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Epub ISBN: 9781473535374

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Published by Century 2017

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Copyright © Michael Hjorth & Hans Rosenfeldt 2014

Translation copyright © Marlaine Delargy 2017
Cover photographs: girl © Arcangel;
house and landscape © Plainpicture

Michael Hjorth and Hans Rosenfeldt have asserted their right to be identified as the authors of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published by Century in 2017

Century
The Penguin Random House Group Limited
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www.penguin.co.uk

Century is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9781780894607

Introducing the national police homicide unit, based in Stockholm – also known as Riksmord …

Torkel Höglund – Chief Inspector

Ursula Andersson – police forensics expert

Vanja Lithner – investigative police officer

Billy Rosén – investigative police officer

Sebastian Bergman – psychologist and leading criminal profiler

Other police

Jennifer Holmgren – junior police officer in the small town of Sigtuna. Temporarily seconded to Riksmord.

He doesn’t know what day it is.

But it’s not a school day. He is still in his pyjamas, even though it is after nine o’clock.

Everyone is at home. He can hear the sound of SpongeBob SquarePants coming from the living room.

Mummy puts a bowl of yogurt on the table and asks him if he washed his hands after he went to the toilet. He nods. Would he like a sandwich too? He shakes his head. The yogurt will be enough. Banana and vanilla. He would have liked Frosties with his yogurt, but Fred has finished them, so he has to have Oat Krispies instead. However, that means he’s allowed to watch a DVD straight after breakfast to make up for the disappointment. He decides on Transformers: Dark of the Moon.

Again.

The doorbell rings.

‘Who on earth can that be at this hour of the morning?’ Mummy wonders as she heads for the front door. He doesn’t even register the familiar noises as she pushes down the handle and opens it.

Then he hears a loud bang, and it sounds as if someone has fallen over in the hallway.

He gives a start, splashing yogurt all over the table, but he doesn’t notice the mess. Daddy calls down anxiously from the bedroom. He’s not up yet, but now rapid footsteps are crossing the landing.

Then someone appears in the kitchen doorway.

Holding a gun.

There were two of them now.

She was two separate individuals.

On the outside and on the inside.

On the outside she was still moving.

Reluctant but purposeful. The lesson she had learned in school about staying exactly where you were if you got lost went against her instinctive urge to run.

Was she lost?

She didn’t really know where she was, but she knew where she was going. She made sure she could still hear the cars passing by on the road. She could go back to the road. Walk alongside it. Hide whenever someone came by. Keep walking until she reached a signpost, check that she was still going the right way, then disappear back into the forest. So she wasn’t lost. There was no reason to stay where she was. Then there was the cold. The damp, bitter cold that persuaded her it was a good idea to keep on going. She was warmer when she was on the move. Less hungry. So she kept on going.

On the inside she was completely still.

For a while she had run. Both on the inside and on the outside. Racing blindly ahead. Now she couldn’t really remember what she had been running away from, or recognise the place she had arrived at. It wasn’t a place, or a room, it was more like … a feeling, perhaps.

She didn’t know. But she was there and it was empty and she was still.

She was empty and it was still.

Silent.

That felt like the most important thing. As long as it remained silent, she was safe. In the place that wasn’t a place, illuminated without light. Where no colours reminded her of the colours her staring eyes continued to register from the world outside. Open, but closed to everything. Except that feeling of safety. Which would disappear along with the silence. Instinctively she knew that. Words would give her away. Words would tear down the walls she couldn’t see, make everything real again. Let in the terrible things that were waiting out there.

The bangs, the screams, the warm red liquid, the fear.

Her own and everyone else’s.

On the inside she was still and silent.

On the outside she had to keep on going.

Go where no one could find her. Where no one would try to talk to her. The outside had to protect the inside.

She knew where to go.

There was a place they had been told about, warned about. A place where you would never be found, if you went inside. Never ever. That was what they had been told. No one would find her.

On the outside she pulled her thin, inadequate jacket more tightly around her body and increased her speed.

On the inside she curled up, became smaller and smaller, hoping that she would disappear completely.

Anna Eriksson was sitting in the car outside the pale yellow apartment block, waiting.

Vanja was late, which was very unusual. Anna assumed this was yet another of the ways in which her daughter had chosen to make her point over the past few months.

The worst thing was that she no longer called.

Anna could live with that. She understood why, and somewhere deep down perhaps she thought she deserved it. And to be honest, they had never had the kind of mother/daughter relationship that involved long chats on the phone.

But for Valdemar … He found the way Vanja had distanced herself unbearably painful, and it had reduced him to a shadow of his former self – more than the cancer, in fact. He couldn’t stop talking about his daughter, and the truth they should never have kept from her. They should have done everything differently. He had cheated death, only to discover that life was full of grief and regret. Anna also found the whole situation difficult, of course, but it was easier for her to cope. She had always been stronger than her husband.

Valdemar had been out of hospital for over a month now, but she couldn’t get him to leave the apartment. His body seemed to have fully accepted the new kidney, but Valdemar couldn’t accept his new world. A world without Vanja. He simply pushed everything away.

Anna. The few colleagues who got in touch, in spite of what he had done. The even fewer friends who called less and less often.

Even the ongoing police investigation didn’t seem to bother him these days. The accusations of tax evasion and fraud were serious, but they paled into insignificance compared with what he had put Vanja through.

She had hurled herself at him in a fury. It had been horrible. The yelling, the rows, the tears. Neither of them had ever seen Vanja like that.

So angry.

So terribly hurt.

The refrain was always the same: how could they do this? What kind of mother and father would do such a thing? What kind of people were they, for God’s sake?

Anna understood. She would have felt exactly the same in Vanja’s shoes. Her daughter’s questions were justified and understandable. It was the answers Anna didn’t like.

She was the kind of mother who would do such a thing.

Several times during the very worst quarrels Anna had been on the point of saying:

‘Do you want to know who your father is? Do you really want to know?’

But she had bitten her tongue, refused to tell Vanja, insisted it was irrelevant.

Not because she wanted to protect Sebastian Bergman; she could see exactly what he wanted. He was trying to worm his way in, claim a right he didn’t have, like a debt-collector determined to demand a payment that no one actually owed him.

Sebastian had never been Vanja’s father. Valdemar had fulfilled that role, every single day, to the best of his ability. Whatever it said in the hospital notes Vanja had waved around in such a rage. The only positive aspect was that Sebastian couldn’t exploit the situation to his own advantage. Like Anna, he was trapped by all the lies. If he told Vanja he had known the truth for quite some time but said nothing, he would reveal that he had let her down, just like Anna and Valdemar.

She would hate him too.

Freeze him out.

Sebastian was well aware of that. He had called Anna several times over the past few weeks, practically begging her to help him find a way to tell Vanja the truth. Anna refused. She would never enable him to take Vanja from Valdemar. Never. That was one of the few things she knew for sure; everything else was a complete mess.

Today, however, she was going to start regaining control of the situation. Today she was going to take the first step towards putting things right. She had a plan.

The door of the apartment block flew open and Vanja finally emerged, her hands thrust deep into her pockets, shoulders hunched. She had dark shadows under her eyes and looked washed out and exhausted; it was as if she had aged a couple of years over the last few months. She pushed back her lifeless, unwashed hair as she crossed the street. Anna gathered her thoughts, took a deep breath and got out of the car.

‘Hi, sweetheart, I’m so glad you could come,’ she said, trying to sound as positive as possible.

‘What do you want?’ came the response. ‘I’m really busy.’

They hadn’t spoken for three weeks, and it seemed to Anna that her daughter’s tone was a fraction less sharp. That could be wishful thinking, of course.

‘There’s something I want to show you,’ Anna said tentatively.

‘What?’

‘Let’s go – I’ll explain on the way.’

Vanja stared suspiciously at her. Anna knew that the longer they stood there, the more likely it was that Vanja would go with her. She had learned that during the course of all those rows; there was no point in attacking Vanja, or forcing her into a corner and trying to make her do something. If Vanja was going to get in the car, she had to do it without any kind of confrontation, and on her own terms.

‘You’ll think it’s worth it,’ Anna went on. ‘I know you will.’

After a moment Vanja nodded. She got in the car without saying a word.

Anna joined her and they drove off. When they reached the petrol station down by the Freeport, she broke the silence and made her first mistake.

‘Valdemar sends his love. He really misses you.’

‘I miss my father too. My real father,’ Vanja shot back.

‘I’m quite worried about him, to be honest.’

‘You only have yourselves to blame,’ Vanja snapped. ‘I’m not the one who’s been lying all my life.’

Anna knew they were on the verge of another blazing row. It would have been so easy to cross the line. Vanja’s anger was understandable, but Anna wished she could make her realise how much she was hurting those who really loved her, those who had always supported her, been there for her. They had lied to protect her, not to hurt her. She could tell that Vanja was just waiting for an excuse to explode, so she tried to defuse the situation.

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry, I really don’t want to argue. Not today …’

Vanja seemed to accept a temporary ceasefire, and they drove on in silence: along Valhallavägen and west towards Norrtull.

‘Where are we going?’ Vanja asked as they passed Stallmästargården.

‘As I said, there’s something I want to show you.’

‘What?’

Anna didn’t answer immediately, and Vanja turned to face her.

‘You said you’d explain on the way, so start talking.’

Anna took a deep breath, keeping her eyes on the road and the traffic ahead.

‘I’m taking you to your father.’

‘You can go in now.’

Erik Flodin turned to glance up at the large, white-painted two-storey house where Fabian Hellström, the forensic technician who had travelled up from Karlstad with him, was standing on the veranda. ‘We’re almost done.’

Erik raised a hand to indicate that he’d heard, then looked back at the open countryside spread before him.

This was a beautiful spot. The fresh green lawn extended as far as the stone wall, and beyond it lay a meadow, waiting for spring to burst into life. The evergreen conifers now had competition from the delicate pale green attire of the deciduous trees as their leaves began to unfurl. A buzzard drifted high above the open field, breaking the silence with its plaintive cry.

Erik wondered whether to call Pia before he went inside. She was bound to find out what had happened, and she would be devastated. This was going to affect the whole community.

Her community.

But if he called her, she would start asking questions. Wanting to know more. Wanting to know everything, when in fact he knew only what his colleagues had told him when he arrived. So what would be the point in calling Pia? None at all.

She would have to wait, he decided. He glanced at the sandpit one last time. Traces of the weekend’s downpour on a yellow plastic truck. A spade, a sandy Transformer and two dinosaurs.

Erik sighed and headed for the house and the deceased.

Fredrika Fransson was waiting by the patrol car, and came to join him. She had been first on the scene, and briefed him when he arrived. They had worked together in the past, when he was promoted to DI with special responsibilities in Karlstad. She was a good officer, conscientious and committed. She was almost twenty centimetres shorter than Erik’s one metre eighty-five, and at least ten kilos heavier than his seventy-eight. Easier to jump over her than to run all the way around her, as one of his more poisonous colleagues had put it. Fredrika herself had never said a word about her weight – or much else, for that matter. She wasn’t particularly chatty.

Erik thought he could smell the cordite as he stepped onto the veranda and saw the first victim. He couldn’t, of course. He knew that. After a quick examination of the victims, the forensic pathologist had given him a preliminary time of death: approximately twenty-four hours ago. Even if the front door had been closed – which apparently it hadn’t been when the nine-year-old from next door came round to see if she could find someone to play with – too much time had passed for any residual odour to remain in the air.

Erik put on shoe protectors and white plastic gloves before entering the property. He pushed aside the branches of pussy willow adorned with colourful Easter eggs displayed in a large vase by the shoe rack and knelt down next to the body of a woman, lying on her back on the rough stone floor. The first of four victims.

Four dead.

Two children.

A family.

They had yet to be formally identified, but Karin and Emil Carlsten owned and lived in the house with their two sons Georg and Fred, so Erik would be very surprised if this wasn’t Karin Carlsten. Sometimes, when he spoke to colleagues from Stockholm and Gothenburg, or even from Karlstad, they were surprised that he didn’t know everyone in Torsby. That was where he came from, wasn’t it? Surely it was just some little dump in the middle of the forest? Erik would simply sigh wearily. There were almost twelve thousand people living in the community as a whole, with just over four thousand in the town centre. Did anyone in Stockholm know four thousand people? No.

He had never met the Carlstens, but he thought he had heard the name … in connection with police business quite recently?

‘Do you know the Carlstens?’ he asked Fredrika, who was still on the veranda, putting on her shoe protectors with some difficulty.

‘No.’

‘I seem to remember we came across them last winter.’

‘Could be.’

‘Would you check it out, please?’

Fredrika nodded, removed the one blue plastic protector she had managed to put on, and headed for the car. Erik turned his attention back to the brown-haired, thirty-five-year-old woman on the floor.

There was a hole in her chest, almost ten centimetres across. Too big for a pistol or a rifle – more like a double-barrelled shotgun. The amount of blood on the floor suggested a substantial exit wound. Erik guessed that the perpetrator had fired at point-blank range, with the barrel of the gun pressed up against the woman’s body. The cordite residue had collected between the skin and the sternum, and the intense pressure had flayed the skin, causing charring to the woman’s white woollen sweater around the entry hole. Death must have been instantaneous.

He glanced back at the door; she was less than a metre away from it, as if she had opened the door and someone had put a gun to her chest and fired before she had time to react. The impact had hurled her backwards.

Whoever shot her must have stepped over her and continued into the house.

Erik got to his feet and did the same.

The first room off the hallway was a large kitchen; no doubt an estate agent would have described it as a ‘rustic farmhouse kitchen’ if the house had been up for sale. An open brick fireplace in one corner. High-quality pine flooring, with a matching ceiling. A bread peel and some kind of kitchen tool he didn’t recognise hanging on the wall above a traditional wooden sofa. An old black wood-burning stove among the array of modern white goods.

The remains of breakfast were still on the big pine table. A bowl of what looked like yogurt with Oat Krispies. An overturned chair. A boy, eight or nine years old, lying on the floor. Still in his pyjamas.

It was the Easter holiday. No school. Unfortunately, Erik thought.

A closer look at the boy seemed to confirm his theory about the shotgun. One arm had more or less been ripped off at the shoulder. Minor perforations on the throat and one cheek. What was the distance if the killer had fired from the doorway? Two metres? Three? Enough for the deadly projectiles to spray outwards. The boy might not have died instantly, but it couldn’t have taken more than a minute for him to bleed to death.

What next?

Someone had run through the room after the boy had been shot. A child. Small footprints in the blood around the chair. Erik looked towards the room beyond the kitchen: a small living room, with a television and a DVD player. Was the other boy watching TV when he heard the shots? Perhaps he got up when he heard the first bang. Stood in the doorway and saw his brother go down. Then he ran. Where? The trail led to the stairs.

Why wasn’t he killed in the kitchen too? Was the gunman reloading? Erik checked the floor; no cartridges, as far as he could see. He must remember to ask Fabian if he had picked them up.

‘Jan Ceder.’

Erik just managed to stop himself from jumping as Fredrika materialised behind him.

‘The Carlstens reported him to the police in November,’ she went on, her gaze fixed on the dead child on the floor.

‘Why?’

‘A breach of hunting regulations.’

‘What kind of breach?’ Erik persisted patiently.

‘They handed in video footage of Ceder with a dead wolf on his property.’

‘So he was convicted.’

A statement rather than a question.

‘He was fined,’ Fredrika confirmed.

Erik nodded to himself. A huntsman. A shotgun. It didn’t prove anything, of course, there were plenty of people around here with guns and hunting permits, but it was a start.

‘He threatened them last Tuesday.’

Erik’s train of thought was broken. Had he understood Fredrika correctly? Sometimes it was difficult because she didn’t give any more information than was absolutely necessary – often not even that.

‘Ceder?’ he asked, just to be on the safe side. ‘Jan Ceder threatened the Carlstens last Tuesday?’

Fredrika nodded, looking directly at Erik for the first time since she had entered the kitchen.

‘Outside the swimming baths. Several witnesses.’

Erik rapidly processed the information. Could it be that simple? Could someone be that stupid? The answer to both questions was yes. Just because this was a brutal, violent crime, it didn’t necessarily have to be complex and carefully planned. Quite the reverse, in fact.

‘I want to speak to him,’ he said to Fredrika. ‘Send someone to bring him in.’

Fredrika left the room, and Erik reviewed his decision as he followed the small bloody footprints to the staircase.

A threat.

A huntsman.

A shotgun.

He really hoped this was the answer. He had been in charge of the Violent Crimes Unit with the Värmland police for just over two months, and he had no desire to be landed with a long-running investigation. Pia would feel the same. She would demand a quick resolution, so that everyone in the community could put the whole thing behind them. Move on.

The footprints became fainter and fainter, and disappeared completely a few metres from the foot of the stairs. Erik began to climb. At the top he found a long, narrow landing with three doors, two of which were standing open. He glanced in the room on the left: bunk beds and toys strewn across the floor revealed that this was the boys’ room. He walked to the end of the landing and stopped. Slumped against what Erik assumed was the bathroom door was Emil. He looked a few years older than Karin, or maybe it was just the sprinkling of grey in his hair. Dead, of course. Definitely a shotgun this time. Right in the middle of his chest. Erik pictured the man rushing out of the bedroom to find the gunman standing at the top of the stairs.

He looked around; it didn’t seem as though Emil Carlsten had brought any kind of weapon with him. He must have heard what was going on downstairs, yet he had come out unarmed. He probably hadn’t been thinking clearly. Erik couldn’t even imagine how he would react if this happened at home. If it had been Pia and their daughter downstairs.

He stepped over the man’s legs into the bedroom. A double bed dominated the space, at least two metres by two metres. Plenty of room for children having nightmares. The quilt and decorative pillows were neatly in place. Two bedside tables, a dressing table with a mirror. One wall was completely taken up by wardrobes; the doors of the middle closet were wide open.

Karin’s.

Dresses, blouses and skirts on hangers.

Two thin bare legs protruded among the shoes on the floor. Erik moved closer.

The second son was sitting right at the back. He had crawled in as far as he could go, with a blanket on his knee. As if he were trying to hide. Was that why Emil didn’t get any further? Had his son come running up the stairs, and Emil had tried to hide him? To save him?

If so, he had failed.

The gunman had found him. He must have stood exactly where Erik was standing now, just over a metre from the child. The barrel of the gun even closer. The blast had practically torn off the boy’s head.

Erik had to turn away. He had seen many things that human beings were capable of doing to one another, but this …

The children. The pyjamas. Those thin, bare legs …

He sat down on the bed and took several deep breaths, forcing back the tears. Perched on that big double bed, the tears scalding his eyes, he swore that he would catch whoever had done this. He couldn’t remember ever articulating his goal so clearly before, but this was different. He was going to catch whoever had done this.

Whatever it took.

Sebastian had walked to work in Kungsholmen as usual.

It was his new routine. It took longer, and the more he was away from his apartment, the better. He was seriously considering finding a new place to live, but then again he spent very little time there. When he was at home he paced the floor until he got tired, then he tried to read the books he claimed he had already read. However, he was so restless that he started a new book before he’d finished the first one. A chapter here, another there, but still his thoughts floated around like driftwood.

Even women bored him. He still flirted, finding a certain relaxation in the process, but he was amazed at how rarely he had taken it all the way recently. That was very unusual for him.

But the image of Ursula on the floor …

He couldn’t get it out of his head.

The pool of blood spreading, leaking from her right eye like a bag that had burst, her hair sticky and red. He still thought the sweet smell of blood lingered in the hallway, in spite of the amount of bleach he had used to scrub it down.

So he went to the office every day. He needed to work. An investigation, preferably complex and challenging, something that would demand every scrap of concentration.

But such a case was notable by its absence. None of the district police forces had asked for help from the National CID Murder Squad, known as Riksmord, so as usual the team were taking some leave in lieu of the overtime they had accrued. Billy, who was normally there whether they had a case or not, dropped in now and again to check his emails, but that was all.

Sebastian saw Torkel even less often, which was perhaps just as well. Torkel loved Ursula, and Ursula had been in Sebastian’s apartment when the bullet penetrated her eye. Her lifeless body had been lying in Sebastian’s hallway. He had a feeling that Torkel would always blame him for what had happened, even though they had made a point of avoiding the topic on the few occasions when they had met.

Did Sebastian love Ursula? Once upon a time, probably. But his first thought when he heard the shot and saw her lying there was terrible. It wasn’t muddied by panic. It was crystal clear, and it was anything but loving.

What a fucking nuisance.

A woman he had known for many years. A woman to whom he had grown closer, with whom he had been more honest than anyone else, lay dying on his floor, and his first reaction was ‘what a fucking nuisance’.

He recognised the thought very well.

It came into his head in connection with most things: conflict, importunate women, boring tasks at work, social events. In those contexts it was perfectly natural, possibly even a good thing.

But in this context …

In his hallway, after the shooting.

Even he found it frightening.

The only bright spot was that Vanja was around from time to time. She was the real reason why he still went into work. Their relationship had improved recently; the shock of discovering that Valdemar was not her biological father had turned her life upside down. It weakened her suspicion that Sebastian had somehow been involved when she lost her place on the FBI training course; it was as if she no longer had the energy to follow that particular fear to its conclusion.

It was understandable; few individuals would be able to cope with what she was dealing with at the moment. A war on several fronts. It was better to seal a fragile peace treaty with one person at least.

Besides which, Sebastian had persistently denied any involvement whatsoever. He had appealed to the selection committee twice, explaining how wrong their decision had been. Needless to say he had made sure by devious means that Vanja found out about his sterling efforts on both occasions. The committee had stood firm: Vanja Lithner was welcome to submit an application the next time a place at Quantico became available. However, Sebastian’s intervention paid dividends in another way.

A few days after his final attempt, he had bumped into Vanja in the corridor. She was softer than she used to be. She seemed tired, not so keen to start a fight, not quite so ready to attack at the first opportunity. She even said hello. She told him she had heard about his efforts on her behalf, and then she went on to tell him about her father, who was no longer her father.

They had grown closer. Not as close as before, but it was a start, and from then on his thoughts of Ursula had begun to fade.

He had rediscovered his focus.

Vanja hadn’t even considered getting back in the car with Anna. She had to keep her distance from the woman who was her mother, but who certainly hadn’t behaved like a mother. No way.

Outside the taxi the spring was well advanced, even though it was only April. The days had been warm for over a week now, giving a taste of early summer. But Vanja felt frozen inside. Abandoned. Her father was no longer her father. As for her mother, she had no idea where they stood.

Who did she have left?

Not Billy. Not any more. They had been like brother and sister, but they had drifted apart. He was completely absorbed in his relationship with Maya, his fiancée; they had been together for a year, but Vanja had met her only in passing. And now they were getting married, apparently; Vanja didn’t even know if she would be invited.

She didn’t see much of Torkel, her boss and mentor, these days either. He wasn’t in the office very often after what had happened to Ursula. She wondered if he was thinking of packing it in; sometimes it felt that way when she did see him.

Who else was close to her?

It was a short list.

Ridiculously short.

Jonathan, her ex-boyfriend, who called occasionally, hoping they might get back together, or at least that they might fall into bed.

Perhaps the odd colleague from her time at the academy; she saw them now and again, but they were all in the middle of building their families.

And then there was Sebastian Bergman.

If anyone had told her when they first met on a case in Västerås how much time they would spend together in the future, she would have laughed out loud. The idea would have been too absurd to contemplate. He drove her crazy, he wore her out. But these days she actually found herself missing him. How did that happen? How had a promiscuous, narcissistic criminal psychologist ended up on her ridiculously short list?

It wasn’t just the lack of others that put him there, although it would presumably have been easier to shut him out if she’d been really close to someone else in her life.

There was another reason.

She enjoyed talking to him. He was impossible, rude and patronising with other people, but with her he was warm and gentle and perceptive. He chased women like trophies without any consideration for their feelings, but he cared about hers. She didn’t understand why, but it was true. He couldn’t hide it.

But could she trust him? He was often way too close when bad stuff happened.

Too close to the evidence that had brought Valdemar down.

Too close to Håkan Persson Riddarstolpe and the report that put an end to her hopes of training with the FBI.

But whichever way she looked at it, she couldn’t find a single rational explanation as to why Sebastian would want to destroy her life. He insisted it was all a coincidence, and perhaps he was right. The problem was that if Vanja had learned anything from her job, it was that coincidences were extremely rare. Too many coincidences became circumstantial evidence. Possible became probable.

The coincidences around Sebastian were almost there. They were on the borderline, but maybe they hadn’t crossed it yet.

She needed him. She was so lonely right now.

Erik Flodin parked outside the low, flat, and if truth were told, extremely ugly and boring building at Bergebyvägen 22, which had been his workplace until February. He got out of the car and headed for the main entrance. The three journalists who had been waiting on the wooden benches outside the police station got to their feet as soon as they saw him approaching. He recognised them all: two from Värmlands Folkblad and one from the local desk of Nya Wermlands-Tidningen.

They wanted to know what he could tell them about the murders. ‘Nothing at all,’ he said as he pushed open the door. He nodded to Kristina and Dennis on reception; he was taking out his pass card as his phone rang. He swiped the card and keyed in the four-digit code; once he was through the inner door he took the call from Pia.

No greeting, just: ‘Is it true?’ Erik thought he could hear a hint of reproach; why had she had to hear it from someone else and not from him? ‘A family? An entire family has been shot?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where? Who are they?’

‘Just outside Storbråten. Their name is Carlsten.’

‘Do you know who did it?’

‘We’ve got one … I wouldn’t say suspect, but we have the name of someone who’d threatened the family.’

‘Who?’

Erik didn’t even hesitate. He usually shared most details of ongoing investigations with his wife, and so far nothing had ever leaked.

‘Jan Ceder.’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘We’ve had dealings with him before – I’m just going to talk to him now.’

Pia sighed deeply, and Erik could picture her standing at the window of her office in the council building, gazing out at the rowan trees in front of the Co-op on Tingshusgatan.

‘It’ll be all over the papers,’ she said with another troubled sigh.

‘Not necessarily – only VF and Nya Wermlands have turned up so far.’ He said it because that was what he thought she wanted to hear, not because it was true.

Of course it would be all over the papers. Before long the three reporters outside the police station would be joined by their colleagues from Karlstad, and by their competitors from Stockholm. TV too, probably. Maybe even from Norway.

‘Do you remember Åmsele?’ Pia asked drily, immediately making it clear that she had seen through his attempt at reassurance. Erik couldn’t help sighing too. Of course he remembered Åmsele. The triple murder of a family in and near a graveyard. Killed because of a stolen bicycle. Erik was in his first year at the police training academy back then; everyone followed the nationwide hunt for Juha Valjakkala and his girlfriend Marita across the media. ‘That was over twenty-five years ago,’ Pia went on in his ear, ‘but that’s still what people think of in connection with Åmsele. We want people to move here, not be frightened away.’

Erik stopped off at the coffee machine and pressed cappuccino. He was overcome by a sudden weariness. He was losing patience with Pia. She hadn’t been there. Inside the house. She hadn’t seen the little boy who was due to start school in the autumn, sitting right at the back of the wardrobe. His brother still in pyjamas, shot while he was eating his breakfast.

She hadn’t seen them.

Hadn’t seen the blood.

The pointlessness.

‘I realise it’s not ideal,’ he said, trying hard to keep the irritation out of his voice. ‘But four people are dead. Two children. Perhaps the effect on whether or not people choose to move to the area shouldn’t be our main priority right now, wouldn’t you say?’

Silence. The coffee machine had done its work; he picked up his cup and sipped at his drink, which wasn’t particularly hot, unfortunately. The coffee in Karlstad was better.

‘You’re right,’ Pia said eventually. ‘I’m sorry, I must have sounded incredibly self-obsessed.’

‘You sounded committed to your job,’ Erik replied. As always every trace of irritation disappeared, replaced by a pang of guilt as soon as she gave way and apologised. ‘As usual,’ he added.

‘Are you bringing anyone in?’ she asked, back to her usual efficient tone of voice.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Help. From outside.’

‘No, I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway.’

Further down the corridor, Fredrika stuck her head out of her office; the look she gave him made it clear that she thought it was time he said goodbye to whoever he was talking to. Erik complied.

‘Listen, I have to go. We can discuss this later. Love you.’

He ended the call, slipped the phone in his pocket, put down his cup which was virtually still full, and quickly went along to Fredrika’s office for an update.

Sebastian lowered the book with the lengthy academic title The Psychopathology of Crime: Criminal Behavior as a Clinical Disorder when he heard someone coming towards the glass doors. Vanja. She looked pale and drawn. She took out her pass card and pushed open the door, which seemed heavier than usual. Something had happened. Sebastian got to his feet and crossed the sterile, open-plan office. He tried a welcoming smile, but she didn’t notice him at first.

‘Hi, has something happened?’ he asked, increasing his speed slightly. He was worried about her.

For a moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer. She stood there in silence, staring at him. Her lovely blue eyes looked stronger than the rest of her. It was as if she had concentrated all her strength in those eyes, because when she did speak her words were weak and brittle, as if they had broken somewhere along the way.

‘Mum … told me who my father was.’

An icy wave washed through Sebastian’s body. He wasn’t ready for this.

The impossible moment.

His mind was whirling.

Surely Anna wouldn’t have told her the truth? Not long ago she had refused to help him; had she really told Vanja now?

‘And who was he?’ Sebastian managed, impressed that his voice sounded balanced and full of natural curiosity, in spite of everything.

‘Do you know what she showed me?’ Vanja went on, as if she hadn’t even heard his question; her voice was a little stronger now.

‘I’ve no idea.’ The worst of the panic was subsiding; he must have got away with it this time. Vanja wouldn’t be talking to him like this if Anna had revealed the truth. He knew Vanja well enough to be sure of that; unlike him, she was no liar.

‘A grave. She showed me a grave.’

‘A grave?’

‘Yes. He’s dead. He died in 1981, apparently. His name was Hans Åke Andersson.’

‘Hans Åke Andersson?’

Sebastian was trying to adapt to this new situation. All credit to Anna: she had managed to provide Vanja with a father and prove he was dead at a single stroke. Creative. Vanja obviously didn’t feel the same way.

‘Apparently he was just some guy she met – he didn’t want to know when she fell pregnant,’ she went on, shaking her head. ‘When Valdemar came along they decided not to tell me the truth.’

‘Never?’

‘Never. She claims she didn’t want to hurt me, particularly as this Hans Åke Andersson died eight months after I was born, and he didn’t have any relatives.’

Vanja suddenly looked furious. Her strength had returned; it wasn’t only her eyes that were full of energy. He recognised her now.

‘She must think I’m stupid. After several months she suddenly comes up with the name of some guy who conveniently turns out to be dead. Did she really think I’d fall for that load of crap?’

Sebastian sensed that the question was rhetorical, and chose to keep quiet. Not that Vanja waited for a response; the words came pouring out, a flood of pent-up fury that had been waiting to escape.

‘Why couldn’t she have shown me the fucking grave ages ago, if that’s true? Why wait months?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sebastian said truthfully.

‘I do. Because it’s a fucking lie. She’s just trying to … close the door. Get me to make my peace with them.’

Sebastian remained silent, considering his strategy. Should he stick up for Anna? Help her to make Vanja believe the lie and move on, or should he encourage Vanja’s scepticism? Drive another wedge into her relationship with Anna and Valdemar? What would serve him best in the long run? It was a difficult situation, but he had to make a choice. Vanja shook her head and took a deep, calming breath.

‘The only thing that could make me even begin to think about forgiving them is if they’re honest. If they stop lying. Do you understand?’

Sebastian decided to support Vanja. It felt like the right thing to do; it would buy him some time, and above all it would bring them closer together.

‘Of course I do. This must be so hard for you,’ he said sympathetically.

‘I haven’t got the strength to fight with you any more,’ Vanja said quietly, gazing at him as her eyes began to fill with tears. ‘I can’t fight the whole world. I just can’t.’

‘You don’t need to fight me,’ he said as gently as he could.

Vanja nodded, then pleaded:

‘Then you have to tell me: were you in any way involved in Riddarstolpe’s report? Were you responsible for the fact that I wasn’t put forward for the FBI training programme?’

Sebastian had to make a real effort to hide his surprise. How come they were back here?

‘But I’ve already told you that was nothing to do with me,’ he said, trying to pull himself together.

‘Tell me again.’ Vanja didn’t take her eyes off him. ‘And be honest. I’d find it easier to deal with if you were involved than if someone I care about keeps on lying to me.’

Sebastian adopted his most sincere expression and tried to look as genuine as Vanja’s sorrow. With so much at stake, it wasn’t difficult.

‘No,’ he lied, discovering to his joy that his voice was breaking slightly due to the gravity of the moment. ‘I promise you, I had nothing to do with Riddarstolpe’s report.’

He saw her exhale, saw her shoulders drop with relief, and he felt a warm glow of pride. With the right focus, he was a brilliant liar. He could probably have convinced her that the earth was flat.

‘How you could even think …’ he began, his voice suffused with sorrow, but she held up a hand to stop him.

‘You don’t have to say any more. I choose to believe you.’

Sebastian quickly emerged from his cocoon of smugness. What did she say? She had chosen to believe him?

‘What does that mean?’ he said, genuinely curious.

‘Exactly what it says. I choose to believe you, because that’s what I need to do right now.’

Sebastian looked at his daughter, who once again seemed to be on the verge of tears. She really did need someone after everything that had happened, and he was the person she had selected. Choosing to believe him was not the same as trusting him, but Sebastian assumed that was as far as she could go. Now it was up to him to prove that she had made the right decision.

‘I won’t let you down,’ he said.

‘Good.’ She broke into a smile, stepped forward and gave him a hug. She held him for longer and more tightly than he would ever have dared hope.

Erik was informed that Jan Ceder was in one of the interview rooms down the corridor. Not that interviews were held in them very often; they were mostly used for staff appraisals, private telephone conversations, small meetings and occasionally for a quick nap.

According to Fredrika, Ceder hadn’t seemed at all surprised when they came to pick him up. Nor had he raised any objections; he had been happy to accompany them. They hadn’t told him why they wanted to speak to him, even though he had asked several times. They had merely said they wanted to clear up one or two things, without going into detail. Fredrika had gathered all the information they had on Ceder; there was a copy waiting for Erik on her desk. She had also been in touch with Malin Åkerblad, the prosecutor who was in charge of the preliminary investigation, and had obtained a search warrant for Ceder’s property. A team was already on its way.

Erik was impressed, and asked for a few minutes to read through the material. Was there any chance of a cup of coffee that was slightly above room temperature? Apparently not. The machine was due to be serviced next week.

So he sat down without his coffee, and opened the thin folder.

Jan Ceder, born 1961. Five years older than Erik. Still lived in the relatively small house his parents had owned, just a few kilometres from the Carlsten family. On sickness benefits since 2001. Married and divorced twice; both exes were Thai. Currently single after a Russian woman – whom he referred to as ‘the one I sent for’ – had left him before Christmas following a row which ended up with her reporting him to the police for domestic violence. The complaint had later been withdrawn.

Erik moved on to Ceder’s police record. Several instances of driving illegally, drink driving, picked up twice for being drunk and disorderly, lost his driving licence, illegal home distilling of alcohol, bootlegging, offences against the laws on hunting, plus another complaint of domestic violence from one of his wives, also subsequently withdrawn.

Erik closed the folder. Alcohol and a lack of self-control. It was definitely time to talk to Jan Ceder.

He was slumped at the table in a plain white T-shirt and scruffy jeans. With his unshaven, sunken cheeks, the red hair that needed a wash and a visit to the barber, and the fine blood vessels clearly visible beneath the dry skin of his slightly knobbly nose, Ceder looked considerably older than he was, Erik thought. The bloodshot eyes followed the uniformed officer as he left the room. Erik and Fredrika sat down and Fredrika started the recording, giving the date and stating that this was an interview with Jan Ceder, and that Detective Inspector Erik Flodin was also present. Erik cleared his throat and met Ceder’s weary gaze.

‘We’d like to talk about the Carlsten family.’

Jan gave a deep and apparently heartfelt sigh.

‘What are they saying I’ve done this time?’

‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing, but a guy came in here and took …’ He held up a trembling hand. ‘He took fingerprints, and he wanted my jacket, shirt and shoes. What the hell is this about?’

Erik chose not to answer his questions. Not yet.

‘You threatened Emil and Fred Carlsten outside the pool in Torsby the day before yesterday after Fred’s swimming lesson,’ he went on, without taking his eyes off Ceder.

‘I didn’t threaten them.’

Erik turned to Fredrika, who opened the folder in front of her, found the relevant document and read it out loud:

‘You told them to … be careful none of them got in the way of the next fucking bullet.’

‘Sounds like a threat to me,’ Erik interjected.

Jan Ceder shrugged. ‘I’d had a few drinks.’

‘It’s still a threat.’

‘I was pissed.’

‘Do you know what I think when people like you defend their unacceptable behaviour by saying they were drunk?’

Silence. No doubt Ceder was expecting Erik to continue without any input from him, but after ten seconds he realised this wasn’t going to happen.

‘No, I don’t know what you think.’

‘I think: Does he take me for an idiot?’ Erik leaned forward – not far, but enough for Ceder to recoil slightly. ‘Alcohol doesn’t give you new ideas, it simply allows you to say what’s already in your mind, the things that you’re sensible enough to keep your mouth shut about when you’re sober. You threatened their lives.’

Jan cleared his throat, suddenly looking a little less comfortable. He ran a hand over his grey stubble.

‘I can apologise, if that’s what you want. If I scared the kid or something.’

Before Erik had time to reply, Fredrika’s mobile started vibrating on the table. He glared at her, but she successfully ignored him, glancing at the display and then taking the call, to Erik’s great surprise. The two men waited for her to finish the conversation; all they could hear was the odd ‘hmm’ and a couple of monosyllabic questions.

‘Any chance of a coffee?’ Ceder asked after clearing his throat once more.

‘It’s lukewarm,’ Erik said just as Fredrika ended the call. He was just about to make an acid comment and resume the interview when she leaned over and whispered in his ear.

She didn’t say much, but when Erik turned his attention back to Ceder, he seemed to have acquired a fresh burst of energy.

‘You have a licence for two rifles and a shotgun,’ he began, opening his folder. ‘A … twelve-calibre Benelli SuperNova. Is that correct?’

Ceder nodded.

‘Could you please answer verbally – for the tape,’ Fredrika clarified.

‘Yes,’ Ceder stated in an unnecessarily loud, clear voice. ‘I own a twelve-calibre Benelli SuperNova.’

‘The team searching your house just called.’ Erik paused, leaned forward again. Further this time. Slightly more aggressive. ‘They can’t find it. Could you tell us where it is?’

‘It got nicked.’

No hesitation whatsoever. Erik couldn’t tell whether it was an honest answer, or just well rehearsed, but he had four dead bodies, four people executed with a shotgun, and Jan Ceder didn’t know where his shotgun was.

What a coincidence.

He had no intention of letting this go.

‘When was this?’

‘A few months ago maybe. Some time before Christmas.’