money anyway.’

‘It wasn’t?’

‘No, it was Mum’s money.’

Johan looked worriedly up at his considerably taller friend.

‘That is, I get to take money from Mum. I didn’t nick it, if that’s what you were thinking.’

‘I guess I was,’ said Johan, relieved. ‘I only get a weekly allowance.’

‘Actually I have an allowance too,’ Ivan explained. ‘Or I did have before. But Mum always forgot to give it to me, so now I take money when I need it instead.’

‘Mmm.’

Johan did not feel entirely satisfied with this answer, but chose to drop the subject and looked absent-mindedly at the passengers in front of them on the bus. Suddenly he caught sight of a familiar back a few seats in front of them.

‘Check it out, Ivan, there’s the guy who’s ahead of us at guitar!’

‘You don’t need to yell,’ Ivan hissed, sinking down a little in the seat.

‘I’m not yelling, am I?’ Johan defended himself. ‘I’m whispering. Are you scared of him or what?’

‘No, are you?’

Johan thought that Ivan’s eyes did look a little afraid, but chose not to comment on that.

‘No, but he looks scary. Don’t you think so?’

‘Yes, he’s ugly as hell,’ said Ivan with his hand in front of his mouth so that no one but Johan would hear him.

‘He’s not exactly ugly. He’s more … like, big. And old.’

‘But then what’s he doing at guitar lessons?’ Ivan exclaimed. ‘Such an old dude.’

‘He’s not exactly ancient. Maybe he just wants to learn to play the guitar?’ Johan suggested jokingly, and received a look that clearly showed that Ivan was not in the mood for sarcasm right now.

‘Everyone else there is, like, kids and teenagers,’ Ivan said dismissively. ‘He’s a grown-up.’

Evidently Ivan meant that this made the man in front of them a loser, but Johan happened to think of his Uncle Danny and held his ground.

‘My uncle takes guitar lessons. There’s nothing strange about that. Who says you can only learn when you’re a kid?’

Ivan looked indifferently out of the window. Johan tried to recapture his interest.

‘But he is scary, he really is. He never says hello. He doesn’t even notice us, even though we sit there outside waiting every Tuesday. weird.’

Ivan’s eyes flashed as he turned back towards Johan.

‘And he’s tall as hell. He could strangle us both, one in each hand.’

Johan looked at the big man and imagined himself and Ivan hanging from his coarse fists, their feet kicking in the air.

The bus braked and it was time for them to get off. The guitar man got up too and a woman holding a little child by the hand slipped in between them and him. As they passed the place where he had been sitting, Johan happened to look down at the seat and noticed that the man had left a pair of gloves behind. He snatched them up in passing and called spontaneously after him, over the head of the child.

‘Hey, you forgot your gloves!’

The man was already getting off the bus and did not react, but the woman with the child turned towards him with a puzzled look, Ivan likewise. Johan responded to the woman’s look with a shrug. To Ivan he said, ‘He forgot his gloves. I only wanted –’

‘Cool,’ said Ivan. ‘Then we have a hold over him.’

‘A hold?’

‘Yeah, we’ll follow him.’

‘Why?’

‘To see what kind of shady character he is. Like detectives!’

‘But if he discovers us –’

‘Then we’ll give him the gloves!’

With enthusiasm mixed with terror Johan accepted this suggestion and they started tailing their unknowing target.

In the throng at Skanstull they kept close, but when the guitar man slipped into the ICA Ringen store they did not dare follow. They did not have to wait very long however; after a couple of minutes he came out again, now with a plastic bag in his hand.

Over at Tjurberget fewer people were moving about and the boys had to keep a considerable distance from the object of their detective game. They followed him a long way on Ringvägen, past Rosenlund Hospital, and when he eventually made his way across the street and down into Tantolunden they kept so far back that, after he had turned in among the allotments, they had to run so as not to lose him. Once in among the hotchpotch of small cabins and cultivated plots it was easier to follow him. Most of the cottages were closed up for the season and in the eagerness of the hunt Johan did not hesitate to follow his friend when he climbed over a fence to hide behind the cabins and frozen piles of soil.

The man was truly both tall and well built, and more than once Johan noticed the unusually large hands hanging by his side as he walked purposefully through the deserted allotment area. Occasionally the man turned and took a few quick glances around him, as if he felt he was being followed. With pounding hearts, the boys crouched behind a rubbish bin or some bushes so as not to be discovered by the man who, as the hunt dragged on, began to seem more and more terrifying.

At last he seemed to have reached his goal. While the boys hid behind a leafless but dense low hedge three plots away, he fiddled with a padlock and then opened the decaying gate to an allotment with a ramshackle little cabin. When he had carefully closed the gate behind him and disappeared from view, they ventured to dash up to the hedge that surrounded the plot. They could not get closer than that without risking discovery.

Breathing rapidly, they crouched behind the untended bushes and tried to hear the man inside. To begin with Johan could only discern the rattle of keys, but as his heart rate calmed down he could clearly hear what was going on there just a few metres beyond the hedge. He heard a key being put in a lock and turned, a metallic sound like a padlock being opened. The creaking of a wooden floor and a door being closed. Rather a long silence. Several creaking steps. Silence again. Then an angrily hissing voice.

‘And here you lie, you fucking little pig, rolling in your own dung! My God, how you shit! Maybe the food isn’t good enough for you?’

Then a dull thud, like the sound when you box a punchbag, Johan thought at first, but then imagined that it might sound like that when you kick a pig. The boys exchanged glances without saying anything. Johan shuddered.

‘You won’t get anything else anyway.’ The hissing voice was speaking again. ‘This is all I’ll spend on a swine like you. No potatoes for this pig.’

A rustling sound from the plastic bag, and the noise of liquid being poured out of one container into another. Footsteps on a wooden floor. More kicks.

‘It’s your lucky day today. Duty calls, so I have to leave now. But when I’m finished we’ll have a proper chat. Bye-bye.’

Johan looked in terror at Ivan.

‘He’s coming,’ he whispered so quietly that it was barely audible. ‘We have to leave.’

Ivan nodded and they made their way, half running, half tiptoeing, all the way along the slushy gravel path until it turned ninety degrees, and they heard a door closing far behind them. Then they took to their heels and ran for all they were worth on the crooked paths between the garden plots, across lawns and all the way down to the promenade at Årstaviken. Only then did they slow their pace and started walking quickly, over towards Eriksdalslunden, back among the buildings.

‘What was he doing with that pig?’ Johan panted, still out of breath after the run. ‘Boxing workout, maybe?’

‘I said he was a shady character,’ Ivan replied. ‘Maybe he’s going to slaughter the pig and eat it up.’

‘Well, it won’t taste any better after he’s hit it,’ Johan said. ‘It’s fucking animal cruelty.’

Ivan looked at Johan with a slightly amused expression. Johan understood why, but pretended not to. He usually didn’t swear, but this was a day when he had done many forbidden things and in any event the swear word felt justified. To further underscore his repugnance at cruelty to animals, and perhaps also mark a certain independence from his parents, he delivered another swear word.

‘Bloody hell, what an idiot. I hope his hands freeze. I’m never going to give him the gloves now.’

‘We have to rescue the pig,’ Ivan stated.

‘I’m not going back there!’ said Johan.

‘Why not? He’s at work, he said that.’

‘It sounded like he had a padlock on the door. How would we get it open?’

‘Doesn’t your dad have any good tools?’

Johan didn’t know, but breaking into someone’s house was … burglary, wasn’t it? Then he remembered that he had seen on the news that cruelty to animals was also a crime.

‘It’s against the law to mistreat animals,’ he said. ‘We can report him to the police.’

‘We don’t know what his name is.’

‘No, but if we go to the police they can rescue the pig anyway.’

‘No way am I going to the cops. You can forget that.’

Johan looked questioningly at Ivan, not really understanding what he might mean by that.

‘Are they after you or something?’

‘Very possibly,’ Ivan answered mysteriously, with a shrug.

He didn’t elaborate further and the conversation died out. At Skanstull the boys separated, and the closer to his home on Åsögatan Johan got, the more he felt his bad conscience. It was dawning on him that his parents would probably be extremely disappointed in him if they found out what he had done, and he would not be surprised if they took away his bus pass. They might even decide that he could no longer go to and from school on his own, seeing as he had broken their agreement. He promised himself that he would behave himself in the future, and that being so, he convinced himself that it was not really necessary to reveal what he had been up to. But then he could not tell them about the mistreated pig either. And what would happen to it then? Well, anyway, it would surely get eaten sooner or later. Strengthened by having made this decision, he jogged up the steps to the apartment, where his dad and little sister were probably waiting for him with dinner.

But just as he was about to turn the door handle he had a change of heart. He had done some stupid things today, he really had. All the more reason to end the day with a good deed.

*   *   *

Having determined that morning that Einar Eriksson had not fled the country by any traceable mode of transport, Hamad had spent the afternoon thus far going through Einar’s computer and all his papers. He had learned nothing from these activities that might be of use to the investigation. Eriksson was not up to anything dodgy on his computer: he was not interested in child pornography, and he had not sent or received any email that might arouse any suspicion whatsoever. He did not seem to be involved in any lone investigations or old closed cases, and there was no reason to think that Eriksson, any more than any other detective in the unit, could be considered a target for vengeful criminals or crime victims.

Hamad had to force himself to concentrate to finish the job. He was thorough, but it took longer than it should have. Now and then he drifted off into his own thoughts, and had to shake himself back to life to get the fruitless chore done. He was finally back in his own office, browsing through old appointment diaries he had saved for some reason in a desk drawer.

There were two dates that interested him in particular. The first he would not forget any time soon: it was the date when he and Lina had definitively decided to separate. After a few weeks’ consideration on both sides, that evening they had sat down at the kitchen table and calmly and collectedly set out their views on things: how it should have been and what they should do now. It had been intense and sorrowful, but without drama, and they had been in agreement: life would be better for both of them if they went their separate ways. They had wished each other luck and ended the four-year relationship with a hug and tears in their eyes. It was a major failure, and this date, along with several happier dates, was now firmly engraved in his memory.

With this incident as a reference point, he could clearly remember how the evening had gone before that important conversation at the kitchen table. Likewise the night and day that followed. Despite that he checked in one of the diaries that his memory was reliable. And he was right: the date he had seen in the lower-left corner of the film in which Petra played the lead role was indeed that very special Friday in November 2006.

They had been in the middle of a serial murder investigation, and he had dragged a rather reluctant Petra from the station to the bar up at the Clarion. They drank beer and chatted. He got her to switch off from work and as usual the discussion was free and open. Both pleasant and less inspiring topics had been discussed, affectionately and with respect. And when he had left her it had not been because he wanted to, but because he had to. He had gone home to Lina to conclude a chapter in his life.

The other date was not equally obvious. It too was a Friday, but this time in September 2007, so almost a year later. The only thing in the diary was a course that he, Petra and a few others from the Hammarby Police had attended. According to the diary it was called ‘Centring on Body Language’, and he remembered that the basis of the whole thing was that the impression you made depended on your posture. He recalled how to Petra’s annoyance Holgersson or Malmberg or somebody had got her to agree that the police commissioner was sexy. Hamad snorted when he thought about that. Sexy? Brandt didn’t even believe that himself.

But later, what had happened after the course? That was the evening he had spent with Petra at the Pelican, the evening he now considered the final quivering minutes of their previously completely normal relationship. The calm before the storm. And it was that same evening that someone had sent an amateur porno film with Petra in the lead role to Pontus Örstedt. From an all-too-familiar email address.

He slammed the diary shut and sat with his head in his hands, staring listlessly out of the window. He sighed. There was an obvious connection here, but what was it really about? Try to see it from Petra’s perspective, he told himself. What is she thinking? She gets a tip-off about the damned film on amator6.nu and is furious at the troll who … has sent it in? Or at the one who is exploiting her in the film? For this is a question of exploitation, isn’t it? Reluctantly he pictured her again, with closed eyes and half-open mouth. Stoned? Unconscious? How the hell could he know, he had no idea how she might look in … that situation.

But still. He thought he knew her well enough to be able to dismiss the idea that she would publicize such images. Or let herself be filmed under such circumstances. Or even subject herself to exactly such circumstances. Considering that it must have hurt, and that she did not appear to react to the pain. Or to anything for that matter.

Things were most often exactly what they appeared to be, he thought. His own mantra. And what makes it inapplicable on this occasion? Nothing, naturally.

Petra looked completely gone, so presumably she was. Unconscious or high as a kite, or both. Drugged, that is. And being fucked in the wrong bed, in the wrong orifice and by the wrong person. Wrong, because he was hardly unconscious. Raped, that is. On top of that he had a friend with him who filmed the whole thing, so that later they could publish the shit on the Internet. Publicly violated, that is.

No wonder Petra Westman was furious.

So she was drugged and raped the evening they had sat and chatted in Clarion’s bar. Possibly she had drawn the conclusion that Hamad was involved because he had been so conveniently on the scene just hours before. But why had this suspicion only developed almost a year after the incident itself? Yes, because it was then that the film had been shown publicly for the first time, it was then that the film had been sent to the amator6.nu site. Right after he and Petra had gone their separate ways outside the Pelican.

And it had been sent from his own email address.

The question was: how could Petra know that? That everything pointed to it being him who had sent the film? And consequently he who had filmed or raped her, or both? And how could she know that so soon after the film had been sent? No, he could not figure that one out.

But there were other, more important questions that must be answered. Who had raped Petra and sent the film to Pontus Örstedt? Who on earth could be so seemingly omniscient and even be able to divert suspicion on to a completely different person? And how could Hamad clear his name and get justice for himself and Petra?

He could do something immediately for humanity at least, it struck him: direct the attention of the police towards at least one of the bastards, of which there were far too many. They would always find something to bring him in for, right? If they did not succeed in making a procuring charge stick, he was surely involved in drug dealing, financial crimes or some other dodgy business that they could put him away for.

He picked up the phone and entered the number of an old classmate who these days worked in the City investigative branch, and tipped him off about Pontus Örstedt. And noted that revenge was sweet. Even if it was not his own, but Jenny’s and Petra’s.

*   *   *

Johan Bråsjö stepped into the imposing entrance hall of the police station at Östgötagatan 100 and tried to put on an adult face. He took off his cap as he looked around, wondering if he was in the right place. The large marble hall with the armchairs looked completely different from what he had imagined. On TV there were usually noisy offices with processions of criminals being taken back and forth between interview rooms and holding cells. Here it was calm and quiet and there was not a crook to be seen.

With forced determination, he stepped up to the reception desk, where two pairs of curious eyes met his. He did not know which of the women behind the rather high counter, both with equally friendly smiles, he should turn to.

‘Hi,’ the one with glistening pink lips said.

She had light curly hair and kind blue eyes.

‘Hi,’ said Johan. ‘I would like to report a crime.’

‘How clever of you to come here,’ said the other woman.

She also looked nice, slightly heavy-set with brown hair tied in a ponytail.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Johan,’ he answered, but regretted it at once.

Well, no harm done. He was not the only boy called Johan and they would get no more information out of him about who he was. And the woman probably understood what he was thinking, because she seemed content with his first name.

‘So what’s happened to you, little fellow?’

True, he was not one of the tallest in his class, but ‘little fellow’? Really? He wasn’t a preschooler; he must get them to take him seriously.

‘Nothing. But I happened to walk past when a man was mistreating a pig. Beating the crap out of it.’

‘Is that so?’ the blonde receptionist exclaimed.

‘Did you see him do it?’ the brunette asked, looking serious.

‘I only heard it,’ Johan replied. ‘A friend and I saw when he went into the shack – it was like a woodshed or something – and then he said nasty things and kicked the pig.’

The two women looked at each other.

‘How strange. Tell us everything from the beginning,’ the dark-haired one asked.

Johan gave a detailed account of what had happened, but as luck would have it the women never asked him how he and Ivan had come to be outside that shed.

‘That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard!’ said the blonde woman.

‘Some people don’t manage to take care of their animals,’ said the brunette. ‘But this sounds like one of the worst. What a little hero you are, Johan, coming to the police!’

She leaned over and before he knew what was happening she had tousled his hair. He wanted the ground to swallow him up, but the only thing to do was endure it – for the pig’s sake. And when she was finished the other woman wanted to do the same. But he saw it coming: she was just about to stroke him across the cheek when he took a step back, out of reach.

‘And could you find your way there again? Or perhaps you remember the address?’ the brown-haired one continued.

‘The Ugly Duckling,’ Johan replied, as the blonde called to an older man who had just come in the door.

‘Daddy, come and hear this! This boy wants to make a police report; you have to help him!’

The man came up to the reception desk and for a few terrifying moments Johan thought he too might start hair-tousling or hugging. But the man kept his hands in his coat pockets and looked at him with friendly but tired eyes.

‘What’s this about?’ he asked, but before Johan managed to open his mouth the receptionists had taken over.

The man, evidently a policeman, looked even more tired when the two women began babbling away at the same time, and he started to move away before they were finished. He seemed at most moderately interested – if he had even understood what they were saying. Even so, he tried to be a little encouraging.

‘Well done, kid. Take all the information down, Lotten: name, address, telephone number and so on, and we’ll look at it when we have a chance. I have to rush.’

Give them his telephone number? Not likely. They would call his parents. Besides a hefty scolding he would also lose his bus pass and his freedom, and perhaps not even get to walk home from school alone in the afternoons. No, he had already learned a lesson; that would have to be enough. He turned away from the reception desk and bolted out into the cloudy grey late-winter afternoon.

‘Wait, Johan! Don’t go!’ was the last thing he heard before the door closed behind him.

When Sjöberg had checked into the hotel in Arboga and thrown his suitcase on to the little armchair in one corner of his room, he sat on the edge of the bed and took out his mobile. He called Eniro and enquired what church parishes there were in the Arboga area. He noted names and numbers and asked the voice on the other end of the line to connect him to the last one mentioned.

‘I’m searching for two individuals who have at one time possibly lived in your parish,’ Sjöberg explained. ‘Can you help me search in the parish registers?’

‘Is this personal?’

‘It’s personal. It concerns my paternal grandfather and grandmother, John and Signe Sjöberg. John Sjöberg is said to have been born on 20 April 1911, Signe, maiden name Gabrielsson, on 11 January 1913.’

‘Just one moment and I’ll look,’ said the woman who had answered.

‘Thanks.’

After a few minutes she was back, but could only tell him that he must have enquired at the wrong parish. Sjöberg entered another of the numbers on his list and presented his request again.

‘Are you doing genealogy?’ the lady at the Arbogabygden parish wanted to know.

‘Yes, you might say that,’ Sjöberg replied. ‘I actually only want to know when my grandparents died and where they lived.’

‘Right, then let’s see what we can find.’

Sjöberg harboured faint hopes of being able to trace his grandparents so easily, but she was back right away and this time with positive news.

‘I have them here,’ she said, and Sjöberg felt his pulse rising. ‘Let’s see now, these are not exactly computer printouts … John Emanuel Sjöberg, born on 20 April 1911, at Soldier’s Croft in Björskogsnäs.’

Soldier’s Croft, thought Sjöberg. The kids would like that.

‘Married Signe Julia Maria Gabrielsson in May 1932. In 1933 they had a son, Christian Gunnar Sjöberg; that must be your father then?’

‘That’s correct,’ Sjöberg confirmed.

‘John and Signe were registered at Soldier’s Croft until 1954, when they moved to Arboga.’

‘Did Christian stay living at the cottage?’ Sjöberg asked.

‘Let’s see, I have to change books …’

He could hear her turning pages in the background and imagined, without having any clear idea, that the parish registers were very large and dusty, with hard covers.

‘He did. Until 1961, when he died. Oh, you were only three years old then; it must have been hard.’

‘Well, yes, you might say so,’ muttered Sjöberg, who hardly remembered having had a father at all. ‘And when did John and Signe die?’

‘John died in 1967 …’

There was silence on the line.

‘And Signe?’ Sjöberg said at last.

‘No, I can’t find any entry about that.’

‘And what could that mean?’

‘Well … It could be that someone has been careless, naturally. Or that she died after 1 July 1991, when everything was transferred to computer registries, but you ought to have known about it in that case. You’ll have to enquire at the census office to find the date. Or she may still be alive.’

Sjöberg did not think it was necessary to tell this helpful woman that in his capacity as a police officer he already knew the process, and instead he thanked her for her help and hung up. ‘Soldier’s Croft,’ he repeated to himself; so had he lived there during the first three years of his life. It was strange that he had no memories at all from that period, but on the other hand he had never had much help from his mother to remember. What most surprised him still was that his mother did not want to acknowledge the property, that she consistently refused to talk about it. What in the world could be the reason for that? And why had they moved from the parental farm to an apartment in Stockholm? Because his father had got sick, naturally. Perhaps he had needed advanced care that was only available in the capital.

Suddenly it struck him that his grandfather John had not died until 1967. Sjöberg had been nine years old then. He ought to have some memories of him at least. He had no memories of his grandmother either; how come? He could not recall either of them being mentioned while he was growing up, nor had his mother told him anything later when as an adult he had tried to find out about his family history. Sjöberg became increasingly convinced that there was something fishy about this. Something must have happened to cause his mother and his paternal grandparents to have no contact. And in that case, on which side had his father stood? Or had the split arisen after or in connection with his death?

Sjöberg glanced at his watch. It was five minutes to five. There was no time to lose: he had to call the census office before they closed for the day. It would be just as well to gather all the information he could before he confronted his mother in earnest with this strange story. He called Information again and asked to be connected to the census office.

‘My name is Conny Sjöberg. I would like information concerning my paternal grandmother, Signe Julia Maria Sjöberg, born Gabrielsson on 11 January 1913.’

‘Yes, and what is it you want to know?’

The female voice on the telephone sounded uninterested and a bit snooty.

‘I want to know when she died,’ said Sjöberg.

‘Don’t you already know that, if she is your grandmother?’

‘Evidently not, because I’m asking you,’ Sjöberg answered with irritation.

‘Unfortunately we can’t give out such information.’

Sjöberg thought he could hear a shade of satisfaction in her reply. He put on his most authoritative voice and made a fresh attempt.

‘I’m a detective inspector with the Hammarby Police in Stockholm, Conny Sjöberg. Will you please call me back immediately. The matter is urgent.’

Suddenly the attitude on the other end changed.

‘Conny Sjöberg, Hammarby Police. I’ll get back to you right away.’

Sjöberg smiled to himself while he waited. Actually he had no authorization to act this way; the matter was personal, after all, and he should not misuse his position in the police for the pleasure of taking a faceless bureaucrat at the census office down a peg. But who would ever catch him at it? Not her anyway. The phone in his hand shook and let out a shrill signal.

‘Conny Sjöberg,’ he answered curtly.

‘Hi, Conny, it’s Jenny.’

‘Hi, Jenny! Listen, I can’t talk to you right now because I’m waiting for an urgent call. We can talk a little later, can’t we? I’ll call this evening.’

‘Okay. Bye now.’

‘Bye.’

He clicked off the call and after another two minutes the woman at the census office called back. It was now past five and for a while he had thought she would wait until the next business day to punish him for his brusque manner. But he had not misjudged her respect for ‘the uniform’ and here she was again with a completely different tone of voice from before.

‘Yes, I’m calling back from the census registry. What was it you wanted help with, sir?’

Apparently they were no longer on informal terms. He struck his most cordial tone, thinking to himself that he sounded like an old provincial governor, as he presented his request again.

‘Do you have her last four digits?’ the woman asked.

Sjöberg rolled his eyes.

‘No, I don’t. I think she has been dead a very long time, so she’s probably not in the registers at all. But if you could just do a search in the computer for her name and date of birth, young lady, I can get that confirmed. You have a search function, don’t you?’

She was, as Sjöberg suspected, insensitive to irony and did as she was told.

‘Yes, here she is, definitely.’

Sjöberg frowned. This was not what he had expected.

‘Signe Julia Maria Sjöberg, born Gabrielsson, 130111–1841, Birgittagatan 6, Arboga.’

‘And she was registered there until …?’

‘Yes, she’s registered there. She’s still alive.’

Sjöberg could not get a word out. He sat as if petrified on the edge of the bed, still wearing his shoes and winter jacket, and felt like an idiot.

‘Congratulations,’ said the woman on the phone. ‘Congratulations on your newfound grandmother!’

*   *   *

Hamad had chased around town on his own for several hours. When he had visited Vida and Göran Johansson at their respective workplaces and shown them a photograph of Einar Eriksson, there had been no reaction. Neither of them had ever met or seen Eriksson. But several of Catherine Larsson’s neighbours on Trålgränd recognized Eriksson as the man who was occasionally seen in the stairwell, sometimes alone, sometimes with the children. He had not been seen however in the days before or on the night of the murder.

Now Hamad was going to meet Christer Larsson for the first time, and with him he had a sulky Westman, who had had to leave Sandén to tackle alone the last item on their list for the day: Eriksson’s car. After an apathetic hello from Westman outside Larsson’s building, Hamad decided to temporarily turn off the personal and concentrate on the task in hand. Westman had not met the executed children’s father, Catherine Larsson’s husband, either, and they were both tense with expectation as they followed him into his home.

‘You have a nice place here,’ Westman said, in an attempt to get the conversation going.

Christer Larsson muttered something inaudible in reply, without meeting her gaze. He sat in his armchair with his hands laced together and loosely hanging between his knees, his eyes fixed on the rug in front of him. His hands were unusually coarse, but the nails were well tended. His greying hair was clean and recently cut, but he did not seem to have shaved for some time. The little apartment was tidy and the potted plants on the living-room windowsill seemed to be thriving.

‘Do you sail?’ Hamad asked, catching sight of a framed photograph on the wall of a sailing boat, of a type unknown to him, which with billowing spinnaker was ploughing through an azure-blue sea in radiant sunshine.

‘I did at one time,’ Larsson answered in a low voice without looking up.

He spoke very slowly and the two police officers exchanged glances before Hamad started speaking again.

‘We are truly sorry about what happened. It must be hard for you?’

This elicited a shrug of the shoulders, nothing more.

‘You must be feeling awful right now?’ Westman clarified, to get him to talk.

‘You get what you deserve.’

His gaze was still aimed down at the rug. He straightened the fingers of one hand and lightly cracked the knuckles with the other.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Hamad.

Instinctively he wanted to develop the question, but he restrained himself and tried to be patient. After a period of silence Larsson answered.

‘An old bore like me. They were better off without me.’

‘And what about you? Haven’t you missed them?’

‘Well …’

Silence.

‘Not enough.’

‘Do you have a bad conscience because you didn’t stay involved with your family?’ Westman attempted.

Suddenly Christer Larsson looked up and his eyes met hers. In a drawling voice but with a razor-sharp gaze he answered, ‘Guilt is a heavy chain that rattles behind you wherever you go. It’s part of your body. Finally you don’t notice it any longer.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Nothing other than what I said.’

Hamad made an attempt to interpret Larsson’s words.

‘You feel guilt because you’ve been a bad father?’

Christer Larsson turned his eyes away from Westman and looked out of the window.

‘I have been a very bad father.’

Hamad expected that something would follow this, but nothing did. He was having difficulty with the slow tempo of the conversation and wanted to pick up the pace.

‘Such a bad father that you killed the children?’

‘Not in the legal sense.’

‘Did you or did you not murder your wife and your children?’ Hamad asked with new sharpness in his voice.

‘I haven’t murdered anyone,’ Christer Larsson replied.

Westman changed tack.

‘We now know that Catherine had a new man in her life. He was the one who bought the apartment for her.’

Larsson did not react, but still sat with his eyes morosely lingering on some indeterminable thing outside the window.

‘He called himself Erik. Does that sound familiar?’

A hint of a shake of the head.

‘You haven’t heard Catherine mention a man called Erik?’ she tried again.

‘No.’

Hamad took over.

‘But actually his name is not Erik. His real name is Eriksson. Einar Eriksson.’

Christer Larsson turned slowly towards him and in his eyes there was now something new, something that neither of the two police officers was able to interpret. Hamad thought he sensed surprise, perhaps worry, in Larsson’s eyes, while Westman would later say that she saw a moment of passion. But it disappeared as quickly as it had come and immediately the brown eyes looked just as mournfully tired as before. But for a fraction of a second a different Christer Larsson had been discernible. Still a tall, muscular man with coarse fists, but now with a flame burning behind the indifferent facade. And that combination, Hamad imagined, could be disastrous if the circumstances were right.

‘I have a picture of him here that I meant to show you,’ said Westman. ‘To see if you recognize him.’

She got up from the sofa bed where she and Hamad had sat down and went over to the armchair.

‘Do you suspect him of the murders?’ asked Christer Larsson.

‘We’re not ruling anything out,’ Westman replied.

Larsson straightened up in the chair and looked at the photograph in Westman’s hand. Hamad could see from his seat on the couch that Larsson squinted and moved back a little, as the far-sighted do, to be able to see the picture more sharply. It was completely quiet in the room for several seconds. Then something quite unexpected happened. Christer Larsson leaped up from the chair and Westman stepped to one side and stood as if petrified with the photograph in her hand, observing this phlegmatic man’s suddenly flaring emotional outburst.

‘You bastard! Have you done it again, you sick bastard? As if you hadn’t done enough! What the hell is going on in your stunted little fucking … ? Ahhh …’

Then there were no longer any words; only grunts and distressed moans came out of his mouth. He rushed over to the wall beside the window and pounded his head against it again and again with full force. The picture of the sailing boat fell to the floor and the glass shattered into a thousand pieces, but Christer Larsson did not bother about that and even stepped with one foot on the broken glass as he made his way over to the opposite side of the room and rammed his clenched fist right into the wall.

Hamad got up from the couch and took a couple of determined steps towards the frantic man. He tried to make himself heard, saying, ‘There now, let’s calm down,’ but his words had no effect. Westman rushed over to Christer Larsson and tried to hold on to him around his waist, but without even noticing her Larsson stepped quickly away, spinning around the room, incapable of finding expression for his tumultuous thoughts. Then he suddenly fell sideways, making no attempt to put out his hands to break his fall. His head struck the floor with a nasty crack, and the two police officers saw the tension in all his limbs instantly disappear. He remained lying quietly on his side, with his arm at such an unnatural angle that it must surely be broken. His eyes were wide open, and he was still breathing hard. Hamad sank down in dismay at his side and stroked a hand over Larsson’s forehead.

‘We have to turn him,’ he said. ‘Take his feet.’

While Hamad linked his hands around Christer Larsson’s upper body Westman took hold of his ankles. The burly man made no resistance and they managed to place him gently on his back without causing further injury to the broken arm.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Hamad, gently touching his hand to the side of the face that had taken the heavy fall, but Christer Larsson showed no signs of consciousness besides the open eyes and breathing.

He did not even react when Hamad carefully raised the injured arm.

‘We have to … do something. Place a pillow under his neck and fetch a towel and cold water. I’ll call an ambulance,’ said Westman.

When the ambulance arrived a short time later Christer Larsson still showed no signs of awareness, but strangely enough he seemed almost at peace lying there on the living-room floor.

*   *   *

Christer Larsson’s breakdown had been trying and Hamad had ridden along in the ambulance to give his account of what had happened. Afterwards he needed to clear his mind, so once back at the police station he decided to go and work out. After a fairly hard session on the machines he went into the boxing room next door to do some stretches on the mat. Like the gym section, this room too had glass walls, in line with the prevailing fashion. Hamad actually preferred to work out in peace, without being put on show for curious passers-by, but apparently you had to be a display object while you tormented your poor body with exercise.

Just as he was about to enter the room he spotted Westman in boxing gloves on the other side of the glass, shiny with sweat and putting her all into thumping a punchbag. He stopped with his hand on the door handle, but convinced himself not to let another person’s demons determine his own actions. Perhaps this might even be a good time to try a little strategic rapprochement? He changed his mind about stretching, opened the door and went in.

‘Hi,’ he said, not expecting a reply and not getting one.

Hamad tossed aside his water bottle and towel in a corner, while Westman seemed to get a burst of energy and pounded on the poor bag even faster. He went over to the equipment alcove and took out of a pair of practice gloves that he put on. He took a deep breath, and then he plucked up courage and went over to Westman.

‘Come on, lady. Let the bag recover and box a little with me instead.’

It seemed to be a marketable proposal; he barely had time to get his gloves up in front of him before the blows started raining down. It was crucial to keep his feet going to counter the hits and meet them with just enough resistance. He was about to back off and ask her to calm down when he managed to get into a rhythm, and with that get his balance too, just in time to halt the words on the tip of his tongue. Sweat was spraying off Westman as she plugged away; her eyes were dark as night and had still not met his for a moment. If anything, she seemed to be looking for gaps in his technique, gaps between, under, over or to the side of the gloves where she could get in a hit against his body instead.

He had never seen her so full of energy, so full of … yes, it must be hate, that blackness in her eyes. This was not an exercise session for her; she was hitting to hurt. And when that realization suddenly occurred to Hamad he no longer wanted to be part of it. He probably had a chance against her, even though she had proper gloves and he only had clumsy workout equipment; he was a head taller and no doubt considerably stronger. But he lacked the energy and above all the will for this sick spectacle. She seemed prepared to beat him to death, and he did not want to be beaten to death, much less hit back. He had to put a stop to this relentless maniac who was pounding on him like a frenzied woodpecker.

‘What are you up to, Petra? Can’t you calm down a little?’

‘What am I up to? You’re out of your fucking mind!’

During this exchange he lost concentration for a moment, she got a clear hit on the cheek and it was followed by another to the stomach.

‘Lay off now, damn it, can’t we talk about this instead?’ he attempted while he folded his arms up to protect his head.

With unusual doggedness she continued to hit him, first two quick blows to the side and then one across the neck.

‘I know what you think,’ he whimpered, ‘but you’re completely on the wrong track!’

She answered with several blows to the head. In the midst of the panting and puffing, kicks, blows and quick feather-light steps on the mat he could suddenly make out the sound of the door being opened, and at the same time Bach’s Badinerie started up on someone’s mobile from the same direction. He hoped that this new arrival would stop Westman’s assault, but she continued to pound on him with undiminished strength for another minute or two, the time it took for his rescuers to grasp what was happening, make their way over to the mat, get hold of Westman’s slippery wet arms from behind and pull her away from him, where he now lay curled up on the mat in a foetal position.

When he had recovered somewhat he looked up to see Holgersson leaning over him, with a self-important expression, sponging his face with a damp towel. Hamad wanted to get an overview of the situation and his clouded gaze ranged across the room. By the door stood Roland Brandt, the police commissioner, looking ruefully at Hamad with his mobile in his hand. And in the far corner of the room he finally caught sight of Petra, and that image would linger in his mind for a long time to come.

With a satisfied and somewhat cheeky smile on her face she stood – still with the boxing gloves on – leaning back as if in a boxing-ring corner. Leaning over her, with a hand on the wall on either side of her face, the deputy police chief, Gunnar Malmberg, was talking in a low voice. Evidently it had been him who had come in and freed Hamad from the irritable Amazon, and now presumably he was questioning her about what had happened and discreetly making her see reason.

Hamad did not know if he lay there for a matter of seconds or minutes, with the thoughts whirling in his head, but the peculiar atmosphere was relieved by Malmberg’s phone ringing. An extremely familiar tune, which Hamad in his foggy condition could not put a name to, sounded across the room and somehow brought everything back to something like normality. Holgersson reached out his hand and pulled Hamad to his feet. Brandt shook his head, tapped his thumb on his own phone, brought it to his ear and left the room. Malmberg stepped aside to let Petra, still smiling, slip past him. She gave Hamad an expressionless look as she passed him on her way out. Holgersson gave him a thump on the back and he too left the room. Hamad staggered over to pick up his towel and water bottle, while Malmberg answered his phone.

‘Yes? … I see … Yes … No, that I don’t know.’

Their eyes met as Hamad turned around at the door, but Malmberg’s thoughts were elsewhere.

‘Talk to Lu– or that new girl. Jenny … Sure. No problem.’

Hamad made an effort anyway to seem grateful and nodded at Malmberg before he headed off towards the changing room.

He sat for fifteen minutes in the sauna to soften up his stiff, tender body, took a long shower and despite everything felt in decent physical shape when he went back up to the office to work for a while longer. It seemed as if he had escaped a concussion, and a few bruises he could put up with. But his mental state was not so good. That he had made himself ridiculous in front of the police commissioner and his coterie was bad enough, but how could he sort things out with Petra? How could they continue to work together when she was obviously prepared to beat him to a pulp when the opportunity arose?

He did not expect an apology – and didn’t need one either, for that matter – but he had to get a chance to talk to her, get her to trust him again. And as soon as possible; they were caught up in a complicated investigation, and that needed everyone to do their best and not to pull in different directions. Perhaps it would be a good idea to get help from Sjöberg, as a kind of intermediary? But no, his boss had enough worries as it was, with one of his own officers a prime suspect in a triple murder and Sandén working part-time besides. He and Westman ought to be able to resolve their own private difficulties, in a professional and mature fashion – which Westman had actually shown herself incapable of. She’d treated him like a punchbag. He couldn’t deny that he was starting to feel a little upset.

In that frame of mind he reached the marble landing between the reception level and the stairs up to his own corridor.

‘Jamal, come here. You’ve got to hear this!’

Lotten’s voice echoed across to him, and that if anything would usually have put him in a better mood. But it didn’t this time; he wanted to get up to his office and get to work on what felt most urgent.

‘Sorry, but I don’t have time right now. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.’

‘But it’s important,’ Jenny chimed in. ‘There was a little boy here who told us an awful story about animal cruelty!’

‘Prepare a report then, but you’ll have to ask someone who doesn’t have quite as much to do as me right now.’

‘The Ugly Duckling – that sounds like a café or something. Do you know where it is?’ asked Lotten.

He shook his head, starting to move away.

‘A pig,’ she tried again. ‘There was some idiot who was kicking a pig to death. We can’t just let that sort of thing go on, can we? It’s a living creature, for crying out loud!’

Then suddenly her tone changed to one – so typical for Lotten, and in this situation extremely irritating – of a grown-up coddling a child.

‘But honey, what have you been doing? Your face is completely red!’

It had not occurred to Hamad that what he had just been through would be apparent on his face. He had only dragged a hand through his hair after his shower and not looked in the mirror.

‘A pig kicked to death – that’s roughly the way I feel right now,’ he muttered, but not so loudly that it reached Lotten’s ears.

‘What happened?’ she went on, but Hamad recovered quickly.

‘I’ve been … in the sauna,’ he replied, making his way up the stairs.

He had barely made it into his office before Malmberg was there, knocking on the doorframe. Damn it, the fight had really stirred things up.

‘Come in,’ he said, sighing inwardly as he sat down at the desk and showed his visitor to a chair.

Malmberg ominously pulled the door shut behind him, took a gulp of the Ramlösa he had with him and sat down.

‘Well now, that was not a pleasant experience,’ he noted with a look that clearly demanded something from Hamad.

Presumably an explanation, but Hamad had no intention of giving him one. Not an honest one in any event. He felt disrobed, somehow childish under the chief’s scrutinizing gaze.

‘No, not for me either,’ he answered with a wry smile.

Say as little as possible, he told himself. The less said, the less that can be refuted. Malmberg finished the last of his mineral water and set the bottle aside on the desk.

‘You look a bit worse for wear. Are you sure everything is okay?’

Instinctively Hamad’s hand flew up to what he hoped was so far only redness on his cheek.

‘It’s cool. I was just taking a sauna.’

‘What really happened?’

‘Oh, we were working out. But she’s such a competitive person, Westman, she went at it a little hard. It got a little out of hand, you might say.’

He tried another smile.

‘Yes, you can safely say that,’ said Malmberg.

Hamad had hoped for a laugh there, but Malmberg was deadly serious.

‘And you’re not a competitive person yourself?’

‘No,’ Hamad lied, but his competitiveness had nothing to do with it.

‘And what is your attitude to this assault? For we must consider it an assault, mustn’t we?’

Is that what Malmberg wanted it to be? Or was he subjecting Hamad to some kind of loyalty test? The question was easily answered in any event. It was Hamad’s turn to be deadly serious.

‘Hardly. As I said, a boxing workout got a little out of control. It’s already forgotten.’

‘No report?’

‘Report? Are you joking?’

‘Does it look like I’m joking?’

‘I would never dream of reporting a colleague.’

Hamad lied again. Because of course he would not hesitate to report a corrupt cop or a cop who in some other criminal way abused his position. This, however, was something quite different.

‘Not even if it turns out that you have incurred some form of injury?’

‘In that case I would see it as an accident on the job,’ Hamad answered without the hint of a smile.

‘How do you think it will be for the two of you working together after this?’ Malmberg continued stubbornly.

‘It’s going to be just fine,’ Hamad replied without the slightest hesitation. ‘As it always has been. And work always comes first,’ he added, out of some kind of hazily conceived sense of solidarity, of the team as a whole.

Or was it really mostly for Petra’s sake? And why should it be more important to emphasize her professionalism in particular? Because she was a woman, it struck him. She ended up under the management’s magnifying glass more often than the rest of them for just that reason. And considering how much he loathed being there himself …

‘Westman is a shining example of that. She is enormously focused and professional,’ he maintained, and suddenly felt quite pleased with how he was handling this interrogation, weaving between landmines surprisingly agilely.

‘So how will we proceed?’

‘We’ sounded bad to Hamad’s ears. Malmberg and the rest of the mafia up there on the management level must be shaken off as soon as possible, so that he and Petra could resolve this between themselves.

‘I’ll talk to her. Everything will be worked out next time we meet, that I can promise.’

‘We have to hope so. But I still haven’t had any explanation for what happened,’ said Malmberg in a voice like dry leaves.

Tenacious as a terrier, thought Hamad, and hesitated for a moment before he answered. Then he smiled broadly and turned his palms up in a resigned gesture.

‘Well, what can I say? You know how it is with women. PMT.’

That did the trick. Malmberg’s stony face cracked from ear to ear. Hamad had male-bonded with the deputy police commissioner, hopefully had succeeded in defusing the matter from an official perspective and was now back at square one. Malmberg left the office with a guffaw that could be heard a good way down the corridor.

Hamad stood in the window and gazed out at the twilight falling over the Hammarby canal. He felt sickened.