Black Lies, Red Blood

Forty-two

Moments of happiness, when fate smiles gently and generously, came seldom to Ann Lindell, but now she was experiencing such a moment of grace.

She had called Klara Lovisa’s parents to confirm what she already believed.

Now she was sitting in her office, completely motionless, with her hands clasped on the desk, smiling broadly, even grinning occasionally.

She sensed that what she was experiencing at that moment was like the feeling a craftsman or artist has before a completed work.

The only sorrowful thing in the context, which somewhat soiled it all, was the sad finding against which she experienced happiness at this time. It was after all about the death of a young girl. But that did not take much away from the feeling of quiet triumph. Detective Inspector Ann Lindell had succeeded.

She thought about looking for Ottosson to tell him, but more than anything else she wanted to sweep into his office and submit a finished package to him and Prosecutor Molin, where everything was signed, sealed, and delivered, so she decided to savor the sweetness a little longer.

Then came the worry. Basically it had been lurking there the whole time, but suddenly the fear of failure struck with full force. She could not be 100 percent certain; did her eagerness to solve the murder make her draw hasty conclusions? Her intended submission of evidence was fragile, to say the least.

She got up indecisively and gave the notes on her pad a final look before she hurried out of the office, shut the door, jogged over to the elevator, and pressed the button. But she then changed her mind, and took the stairs to Forensics.