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  ‘Thank you so much.’

  Nina stopped in the doorway, uncertain.

  There was an unusual number of uniforms in the small staffroom. They were standing in small groups with their backs to her, their heads close together. The hum of their voices sounded like air-conditioning, low and constant.

  This is what grief sounds like, she thought, not knowing where the idea had come from.

  It was a quarter to two, and her shift didn’t start until four, but at first she hadn’t been able to sleep, hadn’t wanted to sleep. When she’d eventually drifted off, her dreams had been so confused and unsettling that they’d woken her. Rather than try to sleep again, she’d got up.

  She pushed her way in behind Pettersson, who was blocking the door, and made her way to the coffee-machine, squeezing sideways between people, muttering apologies and stepping over helmets, boots and jackets.

  The further into the room she got, the quieter it seemed.

  By the time she reached the coffee-machine there was complete silence around her. She turned.

  Everyone was staring at her, their faces closed. She got the feeling that they were all leaning back, away from her. ‘Is there anything you’d like to know?’ she asked.

  No one spoke.

  She turned away from the coffee-machine, put her hands behind her back and looked directly at her colleagues. ‘Is there anything you want to know that isn’t obvious from the report?’

  They seemed uncomfortable, and some of the officers standing closest to her looked away.

  ‘How come you were first on the scene?’ someone shouted, from the back of the room.

  Nina craned her neck to see who it was. ‘Why was I first on the scene?’ she called, loud and clear. ‘And why would anyone wonder about that?’

  Christer Bure stepped forward, one of David’s former colleagues from his days in uniform with the Norrmalm force. His face was dark from lack of sleep and grief. ‘I just think it’s bloody odd,’ he said, stopping half a metre away from her, ‘that you’re the one who storms into the flat where David was shot, and that you whisked away his crazy fucking wife and hid her in hospital. How do you explain that?’

  Nina suppressed an impulse to back away from him. She wouldn’t get far anyway – the coffee-machine was in the way. He was glaring at her with such undisguised derision and ill-will that she had to take a deep breath before she spoke.

  ‘The answer is perfectly simple,’ she said. ‘Andersson and I were sitting in 1617, and we were closest. Anything else you’d like to know?’

  Christer Bure moved another step closer to her and clenched his fists. There was a ripple around him, as if several other men were following his example.

  ‘His crazy wife,’ he said. ‘Why did she do it?’

  Am I really supposed to put up with this?

  ‘Julia Lindholm is the prime suspect for David’s murder,’ Nina said, her voice trembling. ‘I presume that the investigation will uncover the murderer’s motivation, whether it was Julia or someone else who—’

  ‘Of course it was her, for fuck’s sake!’ Christer Bure shouted, his forehead deep red. ‘Why the fuck are you still pretending?’

  A few drops of saliva hit Nina’s face. She turned and forced her way towards the door. She could feel tears burning at the back of her eyes and had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of seeing her break down in front of the entire station.

  ‘The press conference is starting!’ someone yelled, above the noise that had suddenly erupted. The introduction to Swedish TV news flickered across the screen in front of Nina and everyone fell silent. On the television, someone in a Hawaiian shirt settled behind a desk on the rostrum of the large conference room at Police Headquarters on Kungsholmen. Two men and a woman sat down beside him. Nina recognized the police press officer and the head of the National Crime Unit. She had never seen the woman before. A storm of flashbulbs broke over their clenched features, and the press officer said something into the microphone.

  ‘Turn the volume up!’ someone shouted.

  ‘… by the murder of Police Superintendent David Lindholm,’ the press officer was saying. ‘I will hand you over to the head of the preliminary investigation, Prosecutor Angela Nilsson.’

  The woman leaned towards the microphone. She had a blonde bob and was wearing a bright red suit. ‘I have today remanded one individual in custody,’ she said, ‘on serious suspicion of having murdered David Lindholm.’ Her voice was cool, with a faintly upper-class accent.

  On serious suspicion: the higher level of suspicion.

  ‘An application for the formal arrest of this individual will be presented to the magistrates’ court by Sunday at the latest,’ she went on, without changing her tone. ‘I would like to point out that, as head of the preliminary investigation, I am keeping an open mind as far as this case is concerned, and that we are not focusing on just one scenario, even though we have made a breakthrough at such an early stage.’

  She leaned back to indicate that she had finished.

  ‘Well,’ the press officer said, clearing his throat, ‘I will now hand you to the detective inspector leading the case for the National Crime Unit.’

  A large police officer with his cap still on moved to stand in front of Nina; she stepped to one side to see.

  ‘David Lindholm was found shot in his home early this morning,’ the man in the brightly coloured shirt said. ‘One person who was found alive at the crime scene was taken to hospital, and has today been remanded on grounds of reasonable suspicion. We have secured some forensic evidence, but there is still one large question mark hanging over our investigation.’

  A blown-up picture of a small child appeared behind the people on the rostrum.

  ‘This is Alexander Lindholm,’ the detective said, ‘David Lindholm’s four-year-old son. He has been reported missing this morning. The boy lives in the apartment that is also the crime scene, but he wasn’t there when officers arrived. We are keen to receive any information about Alexander and where he might be now.’

  There was feverish activity in the press conference as the photographers started taking pictures of the image on the wall.

  The press officer adjusted his microphone and spoke quickly to calm the press corps. ‘The boy’s picture will be distributed to all media,’ he said.

  ‘Murders of police officers are extremely rare in Sweden,’ the head of the National Crime Unit said slowly, and a heavy silence fell, both at the press conference and in the staffroom of Södermalm police station. ‘David Lindholm is the first such victim since the murders in Malexander in the late 1990s, and we should be very grateful that we are spared such occurrences more often.’

  He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. When he spoke again it was with greater focus and solemnity. ‘When one of our fellow officers is killed,’ he said, ‘we don’t just lose a person, but also a friend. Part of our social structure has been attacked, part of our democratic foundations.’

  He nodded thoughtfully, and Nina saw several of her colleagues nod with him.

  ‘David was also … special,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘He was a role-model for people far beyond the police force, an inspiration to all.’ Now the head of National Crime was almost quavering. ‘I myself had the honour of watching David at work, and could appreciate the impact of his dealings with serious criminals, those with drug addictions and lifetime sentences, how he made people like that feel hope again, and believe in the future …’

  Suddenly Nina didn’t want to hear any more. She pushed past two officers and hurried out towards the changing room.

  6

  Thomas steered his heavy jeep through the streets of the suburban idyll as an early summer breeze rushed in through his window, ruffling his hair and tugging at his clothes. Sophia’s smooth thighs were still burning on his skin; her scent was still in his stubble.

  He felt alive.

  He had spent the past twenty-four hours in her big double bed. She had cal
led in sick: for Sophia, some things were more important than her career. They had had breakfast and lunch between the sheets.

  Was it really only a day since he had been out here? Only one day, one night since he had lived here, among the birches? He saw lawns flash past, unfamiliar, as if they belonged to another world.

  All those years with Annika already felt like a long, dusty trek through a desert, a drawn-out ceasefire with regular skirmishes and protracted negotiations.

  How did I put up with it? Why didn’t I leave her before?

  The children, of course. He had done his duty.

  He cruised through the cars parked outside the local supermarket, waving at a neighbour he thought he recognized.

  Practically the first thing that had happened in his relationship with Annika was her pregnancy with Kalle so he hadn’t really had much choice. He could either try to live with the mother of his child, or be one of those absent fathers whose child ends up disadvantaged and ostracized. But now it was over. He would never again have to put up with her contrary outbursts. He would just gather up a few clothes, pick up his computer and record collection, and on Monday he’d get hold of a shit-hot divorce lawyer. Sophia had good contacts: she didn’t have to sit down with the Yellow Pages as Annika did whenever she needed a professional.

  No two women could be less alike. Sophia was everything Annika despised, mainly because she could never be like her: educated, feminine and well mannered.

  And Sophia enjoyed sex, unlike frigid Annika.

  Wow, that was mean. Was he allowed to be so unkind?

  He turned right, into the area where they lived, his eyes roaming over the pale-green trees and white fences. Houses loomed up on either side of the road, patrician villas and big brick palaces in the national romantic style, with ornate verandas, pools and summerhouses.

  She’ll have to buy me out of the house, and it won’t come cheap.

  He was prepared to fight, he really was, because the house was just as much his as it was hers. They’d had no pre-nuptial agreement, so half of it was his.

  Sophia had been born into money: her penthouse suite was owned by her family.

  He saw the turning to Vinterviksvägen ahead of him and his pulse quickened. This was likely to be unpleasant.

  Sophia had asked if he wanted her to come along, had said she would be happy to support him. He had been firm: he had got himself into this mess so it was his job to sort it out.

  She had thought him very responsible.

  I’ll sort it out. I can do it.

  He turned into the road with a heavy sigh.

  I don’t want to fight. I’ve just come to get a few things …

  At first he couldn’t work out what was wrong with the scene that greeted him, what it was that didn’t make sense. Then it hit him, like a punch in the face, before he identified the smell of smoke and ash, before he worked out what he was looking at.

  He stopped the car in the road, leaning over the wheel and staring through the windscreen.

  His home was a smoking ruin. The whole building had collapsed. The remains were blackened and warped. Charred roof-tiles lay scattered over the grass. Annika’s car stood on the drive, a blackened wreck.

  He turned off the engine and listened to the sound of his own panicked breathing.

  What the hell have you done, you fucking witch? What have you done with the children?

  He opened the door and got out on to the road, as the car alarm shrieked to tell him he had left the key in the ignition. The noise followed him as he made his way unsteadily towards the police tape and stared helplessly at the crumbling walls.

  Oh, God, where are the children?

  His throat constricted and he heard himself whimper.

  Oh no, oh no, oh no!

  He sank to his knees, hardly noticing the damp seeping through his trousers. All his things, all his clothes, the football from the tournament he’d played in over in the States, his student graduation cap, the guitar from Sunset Boulevard, his reference library and vinyl records …

  ‘Terrible, isn’t it?’

  He looked up. Ebba Romanova, their closest neighbour, was standing beside him. He hadn’t recognized her immediately. She usually had a dog with her. She held out a hand. He took it and stood up, brushing some wet ash from his trousers. ‘Do you know what happened?’ he asked, wiping his eyes.

  Ebba Romanova shook her head. ‘It was like this when I got home.’

  ‘Do you know where the children are?’ he asked, and his voice broke.

  ‘I’m sure they’re fine,’ she said. ‘They haven’t found any …’ She trailed off. ‘And when it comes down to it, it’s just possessions,’ she went on, staring out over the ruins. ‘The only thing that really matters is life itself.’

  Rage rose in Thomas. ‘Easy for you to say.’

  She didn’t answer, and before Thomas could think of anything to say she had turned and started to walk unsteadily towards her gate, sobbing.

  Thomas was left standing on the road, confused and lost.

  What do I do?

  He fished out his mobile and checked the display: no messages, no missed calls.

  That told you, eh? Well, it serves me right!

  He might have had his phone switched off last night, but only so she wouldn’t phone and scream and cry. She could have left a message. She could have told him his house had burned down.

  Is that too much to ask?

  He raised the phone to call her and tell her a few home truths, but realized he didn’t know her mobile number. He had to look it up, dialled it and was met by the automated voice message. She didn’t even have a personal one.

  He turned his back on the ruins and went to his car.

  At the station, work had slowly got going again, but the four o’clock handover had passed without any great enthusiasm. Nina was told to go out with Andersson again, and couldn’t think of a reason not to. None of the other young men was much better.

  Now they were sitting in the staffroom, talking. No one was going to head out before the minute’s silence at five. Nina walked silently down the corridor, glanced quickly over her shoulder, then snuck into an empty interview room. She listened at the door and heard Andersson’s deep voice rolling along the walls.

  How am I supposed to handle this?

  She went over to the telephone, picked up the receiver and listened to the dialling tone. Then she dialled the ten-digit number and waited.

  Eventually someone answered with a muffled cough.

  ‘Hello. It’s me, Nina.’ She could hear someone breathing heavily and sniffing at the other end. ‘Holger? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Julia’s father said.

  Nina checked that the door was properly closed, then sat down at the empty desk. ‘How are you?’ she asked quietly. ‘How’s Viola?’

  ‘Desperate,’ the man said. ‘Utterly desperate. We’re …’ He fell silent.

  ‘I know,’ Nina said, when he didn’t go on. ‘Have you heard anything about Alexander?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  Silence again.

  ‘Holger,’ Nina said, ‘I want you to listen very carefully to what I say. I’m about to tell you something I’m not supposed to, not you or anyone else. You mustn’t tell anyone what I tell you, apart from Viola. I was the one who took the call. I was the first into the flat. I found Julia on the bathroom floor. I looked after her and went with her up to the hospital. She wasn’t hurt. Holger. Do you hear me? She wasn’t physically hurt at all. She was in deep shock, not really there, but there’s nothing wrong with her. Julia’s going to be fine. She’ll soon be back to normal. Holger, do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Did you …? What were you doing in Julia’s flat?’

  ‘I was on duty, doing an extra shift. I was the closest patrol when the call came in, so I responded. I thought that was the best thing to do.’

  ‘And Alexander wasn’t there?’

  ‘No. Alexander definitely was
n’t in the flat when I got there.’

  ‘But … where is he, then?’

  She could feel the tears rising. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered, then cleared her throat. ‘Are you getting any help? Have you got anyone to talk to?’

  ‘Such as who?’

  He might well ask. He and Viola weren’t regarded as relatives of a murder victim, but of a murderer: there would be no crisis team ready to help them with their grief. ‘I’m working Saturday and Sunday,’ Nina said, ‘but I can come down to see you on Monday, if you like.’

  ‘You’re always welcome here,’ Holger said.

  ‘I don’t want to intrude,’ Nina said.

  ‘You never do. We’d like it if you could come and see us.’

  There was another silence.

  ‘Nina,’ the man finally said, ‘did she shoot him? Was it Julia who shot him?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘but it looks like it. The prosecutor has remanded her in custody.’

  Julia’s father took several deep breaths. ‘Do you know why?’

  Nina hesitated: she didn’t want to lie. ‘Not exactly,’ she said, ‘but I think they’d been having problems recently. Julia hasn’t really told me much. She hadn’t mentioned anything to you?’

  ‘Nothing to indicate that things were seriously wrong. About a year ago she said she thought it was a shame that David didn’t seem to like Björkbacken, but nothing else …’

  She could hear noise out in the corridor, then Andersson’s voice. ‘I have to go,’ she said quickly. ‘Call me whenever you like on my mobile, Holger.’

  The electronic bleeping was forcing its way into Annika’s head. She resisted the urge to put her fingers in her ears. She had used some of Berit’s money to buy the children a new Game Boy each. They were sitting at the head of the bed, staring intently at the small screens. Ellen was playing Disney Princess, and Kalle was playing a Super Mario golf game, to the accompaniment of much bleeping, pinging and popping.

  She couldn’t see any further ahead than a couple of minutes at a time. In some peculiar way this calmed her. Now I’m going to buy a new handbag. Now we’re going to eat hotdogs. Now I’m going to make a phone call …