EARLIER

The Third Day

FRIDAY, 27 JANUARY 2012

More fucking snow. A punishment from God for a crime he wasn’t even aware of. Efraim Kiel was sitting in his hotel room, staring at the grainy images on his computer. He couldn’t see a fucking thing. If he hadn’t stolen the tape from the CCTV camera, he would have gone down to reception and asked what kind of useless fucking camera they were using.

It had been laughably simple to get hold of the film. He had installed similar cameras elsewhere; it had taken him less than an hour to locate the computer where the sequences were saved. Bizarrely, it was in the luggage storage room. It wasn’t clear if this was a temporary arrangement, but he hoped so, otherwise he felt sorry for the hotel management; they must have had terrible advice when they installed their security system.

However, it had made it much easier for Efraim to get hold of the images that would show him who had left the message at the desk. He had his suspicions, but was praying to every higher power he could think of that he would be proved wrong.

And now he was sitting in his room trying to make sense of what he was looking at.

A blizzard.

A chimney sweep in a darkroom.

And that bothered him, because he wouldn’t have expected images from this kind of camera to look like that.

Irritation and a feeling that was entirely unfamiliar to him – anxiety – spread through his body like an itch. Could someone have sabotaged the camera? Put something over the lens?

But how was that possible when reception was always staffed?

He told himself to calm down. There were a thousand ways to get into buildings and areas where you weren’t supposed to be. You dressed up as a tradesman. Someone who had come to install cable TV. A cleaner. Anyone at all who opened doors that were otherwise locked.

The Paper Boy could have easily got into the hotel lobby and done what he wanted to do.

Efraim clenched his fist and pressed it against his forehead. He had to stop thinking about the Paper Boy as an individual, as someone who actually existed.

It’s only a story, a myth. He doesn’t exist.

But in that case, who had sent him the message?

He was starting to think that it must be the Paper Boy who had once lived. Who had not been a myth. But if that was the case, then Efraim had a difficult task ahead, because that Paper Boy couldn’t be left to his own devices; he would need help, someone to bring him to his senses.

Efraim’s heart rate was normally forty-seven beats per minute, but at the moment it was significantly higher. And it was pounding, as if it was having difficulty in pumping the blood around his body. He got up and went into the bathroom. Washed his face and dried it with a hand towel.

He had to pull himself together.

Focus.

The Paper Boy had issued an invitation to the dance, but Efraim wasn’t interested in meeting him halfway. He couldn’t really understand why he didn’t just pack his bag and go home, why he was still here.

Because I know I can’t get away, wherever I hide.

Resolutely he left his hotel room.

As he closed the door, he saw the note.

It was lying on the floor outside his room. Out in the open, so that anyone passing by could read what it said. Then again, they probably wouldn’t understand it, because once again the message was written in Hebrew.

A piece of white paper with black characters.

I can see you


all the time


but you can’t see me.


Strange, don’t you think?


His coffee had gone cold. Peder Rydh didn’t really want it anyway. Perhaps he needed a glass of wine, or a whisky. Although it was too early in the day. Even when he had been at his lowest, he had never drunk alcohol for breakfast.

He was sitting at his desk, frowning. How the hell was he supposed to find the answer Efraim had demanded? He wanted to know whether the person – or persons – who had shot the teacher and the two boys had left behind any kind of calling card. He would never be able to get that kind of detail out of the police, and Alex certainly wouldn’t tell him something like that.

But perhaps he could try someone he knew in the National Crime Unit.

Because hadn’t Alex said that the case of the murdered teacher had been passed over to the team specialising in organised crime? Peder knew at least one of the investigators on that team – not very well, but he didn’t think that was necessary. Not when it came to that particular person.

His colleague answered almost straight away. He sounded stressed at first, then surprised when he realised who was calling.

‘Peder, it’s been a long time!’

You could say that.

‘How are you?’ his colleague said.

‘Fine, thanks.’

After one or two more polite exchanges, Peder explained what he was after. He rarely answered honestly when someone asked ‘How are you?’ or ‘How are things?’ Nobody really wanted to know the truth.

‘Are you involved in the investigation into the fatal shooting outside the Solomon school?’ he said.

His colleague sounded extremely dubious when he replied.

‘The teacher, you mean? Yes, I am.’

‘Listen, I know I’m not part of the job any more,’ Peder said, although it still pained him to say the words out loud. ‘But I’m working as head of security with the Solomon Community, and as I’m sure you understand, what’s happened has given rise to a hell of a lot of questions.’

‘Sorry, but the whole thing is proscribed. I can’t…’

‘I’m not asking you to. I’m just wondering whether you found anything, some object the killer might have left behind. A calling card.’

‘Where?’

That was a good question. Where? What had Efraim meant?

‘Where he was lying when he fired the shot,’ Peder said eventually. ‘Or anywhere else inside the building.’

‘Not a thing. He seems to have been an ice-cold bastard. He just went up there, did what he’d come to do, and left.’

‘Okay. Thanks very much, and I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’

‘No problem, sorry I couldn’t help.’

Peder ended the call, then got to his feet, put on his coat and left the building. The weather had deteriorated; soft clouds filled the sky, making him shiver.

He went across the street to the Solomon school, nodding to the guards outside as he went inside. He recognised the secretary on reception; she had shown him round the previous day. Her greeting was a little subdued; Peder knew there was to be a service for Josephine and the boys in the synagogue later that morning. He wondered if he was expected to attend, or stay away.

‘How can I help?’ she said.

He hardly knew himself. He supposed he was still looking for calling cards, but how could the secretary help him with that?

‘I just wanted to check that everything is okay,’ he said. ‘You haven’t had any strange phone calls, anything like that?’

He sounded like a police officer, but she didn’t appear to react. She shook her head.

‘No, nothing.’

‘Good, that’s excellent. And no unexpected packages or messages?’

‘No.’

Of course not. What had he expected? That the killer would have sent a calling card over by courier?

‘But we have had a huge amount of flowers,’ the secretary said, smiling for the first time. ‘Look.’

She pointed to a table at the other end of the room; it was almost completely covered in flowers and pot plants.

‘We’re going to display them in the hall later so that the children can see how many people care.’

‘That’s lovely,’ Peder said. ‘Are they from community members?’

‘Mostly, but some have come from outside.’

She got up and went over to the table.

‘For example, this one arrived yesterday,’ she said, showing Peder a large red flower; he had no idea what it was called.

‘Lovely,’ he said again.

He noticed that the waste bin under the secretary’s desk was overflowing with the discarded paper the flowers had been wrapped in; some had spilled over onto the floor.

‘Goodness, look at the mess,’ she said apologetically when she noticed Peder looking at the bin. ‘I’ll tidy it up in a minute.’

He could see a number of paper bags on the floor, and assumed they had been used for delivery. He crouched down automatically to take a closer look. Ordinary paper bags, some bearing address labels giving details of both the sender and the recipient.

One of the bags caught his attention. A brown, medium-sized bag with no label – but someone had drawn on it.

‘That was one of the first to arrive,’ the secretary said. ‘A beautiful chrysanthemum.’

She pointed and Peder picked up the plant, which was in a plain white pot.

‘No card,’ he said.

‘No,’ the secretary said unhappily. ‘Some of the cards must have fallen off, which is annoying. Or they were attached to the bags, and I just didn’t notice them.’

Peder looked at the bag once again. No name anywhere.

But there was a drawing.

‘Don’t throw this one away,’ he said. ‘Show it to the police.’

‘But why?’

‘Because I think it might be important.’


The morning after yet another night of very little sleep. The dead boys haunted her, mixed up with other cases that Fredrika Bergman had investigated in the past. Cases where children had fared badly.

Life was fragile. Small mistakes could have disastrous consequences. Fredrika had seen it happen more times than she could remember, and yet she was always equally surprised.

She didn’t know whether Carmen and Gideon Eisenberg had made any mistakes that might explain why they had lost their son. There wasn’t a sound when she and Alex walked into their house the morning after they had been told that their son had been shot dead out on the island of Lovön. It had been a long night; that was clear from their exhausted faces.

Did grief have a different shape and colour in a foreign land? Perhaps people dealt differently with heavy losses if they had grown up in a place where peace never seemed to last, where there was always unrest and no one could ever be sure how tomorrow would turn out.

Fredrika realised she felt completely at a loss with the Eisenbergs. Carmen, to whom Fredrika had spoken the previous day, was sitting at the table with her husband. He had reached across the polished surface and placed his hand on hers, and was just gazing at her.

No tears, no screaming.

Not then.

Not in front of Fredrika and Alex.

But she could see that they had been crying, and no doubt there would be more tears once she and Alex had left.

The parents had been given answers to the most important questions at the hospital.

No, it didn’t look as if their son had been subjected to violence or physical abuse before his death.

No, he wouldn’t have suffered when he died; death would have been instantaneous.

However, they had not been told that the boys had had bags on their heads, or that they appeared to have been hunted down by their killer. There would be a time for that kind of information, but this wasn’t it.

There would be a short interview today, nothing more. Not on the first day.

It was less than forty-eight hours since Fredrika and Alex had been talking to Josephine’s parents about the loss of their daughter. Fredrika thought about the three deaths, trying to digest the news that they now had proof that there was a connection.

Her own words still echoed in her brain: the paper bags could be a calling card. A serial killer’s calling card. In which case they could expect more victims.

But that kind of thing just doesn’t happen. The worst nightmares never become reality. And serial killers don’t exist. Not in real life.

Fredrika and Alex were sitting side by side. The table seemed too small for two grieving parents and two stressed-out investigators. The whole kitchen was too small. And the silence was too huge.

It was Alex who broke it.

‘At the moment we don’t know why this has happened,’ he said, speaking slowly as if he were choosing every single word with the greatest care. ‘But I can promise you that we will spare no effort in this case. We will do everything, and I mean everything, to find the person or persons behind the murders of Simon and Abraham.’

He stopped speaking, allowing what he had just said to sink in. That was how he built trust, by focusing on clarity and pledging only what was reasonable. He had said they would do everything they could to find the perpetrator, and that was true. He had not, however, promised that they would succeed, which was also true, unfortunately. Sometimes they failed. It had happened as recently as last autumn, when the person responsible for hijacking Flight 573 had got away.

But they knew who the guilty party was, and they were still looking.

They would never stop.

Sometimes that was as far as they got, even if it was incredibly frustrating.

‘What’s your take on all this?’ Alex said. ‘Do you have any enemies or unresolved disputes?’

They had been asked the question before, and they would be asked again. Sooner or later they would remember something that was key to the inquiry.

Carmen and Gideon Eisenberg looked at one another, and Fredrika knew what they were thinking. Unresolved disputes? Of such magnitude that they had cost their son his life?

They both shook their head.

‘No,’ Gideon said. ‘No, we haven’t.’

At first glance they were a harmonious couple. Same sense of humour, same character. But Fredrika thought she could sense something else beneath the surface. There was a fragility about Gideon that she couldn’t see in Carmen. She was the stronger one, although Fredrika couldn’t imagine how much strength she would need to get through what lay ahead: burying her son, and learning to live with his absence.

‘And what about Simon?’ she said. ‘Did he have any enemies?’

Gideon stared at her as if she had lost her mind.

‘He was a child.’

Fredrika swallowed hard. Children could be cruel; they could do the most unforgivable things. And behind every humiliated child was a frustrated parent, determined to stand up for their offspring.

Alex understood what she was asking.

‘We believe Simon and Abraham were picked up in a car by an adult they knew. Would they have got in the car if they didn’t know that person well?’

‘No,’ Carmen said firmly. ‘Neither of them would have done that, particularly not Abraham.’

Which was interesting, because Abraham wasn’t her son.

‘How can you be so sure?’ Fredrika asked.

‘His parents were very strict about that,’ Gideon said. ‘And we were the same with Simon, although Abraham was more receptive to rules.’

Another peculiar turn of phrase.

‘More receptive to rules.’

‘Both his parents have a military background,’ Carmen explained quietly. ‘Abraham is… was… very impressed by that. Discipline appealed to him, clear guidelines. It went hand in hand with his arrogance. As you know, being late didn’t bother him at all. Simon was a more normal child; he usually did as we said, but occasionally he went his own way.’

‘But he would never have got into a stranger’s car,’ Gideon said, sounding decisive for the first time.

Fredrika allowed her curiosity to take over.

‘Could I ask about your background?’

The couple exchanged glances.

‘I studied engineering at university in Jerusalem, and I now work in IT security,’ Gideon said. ‘Carmen is an architect.’

Fredrika and Alex already knew that; she had asked about their background.

‘What did you do when you lived in Israel?’

‘The same.’

The answer was curt and evasive.

‘So you don’t have a military background like Abraham’s parents?’

Gideon’s expression was dark as he looked at Fredrika.

‘Everyone in Israel has a “military background”. Like eighty-five per cent of the male population, I did three years’ military service.’

‘Why did you move to Sweden?’ Alex asked.

Carmen sighed.

‘We had family here, and Gideon had been over several times through work. Israel can be… trying. If it’s not the heat, it’s the political situation. We were tired of all the tension. I don’t know if you remember, but 2002 was a terrible year in Israel. That was when the violence reached its absolute peak following the second Intifada. And when we found out we were having a baby…’

She broke off, unable to go on.

And Fredrika, who had carried and given birth to two babies, felt the tears well up.

Get a grip. Get a grip.

Alex looked from Gideon to Carmen, his gaze steady but sympathetic.

‘You can ring me at any time,’ he said, giving them his card. ‘About anything you think could be of interest in the investigation, or if you have questions.’

He got to his feet.

‘We’ll leave you in peace.’

The four of them walked from the kitchen to the hallway. Fredrika thought back to what Carmen had said about their reasons for leaving Israel. It was a cruel irony that they had come to Sweden to escape terror and violence, only to see their firstborn murdered.

She realised she had one more question.

‘Did Simon spend a lot of time on the internet?’

Gideon put his arm around Carmen’s shoulders.

‘No more than other children, I imagine.’

Fredrika had no idea what that meant. Her own children were too young for computers, and if their father had his way, they would never go anywhere near one. They would learn to use a typewriter, and if they wanted to play games, they could play chess.

Carmen leaned against her husband.

‘He discovered a new forum only a month or so ago,’ she said. ‘On the internet, I mean. Abraham showed him, although we didn’t really like it. Super Troopers, it’s called.’

A forum. A place for people to meet. Possibly a place for a killer to find his victims.

‘Why didn’t you like it?’ Alex asked.

‘I got the impression that nobody was being themselves,’ Carmen said. ‘Everyone had an alias, and it was nothing but a place to boast and show off. It seemed to attract young boys so that they could tell each other how to excel at various activities.’

They would have to check this out. It might be a dead end, but it could be important.

‘Did Abraham and Simon also have aliases?’ Fredrika said.

A single tear ran down Carmen’s cheek.

‘Both boys used their real names for some aspects, but they wanted an alias as well. Abraham was keen to make a bold impression as usual, and called himself the Warrior. But not Simon.’

‘No?’

‘No, he called himself the Paper Boy.’


There was no such thing as a lie-in in Eden Lundell’s world. She got up at six and liked to go for a run before she woke the rest of the family. Then she would make breakfast and eat in silence. Her daughters did the same.

Eden loathed noise. Some people seemed to think that kids couldn’t help being loud, but Eden didn’t agree. She had walked out of a restaurant halfway through dinner more than once because children at nearby tables didn’t know how to behave. How hard could it be to turn small people into decent human beings?

Mikael didn’t necessarily agree; he thought she was too harsh, and said that kids have to be allowed to be kids. No one was denying that, but Eden couldn’t see any contradiction between being a child and understanding the importance of not acting like a monster.

She dropped the girls off at day care and walked to work.

Mikael had a meeting with a youth group, and had left home early. He was always keen to get to work, and that gave Eden peace of mind. He was needed out in the real world, beyond the home that he and Eden had built for themselves and their children.

Eden loved her job too. The first thing she did when she got in to the office was to make sure she was up to speed with the counter-terrorism unit’s latest initiative. Meeting after meeting. Why did they have to spend so much time stuck in a room with other people, talking? Talking and talking, as if that was what would bring peace on earth. She remembered the previous day’s sad excursion to Drottningholm; the children lying in the snow. How much would it help them if the grown-ups in the world shut themselves in a room with crap air conditioning and talked?

Not one fucking jot.

The Solomon Community seemed to have abandoned its attempts to get her involved in the case. Just as well, because she didn’t want to know. Her parents would have been bitterly disappointed if they had known that she was turning her back on her people. Since they had left London for Israel, the relationship had been strained. Mikael had actually wanted to go with them, and had put the idea to Eden as a serious suggestion.

She had wondered if he had lost his mind. He wasn’t even Jewish – he was a priest in the Swedish church – so why the hell would he want to emigrate to Israel? A country smaller than the province of Småland, surrounded by countries that in the best case scenario might possibly accept its existence, but would never make the effort to develop good relations. She had said the same thing to her parents, wondering why her British mother and Swedish father wanted to become Israeli citizens.

But no one knew the real reason why she could never consider going to live in Israel.

Efraim Kiel.

The man who had almost cost her everything, the man she sometimes still dreamed of at night, damn him. The man who was now wandering the streets of Stockholm. Much too close for comfort.

When the cavalcade of meetings was finally over, she hurried back to the glass box that served as her office. She closed the door and found the latest surveillance reports. What had Efraim been up to overnight and during the morning?

Not much, as it turned out.

He had left the hotel and gone to the Solomon Community. Just as on the day before, he had stood outside inspecting the bullet hole in the wall. He had also spoken to the security guards before going inside.

Was he a part of the community’s security set-up? She didn’t think so.

But he was obviously interested in the deaths that had shaken the group over the last couple of days. There was nothing strange about that; he had an impressive background in intelligence, and would no doubt be able to make a significant contribution to the investigation.

Eden tapped her pen impatiently on the desk.

The case was being investigated by the Swedish police. There was no way they would let Efraim or anyone else from the community into their work. She opened up the homepages of the major newspapers, glanced through the articles that had already been written about the murders. Alex Recht was quoted in several instances.

Eden knew she could call him; that wouldn’t be a problem. She reached for the phone, then put it down. What would she say? What was it she wanted to know?

Säpo had nothing to do with the cases, and Eden didn’t know any of the victims. She could of course pretend that she was just generally concerned; play the Jewish card. But bearing in mind that she had turned her back on the Solomon Community, that went against the grain.

You see, I do have scruples.

She looked up from the screen, glanced out of the glass walls of her office. It was as if Säpo had been lifted out of the world around it, cut off from the universe. In a way it was a universe of its own, enclosed and turned away from everything else. When she saw the heavy snow coming down, she felt even more isolated.

She had to pull herself together; it was no good sitting here getting miserable.

She had one last surveillance report on Efraim to look through, and that was where she found her first concrete lead on what he was up to.

The guys tailing Efraim had been quite creative. One of them had gone into Efraim’s hotel, up to the floor where he was staying, and stood outside his door, ready to pretend that he was lost, if anyone asked what he was doing. He had wanted to know if Efraim was alone in the room. According to the report, he hadn’t heard a sound from inside. He had, however, made a discovery. Someone had left Efraim a message. It was lying on the floor outside his door, out in the open so that anyone could read it. The agent had taken a photograph with his mobile.

It wasn’t actually correct to say that anyone could read it; the message was written in Hebrew, and as far as Eden knew, there weren’t many Hebrew speakers in Sweden.

She, however, was an exception. It was an easy language; she had needed less than a year to master it. She read the short lines.

I can see you


all the time


but you can’t see me.


Strange, don’t you think?

Indeed it was strange. Could it be a joke? Was it meant to be funny? She didn’t think so.

She read the message again.

This had nothing to do with any kind of intelligence work, she knew that. Agents and spies didn’t leave each other such indiscreet notes. So it must be related to a private matter.

I can see you.

But you can’t see me.

Eden didn’t understand, and it was clear that she wasn’t meant to. But she did understand one thing, and it bothered her.

Säpo weren’t the only ones watching Efraim.

Someone else was following every step he took.


Alex and Fredrika didn’t waste any time, but went straight from the Eisenbergs to the Goldmanns. They left the car where it was; the very thought of starting it up and driving through the narrow streets of Östermalm in the heavy snowfall raised Alex’s blood pressure.

The Warrior and the Paper Boy.

From what they had learned about both boys so far, these seemed like pretty good descriptions. What bothered Alex was the fact that they had chosen the names themselves. The Warrior he could understand, but what ten-year-old kid would come up with the Paper Boy? Paper was weak, fragile. Easily torn apart. And Boy? Ten-year-olds weren’t usually keen on that word either.

‘Their aliases,’ he said to Fredrika.

‘I was thinking about the same thing. Especially the Paper Boy. Why would he call himself that?’

‘I’ve no idea. We must remember to mention it to his parents, ask if it really should be taken literally, or if there’s some reference we’ve missed.’

They walked in silence through the snow. Why did it have to be so cold? All the time? Alex increased his speed. Perhaps it wasn’t just the Paper Boy they should be puzzling over; the Warrior wasn’t necessarily the obvious choice for a boy in Year Four.

When Alex’s children were little they had played football. Climbed trees. Played hide and seek and hopscotch. Built snow caves. Did kids still do that kind of thing? Or did they spend every waking hour in front of the computer?

Alex hated it when men of his age started to sound like old farts. Nobody listened to old farts, not even Alex himself. But sometimes he caught himself thinking that certain things actually had been better in the past. He and Lena hadn’t even wanted to buy a video player for their children, because they had thought it would make them stupid if they filled their heads with too much crap.

But nowadays children seemed to spend at least half their lives on the computer. Where were their parents during all those hours? Alex had no idea, but they certainly weren’t with their kids. It was hardly surprising that so many young people went astray and came into contact with the wrong people online. You might as well drive them to a sex club and chuck them out of the car with the words: ‘You’re okay to get home on your own, aren’t you?’

The previous day the police had taken the computers the two boys normally used from the Eisenberg and Goldmann households. Alex had spoken to the IT technicians, but had been told that they needed more time; there was too much material to get through in an afternoon. As he and Fredrika left the Eisenbergs he had called the technicians again:

‘There’s a forum called Super Troopers, some sort of elitist crap for kids who want to be winners. Check it out, will you?’

The apartment lay a short distance from Karlaplan, and it was enormous. The Goldmann family business had been very successful, but otherwise their lives were in ruins. Daphne and Saul Goldmann had lost their only child. Alex just couldn’t imagine what that must do to a person.

How many ways are there to offer condolences? Many, he decided. For the third time this week he was sitting with grieving parents, trying to tell them that he understood that what had happened to them was the most horrific thing imaginable, and that he would do all he could to see that justice was done.

‘It was very strange,’ Daphne said in the same icy tone Alex had heard the last time they met. ‘We saw a counsellor at the hospital. Do you know what she said?’

It was a rhetorical question. She didn’t seem to expect an answer.

‘No,’ Alex said anyway.

‘She said we were still parents. Parents without a child.’

She looked at her husband.

‘Parents without a child? What kind of parents are those? Is that supposed to make me feel better?’

Alex and Fredrika exchanged a glance. They were in deep waters here. They could say that the counsellor was only doing her job, but it was probably best not to get involved.

‘I agree,’ Alex said instead. ‘That was a very peculiar thing to say.’

‘Wasn’t it just?’ Daphne said.

Silence fell in the library where they were sitting. Between the tall bookcases they could see framed enlargements of black and white photographs. A young Saul and Daphne in uniform. With and without guns in their hands. Or on their backs. Alone or with others. Alex recognised Gideon Eisenberg in one of the pictures.

‘You know the Eisenbergs?’ he said.

Daphne and Saul nodded.

‘Is that how Simon and Abraham became friends?’

The parents without a child looked as if they didn’t know how to answer.

‘Yes and no,’ Saul said eventually. ‘Gideon and I knew each other well in Israel, and then we moved to Stockholm at the same time. Had children at the same time. But we grew apart, as they say.’

Daphne joined in.

‘We got to know different people here, worked in different places. After a while we didn’t seem to have that much in common. But the boys ended up in the same class at the Solomon school, and carried on spending time together.’

Alex could see that Fredrika had also noticed the picture of Gideon.

She pointed: ‘Did you and Gideon do your military service together?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was that where you got to know one another?’

He shook his head.

‘We grew up on the same kibbutz. We’re the same age, and we were in the same class until we finished high school.’

So they had known each other since they were born, and had eventually decided to emigrate together, yet they were no longer close friends. There must have been some kind of disagreement, otherwise that wouldn’t have happened.

‘Did you stay in the army, or did you have a civilian career in Israel?’ Fredrika asked.

Saul stiffened.

‘I went to university in Tel Aviv,’ he said curtly. ‘I did another two years in the army, and that was it.’

Alex looked at the picture again. Admittedly it was always difficult to gauge how old someone else was, but he thought both Gideon and Saul looked older than the usual age for military service.

‘And you were also in the army?’ Fredrika asked Daphne.

‘Yes, but only for a few years, like Saul.’

That didn’t match what Gideon and Carmen had said; they had implied that the Goldmanns’ military career had been longer.

Alex looked away from the photographs.

‘Abraham must have been impressed by your background,’ he said.

He smiled as he spoke, hoping to convey warmth.

‘Absolutely – he was fascinated,’ Daphne said.

‘Did he have any thoughts of going into the army?’ Alex asked, thinking that Israelis in particular were likely to react more strongly than others to the fact that Sweden had abolished military service, and had virtually no defence left to speak of.

‘He was too young for that kind of talk,’ Saul said harshly.

But he called himself the Warrior.

‘There’s an online forum called Super Troopers,’ Fredrika said. ‘It’s for young people; are you aware of it?’

‘Of course,’ Daphne replied. ‘Abraham was often on there chatting to others his own age.’

‘It was a good site,’ Saul said, sitting up even straighter. ‘It encouraged competitiveness; it was character-building, good for morale.’

‘So you monitored Abraham’s online activities?’

‘What do you think? He was ten years old – of course we did,’ Daphne said.

And Alex believed her. These were no ordinary parents. They were coaches who had seen it as their duty to prepare their son for adult life, and to do so with a firm hand.

‘Why did he call himself the Warrior?’ Fredrika asked.

Daphne smiled for the first time. It was a brittle smile, painful to see.

‘Because that was his grandfather’s nickname, and Abraham really looked up to him.’

Her face crumpled, and Alex thought he was going to see her cry for the first time. It didn’t happen.

‘Did you or Abraham have any enemies?’ he said.

‘You asked the same question yesterday,’ Daphne said.

‘And now I’m asking it again.’

‘No.’

‘No past disputes or injuries festering away?’

‘No.’

So what had happened? Had the boys been picked up by someone who had taken them just because he was crazy? The fact that they had probably known the driver made that unlikely, and suggested that the crime had some personal motive.

It could of course be a combination of the two. The killer could be driven by both insanity and the desire for revenge.

But if someone felt such hatred that it could lead to murder, the people involved usually had an idea of the reason behind it. Daphne and Saul Goldmann didn’t seem to have a clue.

Alex felt as if the ground beneath his feet was giving way. His thoughts went back to the case he had investigated with Fredrika and Peder during that summer when it wouldn’t stop raining. When Lilian Sebastiansson had disappeared. On that occasion they had been hunting a true psychopath, someone to whom rituals were of great importance. A killer hell bent on avenging past wrongs so diffuse that the parents of the children who went missing had no idea what they were supposed to be guilty of.

Were they back in that same place now? In the hands of a mentally ill person whose motives were unclear?

He hoped to God that wasn’t the case, and that this was something different.

‘I’m going to be honest with you,’ he said. ‘I don’t think Abraham and Simon were taken at random. The perpetrator was after one or both of them. Probably both, as they were killed in the same way. I also think they were murdered by the person who picked them up on the way to their tennis session. What I need from you and Simon’s parents are more leads. Who has done this to you?’

His words settled over Saul and Daphne like a wet cloud. He hadn’t sounded angry, hadn’t accused them of anything. He had spoken clearly and to the point: he and Fredrika needed their help. That was all there was to it.

‘What about your business? Can you think of any disputes or arguments you’ve been involved in?’

Daphne and Saul looked at one another.

‘No,’ Daphne said, her voice weaker now. ‘No, nothing like that.’

‘Think carefully,’ Fredrika said. ‘It could be something that didn’t seem all that serious at the time, but had major consequences for someone else.’

The Goldmanns thought hard, digging in their past for an explanation for what had happened.

Alex didn’t think they were lying, but he was concerned that they might be withholding information for private reasons, making their own decisions as to what may or may not be relevant to the investigation. Few things were more dangerous.

He directed the conversation back to the Eisenberg family.

‘So you all moved to Sweden at the same time.’

‘It was pure coincidence.’

Saul’s comment came quickly. Too quickly. It was very clear that he realised he had made a mistake.

‘So the move wasn’t a joint project?’

‘No.’

Once again a response that wasn’t a lie, but wasn’t the whole truth either. There was something there, Alex could feel it. In the past. Hidden away, buried in Israel. The question was how they were going to get at it if nobody was prepared to talk.

Fredrika moved on to what was intended to be the final key question.

‘Can you tell me who the Paper Boy is?’

Daphne didn’t move a muscle.

But Saul… He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. Every scrap of colour drained from his face.

Then he pulled himself together. The colour returned, his breathing slowed down. But it was too late. Both Alex and Fredrika had seen his reaction.

‘Why do you ask?’ he said.

Alex leaned back in his chair.

‘Answer our question first, then I’ll answer yours.’

Saul’s body language was defensive now.

‘He’s a fairy-tale character. An Israeli myth. He doesn’t exist.’

His jaws were clamped together as he ground out the words.

‘Good,’ Alex said.

‘Why do you ask?’ Saul said again, louder this time.

‘Because that’s what Simon called himself on the Super Troopers forum,’ Fredrika said. ‘That’s all.’

Her answer calmed Saul, but not Alex. Because now he had two leads to follow. First of all he wanted to know why the Eisenberg and Goldmann families had moved to Sweden, and secondly he wanted to know more about the so-called Paper Boy.

Both questions led to Israel.


Food from Thailand and lingonberry juice from Kivik. An extremely late lunch. It was two o’clock before they found time to eat, and Fredrika Bergman was practically screaming with hunger. She and Alex shut themselves in the Snakes’ Nest with a takeaway from one of the many Thai restaurants that had opened in the streets around Police HQ. She had no idea who Alex had stolen the juice from, nor did she care.

The aroma of curry spread around the room as soon as they opened the plastic boxes.

‘This isn’t exactly environmentally friendly,’ Fredrika said as she put down the messy lid.

‘You’re not wrong,’ Alex agreed.

Then they settled down to their lunch and forgot about the environment. They had two murders to solve; someone else could worry about the greenhouse effect, dead zones in the Baltic and a whole load of other stuff that Fredrika vaguely felt she cared too little about.

They now had food in their bellies and silence in the room. Silence, but an absence of calm. They had too much to do, too many questions to answer.

Two murders.

Or three, if they included the teacher.

Their efforts to track down the person who had killed the boys out on Lovön had produced sparse results. CSI thought they had an idea of what kind of vehicle had been parked in the spot where they were assuming the boys had been released: a van. A vehicle of that type had been reported stolen the day before the boys were abducted, but it appeared to have vanished into thin air; the number plate hadn’t been picked up at any of the pay stations on the city’s toll roads. They had tried to find potential witnesses on Lovön, but no one had noticed a van around the time the boys went missing, or when they were shot. It had taken a while to find the bodies in the snow and set up roadblocks on the island, so the killer had had plenty of time to get away.

‘Are we working on Josephine’s murder as well, now we know the same weapon was used?’ Fredrika asked.

‘That remains to be seen.’

‘It would be the logical move. If we’re not running both cases, then we could end up duplicating the work but missing information at the same time.’

‘We can’t cope with two investigations. There aren’t enough of us.’

‘But why are we referring to two investigations? It’s the same case. Three deaths, one killer.’

Alex pushed away the empty box. Fredrika was always amazed at the speed with which he ate; it was as if he simply inhaled the food.

‘How do we know there’s only one killer? There could easily be two people working together,’ Alex objected.

‘The footprints in the snow suggest one perpetrator.’

‘And how do you know that the person who hunted down the boys is the same person who lay on the roof and shot Josephine?’

‘You mean someone shot her, then gave the gun to someone else, who took care of the boys?’

Alex shrugged.

‘We know nothing, Fredrika. Not a bloody thing.’

She didn’t agree.

‘We don’t know anything for sure, but we have to come up with hypotheses, otherwise we’ll get nowhere.’

She put down her fork. She would eat later.

‘Alex, I don’t believe the boys escaped from their abductor. I think he let them go, one at a time, hunted them down and shot them. I have no idea why. Nor do I know why he made them take off their shoes and socks, or why he put paper bags over their heads.’

‘I agree. I don’t believe they escaped either, but I’m not sure the fact that they were barefoot is so strange; the killer could have done that just to make sure they wouldn’t be able to run very far.’

‘Which makes the hunt itself even more interesting. Why was that so important to him?’

Alex’s face was distorted with anger when he replied.

‘It’s more than interesting, it’s downright sadistic. The boys must have set off thinking they had a chance of escape. Which they never had. The murders are ritualistic, for fuck’s sake. Don’t ask me how, I just know that there was nothing random about what we saw out there. The hunt, the bare feet, the paper bags – they’re all connected.’

Fredrika had to agree.

Alex rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

‘So can we assume that the murder of the teacher was also ritualistic, even though we haven’t found any evidence to suggest that?’

‘That’s what I’m wondering,’ Fredrika said. ‘The differences in the MO could be down to the fact that the perpetrator wanted it to look as if the murders were unconnected, but then surely he wouldn’t have been so careless as to use the same gun.’

‘Exactly. Which makes the whole thing so bloody cocky. He doesn’t care if we realise he’s involved in both crimes. He doesn’t even try to hide it.’

‘Perhaps that was the idea: the murders were carried out in such different ways so that we’d end up sitting here scratching our heads and wondering who we’re looking for.’

Alex stared at her for a long time.

‘You’re a wise woman,’ he said eventually.

Fredrika blushed.

‘I just mean…’

‘I know what you mean, and you’re right. Even if you’re wrong. We’re wasting time, trying to find an explanation for two such different murders, when in fact we only need to solve one in order to find the person responsible for both.’

Fredrika nodded slowly.

‘So you think we should leave Josephine’s murder with the National Crime Unit after all?’

‘For the time being, we carry on working separately; we’ll probably meet in the middle at some point anyway.’

That sounded logical.

‘Do you seriously believe the only reason behind Josephine’s murder was to confuse us?’ Fredrika said.

She could hear the doubt in her voice, and did nothing to hide it.

‘No. But I do think that we shouldn’t ignore leads just because they don’t match both cases. Do you have a third hypothesis, or would you like to hear mine?’

Fredrika thought for a moment. The smell of the food was less than pleasant, and she wished it wasn’t too cold to open a window, get some fresh air and a shot of energy.

‘I do have one more theory,’ she said. ‘The victims weren’t taken by chance. He knew exactly who he was after.’

‘Good. I agree. I think our killer is driven by personal motives. The Solomon Community’s fear that we’re dealing with a crazy serial killer hell bent on murdering Jews is groundless. He doesn’t give a toss if they’re Jews or Arabs or Chinese. This is personal.’

‘In which case there must be a link between the boys and the teacher.’

‘Absolutely, but we’re not going to start there. We’re going to start with what we have.’

‘Which is?’

‘I have a feeling that the Goldmann and Eisenberg families are being a little circumspect about why they left Israel. It may be of no relevance to the inquiry, but I still want to know what they’re not telling us. And there’s something else.’

Fredrika’s stomach contracted.

‘The Paper Boy,’ she said.

‘Exactly. The boy who called himself the Paper Boy online is found dead with a paper bag over his head. Is that supposed to be a coincidence?’

‘Maybe not. The only problem there is that his friend, who called himself the Warrior, was also found dead with a paper bag over his head. We have to be able to explain both deaths, not just one.’

‘True. The Paper Boy is supposed to refer to some Israeli myth that I’ve never heard of,’ Alex said. ‘It could be that this myth has nothing whatsoever to do with the case, but I still want to know more.’

He looked up with a wry smile.

‘Didn’t you say Spencer was going to Israel? We might have to give him a little job to do while he’s there.’

Fredrika managed a smile in return.

Spencer on a mission in the Promised Land. It was an entertaining but unimaginable concept.

‘Just joking,’ Alex said.

As if that wasn’t obvious. At that moment his mobile rang. Fredrika ate a little more while he was on the phone, but she had lost her appetite. Inside she was in chaos after everything that had happened, while outside heavy snow was falling once more. And somewhere in between, in a no-man’s-land that she couldn’t even begin to define, she and Alex were supposed to take a murder investigation in the right direction.

She chewed, swallowed.

Alex ended the call.

‘That was the secretary at the Solomon school. She rang to tell me about a pot plant that was sent to them anonymously following Josephine’s death.’

‘And?’

‘It arrived in a paper bag with a face drawn on it.’


The stairwell was in darkness. A door opened a couple of floors above, then the light came on. Footsteps on the stairs. Muted crying from one of the apartments. Efraim Kiel thought the child responsible was probably very young; the sound lacked any real strength. It was a long time since Efraim had been a parent, but the memory lingered.

It had taken a while to shake off his Säpo shadows. This time it had been essential to ensure that they didn’t follow him; if they had, it would have caused big problems.

Even bigger than the problems he already had.

Efraim’s frustration was bordering on intolerable. Whoever had decided to start leaving him messages was starting to get careless. The note outside his hotel room had been nothing short of stupid. It wasn’t just that the person could easily have been spotted – it was almost as if he or she wanted to be caught.

The tone of the messages was playful, but Efraim knew what they really meant. Someone was following him, and that wasn’t good. Particularly in view of the fact that the individual in question was calling himself the Paper Boy.

He had gone to see Peder Rydh again, and that had got him thinking.

Rydh had done his job at long last, and looked for something that could be a calling card. He didn’t seem to understand the importance of what he had found.

A paper bag with a face drawn on it.

The discovery terrified Efraim.

The plant and the bag had been sent to the Solomon Community after the schoolteacher had been shot, but before the boys were found on the golf course. And that told Efraim everything he needed to know.

Now he was almost sure he knew who had contacted him.

Someone passed him on the stairs and carried on down to the ground floor. He couldn’t stay here. He was running the risk of being noticed if he didn’t move soon.

Why had he actually come here? So that he would know where she lived in case he ever needed to get hold of her in a hurry. He read the nameplate on the door one last time.

‘E & M Lundell’.

Good. So this was where Eden had settled down with her husband and children. He looked at the lock; he would be surprised if it was easy to force, but on the other hand he didn’t think it would be impossible.

He turned away and went back down the stairs. Personally he would have preferred to live a couple of floors higher up. Distance was good – in all directions. He left the building and cut across Sankt Eriksplan, heading towards Vasa Park.

He never saw the woman standing at the bus stop on Torsgatan as he crossed the road. Nor did he notice when she set off after him.


A paper bag with a face drawn on it.

Three victims shot with the same gun, but on two different occasions.

Fredrika Bergman couldn’t take her eyes off the bag in which the chrysanthemum had been delivered to the Solomon Community. It had been picked up from Östermalm by a patrol car and brought to HQ before being sent on to the National Forensics Lab for analysis.

Alex had asked to see it first, and now they were standing in his office, staring at it.

‘What the hell are we missing here?’ he said, his voice suffused with annoyance. ‘A paper bag. With eyes, a nose and a mouth. What’s the message, and who is it meant for?’

Fredrika thought about the boys lying in the snow and the paper bags someone had pulled over their heads. At the time she had believed the bags were a nod to an as yet unidentified recipient, then she had wondered if they could be the killer’s calling card. This new discovery strengthened that view.

But there was something that didn’t fit.

‘Tell me what you’re thinking,’ Alex said, his tone brusque, challenging.

Fredrika took her time before she spoke. She looked closely at the bag: the large eyes, the pointed nose, the gaping mouth.

She found the photographs of the bags that had been over the boys’ heads.

She studied them in detail, then passed them to Alex.

‘Look,’ she said.

Alex stared at the photographs.

‘And now look at this,’ she said, pointing to the bag from the school.

Alex made the same comparison. He didn’t speak for a moment.

‘They’re different,’ he said eventually.

‘I agree. The bags from Lovön are similar, but not identical. The bag the plant was in…’

She paused.

‘Look at the face. It’s much more aggressive. And drawn in different colours.’

The eyes on this bag were coloured blue. The noses were different too: short lines on the original bags, considerably bigger on this one.

‘You think we’re looking for different perpetrators?’ Alex said.

The doubt in his voice told Fredrika that he didn’t share her point of view, if that was the case.

‘I don’t think we can rule it out,’ she said.

She sat down and went on:

‘First of all our perpetrator shoots a woman outside the Solomon school. He does so while lying on his stomach on a rooftop on the opposite side of the street. By the time the police arrive, he has managed to get off the roof and leave the building without anyone seeing him. But he doesn’t stop there. Instead he gets in a car an hour later and picks up Simon and Abraham. Keeps them overnight, and shoots them the following morning.’

Alex was still holding the paper bag. The gloves he was wearing covered the scars on his hands from the time when he saved a child from burning to death.

Fredrika looked away. She didn’t want to think about children being burned or hurt in any other way.

‘Does that sound reasonable to you?’ she said. ‘The idea that the same person did all that?’

‘What evidence do we have to suggest that there’s more than one perpetrator? Concrete evidence, I mean?’

Fredrika took a deep breath.

‘None at all.’

‘We need to inform the National Crime Unit,’ Alex said. ‘As I said before, we’ll continue to investigate the two crimes separately, but I’m afraid we have to accept what the evidence is telling us: there is only one perpetrator.’

He put down the bag. ‘Okay?’

Fredrika nodded. The days when she and Alex stood in opposite corners fighting over which direction the investigation should take were long gone. The team was too small now; she couldn’t afford to fly solo any more.

The soloist.

That was what Spencer had called her when they first got to know one another almost twenty years ago. When their love was secret, her desire overwhelming. She had loved him so much back then. She still did. They had both been worried about how they would cope with ordinary everyday life together, but on the whole it had gone unexpectedly well.

The weekend loomed before her like an iceberg. In only two days’ time Spencer would be leaving for Jerusalem. Fredrika had spoken to her mother, who had promised to help out with the children.

She straightened up. Wished she was somewhere else, perhaps with the orchestra. The violin made her feel safe; her job didn’t. Not the way things were right now.

Playing the violin was pure enjoyment.

Dead children were about as far from enjoyment as you could possibly get.

As Fredrika was on her way out of Alex’s office, a thought suddenly struck him.

‘Why did the secretary react to the way the bag looked?’ he said.

Fredrika turned back.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We haven’t said a word to the press about the bags we found over the boys’ heads. So why did she think it was worth mentioning that someone had drawn on this bag?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Fredrika said. ‘You were the one who spoke to her.’

Alex picked up his phone and called the school.

‘What was it about that paper bag that made you call the police?’ he said. ‘Why did you think it would be of interest in our inquiries?’

The secretary sounded surprised.

‘I didn’t, to be honest.’

Now it was Alex’s turn to be surprised.

‘So why did you call?’

‘It wasn’t my idea. Our new head of security suggested it. Peder Rydh.’

Alex thought fast, trying to understand.

‘You showed the bag to Peder first?’

‘No, he found it himself. He came and asked me if we’d received anything odd after Josephine and the boys were murdered, and then he started looking at the wrapping that the plants and flowers had come in. Why he thought a paper bag would be of interest to the police, I have no idea.’

Nor had Alex. And that bothered him.

Had Peder known what he was looking for among the wrapping? And if so, who was feeding him the information?


The discovery should have pleased him. He had found a significant clue; both Efraim Kiel and the police had confirmed that. If Alex hadn’t thought the paper bag was interesting, he wouldn’t have had it picked up so quickly.

The only problem was that no one had told Peder Rydh why the bag was so bloody important. In fact, he felt really stupid. He had reacted when he saw the bag in reception, thought it looked different from all the rest and wondered why. But would he have noticed it if Efraim Kiel hadn’t talked about calling cards? He wasn’t so sure.

The question now was how much he should tell Alex and Fredrika. Without anyone actually putting it into words, he had realised that Efraim Kiel was no ordinary security expert. Apparently he had travelled all the way from Israel to assist the Solomon Community to recruit a new head of security; that said something about his background, and even more about the importance the community attached to appointing the right man.

Therefore, Peder was anxious not to disappoint them; he didn’t want to go behind their backs.

Alex and Fredrika took him by surprise; they turned up in his office without warning, wanting to talk about the paper bag with the face on it.

For some reason this made Peder nervous, which annoyed him. He offered them coffee, and when they said yes, he felt like some kind of lackey who was obliged to serve them. He didn’t have an assistant.

‘I spoke to the secretary who called about the bag,’ Alex said, taking a sip of his coffee. ‘She said you were the one who found it.’

Peder stiffened.

‘I didn’t “find” it. It was lying on the floor under her desk, along with a load of other bags and wrapping paper.’

‘But it was you who said she ought to show it to the police, wasn’t it?’

There was nothing aggressive in Alex’s tone; he was just asking. And yet Peder couldn’t help feeling slightly uncomfortable. Where was Alex going with this?

‘It stood out, made me wonder if it might be significant. And there was no card to say who had sent the chrysanthemum.’

‘Was that the only anonymous delivery?’ Fredrika asked.

‘No, there were several, but the vast majority came with a card.’

Alex put down his cup.

‘But this one came after Josephine was shot? Before it became known that the boys had also been murdered?’

‘If I’ve understood correctly; that’s what the secretary said.’

Alex leaned back in his chair; Peder unconsciously did the same. An air of tension was building in the room, and he didn’t like it.

He didn’t like it at all.

‘Peder, how did you know that this bag would be of interest to us?’

The question came from Fredrika. Simple and direct, as her questions usually were. Impossible to misunderstand, but sometimes difficult to answer.

‘I didn’t know.’

Which was true.

‘But I thought it might be, because it was different from all the other bags. Because there was something about that face…’

He broke off.

Alex looked curious.

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t bloody know. I mean, it wasn’t exactly an attractive face. If it had looked as if a child had drawn it, I might have thought the plant had come from one of Josephine’s pupils, but that face seemed so… adult, somehow. As if an adult had drawn it, I mean. Combined with the fact that there was no card… well, that’s why I reacted as I did.’

Alex drank a little more coffee, then he looked Peder straight in the eye.

‘I sincerely hope that you’re absolutely clear about why we’re here,’ he said, stressing every word. ‘You guessed correctly. That bag is extremely important to us. That’s why we’re wondering if you really did come across it by pure chance.’

Peder’s pulse rate increased. He couldn’t stop himself, he had to ask more questions.

‘Have there been more anonymous deliveries in bags with faces drawn on them?’ he said.

Alex looked surprised for a second.

‘No. No, not as far as we know.’

‘So why is it interesting?’

Neither Alex nor Fredrika answered, and there was an uncomfortable silence.

‘It’s too early to talk about it right now,’ Alex said eventually. ‘But I promise I’ll tell you as soon as I can.’

Peder couldn’t help feeling put out. He knew that Alex was right; he couldn’t tell Peder why the bag was significant at this stage. But it still hurt to know that he was an outsider, that he couldn’t be a part of police work any more. Of Alex’s work.

His thoughts turned to Efraim Kiel. The man who hadn’t gone back to Israel, in spite of the fact that his job was done. The man who had come to see Peder, talking of calling cards.

Peder’s brain was working overtime. Alex said there had been no other deliveries in similar bags, and yet the bag was important. Very important, in fact. In which case Efraim must have been right. There had been other calling cards.

But how had Efraim known that?

Did he have his own contacts within the police?

‘I can see you’re mulling something over,’ Alex said in a pleasant tone of voice.

Fredrika crossed her legs.

‘You’re not suspected of any crime, Peder. We’re just very curious about what made you go to see the school secretary and ask her those particular questions.’

When Peder didn’t reply, Alex took over.

‘Another reason for our curiosity is that you also called a former colleague in the National Crime Unit and asked if they had found some object the killer might have left behind after Josephine was shot. I think you referred to it as a calling card.’

Peder felt himself blushing.

Fuck.

So his colleague had contacted Alex and told him that Peder had been in touch. Marvellous.

Alex realised what he was thinking.

‘He mentioned it to me when I called to tell him about the paper bag you found. Since the NCU are still technically leading the investigation into Josephine’s death, we have to pass on any information that could be relevant.’

Peder felt a spurt of anger.

‘That’s bloody ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Splitting the investigations. Surely it’s obvious it’s the same killer! All the victims are Jewish, they all belong to the same community, they all have links to the same school.’

He fell silent.

‘And they were shot with the same gun,’ Alex said.

Peder blinked.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, but keep it to yourself. It seems to have been leaked to the press already, because they’re asking questions, but we haven’t confirmed it yet.’

‘But it’s definitely true? They were shot with the same gun?’

‘Yes.’

So he’d been right.

‘Now tell us what you know,’ Alex said, and this time his tone had changed. ‘Why did you think the person who shot Josephine might have deliberately left something behind?’

Peder swallowed; he couldn’t help feeling that he shouldn’t mention Efraim Kiel to the police, but at the same time he kept wondering what Efraim was hiding. He was the one who had started talking about calling cards; had he just been fishing, or did he know something?

Hesitantly he began to speak.

‘There’s a man in the Solomon Community – well, not really in the community; he’s come over from Israel to help with the appointment of the head of security. His name is Efraim Kiel.’

‘I’ve spoken to him,’ Alex said. ‘He rang me to ask for a reference.’

Good – in that case Alex already knew who he was.

‘Exactly,’ Peder went on. ‘He came to see me yesterday, and asked if I had any information about the police investigation into the murders. He was very keen to know what was going on, and he was particularly interested in whether the killer had left some kind of calling card at either of the crime scenes.’

Alex and Fredrika looked at one another.

‘Did he say why he wanted to know?’ Fredrika asked.

‘No.’

‘Where can we reach him?’ Alex said.

‘I think he’s staying at the Diplomat. Hang on, I’ll find his phone number.’

As Peder searched among the papers on his desk, Alex asked:

‘What’s his background, this Efraim Kiel?’

‘I’ve no idea. I assume he’s some kind of security expert.’

‘Has he mentioned anyone called the Paper Boy?’

Peder found the phone number.

‘The Paper Boy? No – who’s that?’

‘Just a story that’s come up. If you see Efraim again, you might like to ask him about it.’

Peder jotted down the number and gave it to Alex. ‘Are you going to contact him?’

‘We’ll see,’ Alex replied. ‘But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him about this conversation.’

Peder knew he would do as Alex said. His job as head of security was to provide the community and its members with the highest level of protection, and Peder was no longer convinced that Efraim Kiel had the same goal.


‘There’s something going on here, Buster. And we’re missing the whole damned thing.’

Eden Lundell had gone to see Säpo’s general director, Buster Hansson, armed with the surveillance reports. A Mossad agent whom Säpo had specifically warned off had entered the country for reasons unknown. He was a hunted man. Someone who was cocky enough to leave messages out in the open was after him.

Eden had warned their own surveillance team about what was in the message they had found, explained that they must keep an eye open for someone who, like them, was following Efraim Kiel’s every move.

But so far they hadn’t picked up a thing.

GD, who was used to Eden’s temperament and outbursts, listened to what she had to say with an expression of concern.

‘So you think there’s some kind of transaction between agents going on here?’

The scepticism in his voice was palpable.

‘No, that’s not what I think.’

Transaction between agents? What the hell was that? Not something that was part of real life.

‘An acquaintance in the National Crime Unit told me the Solomon Community has just appointed a new head of security,’ she said. ‘That could well be why Efraim came over in the first place; he’s dealt with that kind of thing before. But the head of security is now in post, and Efraim is still here.’

‘Is that so strange? Given his background, I mean,’ GD said. ‘The Solomon Community has had a terrible couple of days.’

‘Absolutely, but I don’t believe he told the community about his background, or what he does and who his real employer is.’

‘So who’s creeping around outside his hotel room leaving him cryptic messages?’ GD said.

‘That’s what we don’t know. But since the message is written in Hebrew, and Efraim belongs to Mossad, I can’t help worrying. Either someone has followed him all the way from Israel, or someone here in Stockholm is monitoring his activities. Which means that person must be part of the Solomon Community, because he hasn’t met anyone else. According to the surveillance reports, that is.’

She took a deep breath, knowing that what she was about to say could be perceived as controversial.

‘Which brings me to my next point. I’m not convinced that surveillance is one hundred per cent effective in this case.’

Buster raised his eyebrows.

‘You’re not?’

‘No.’

She placed the latest reports in front of GD.

‘Don’t you think he seems to be spending rather too much time in his hotel room?’

She spoke softly, taking care not to sound supercilious. Efraim Kiel had had a completely different training from the agents who worked for the Swedish security service; it was only to be expected that he would be able to get away.

‘You mean he’s leaving the hotel without our guys knowing?’

‘Yes.’

‘What else?’ GD said, folding his arms.

Eden drummed her long fingers on the desk.

‘I don’t think it’s pure chance that these anomalies coincide with the murders of the past few days.’

GD was taken aback.

‘And how exactly do you believe all this hangs together?’

Eden sat back and pushed her hands into her trouser pockets.

‘I don’t know. But I intend to find out, because I’m convinced that there’s a link between the murders and Efraim’s stay in Stockholm.’

GD looked away, focusing on a point behind Eden.

‘And how exactly are you going to do that?’

Eden gave him the only possible answer:

‘I’ll do you the courtesy of not telling you what I’ve done until afterwards.’


There was no one by the name of Efraim Kiel staying at the Diplomat. Alex Recht wasn’t exactly surprised, but it did bother him. The case was already complicated and wide-ranging enough; now they had an Israeli citizen who had officially entered Sweden in order to recruit a head of security for the Solomon Community, but who seemed far too knowledgeable when asking questions about an ongoing police investigation.

‘I don’t like this,’ he said to Fredrika.

They were back at HQ, sitting opposite one another in the Snakes’ Nest. Alex had just finished a brief conversation with the hotel manager.

‘Could there be a simple explanation? Perhaps the Solomon Community has much closer links with the police that Peder realises? And that’s why Efraim Kiel knew that he should be looking for something the perpetrator had left behind?’

‘You mean someone tipped him off about the paper bags on Lovön? In that case, shouldn’t someone else have approached Peder? Efraim Kiel isn’t even a member of the Solomon Community. Why would he get involved in the murder of a teacher and two boys?’

Diana called, wondering when he’d be home.

It was almost six o’clock. Alex had told everyone else that he wouldn’t be calling another briefing before the weekend, but there was one more thing he wanted to discuss with Fredrika before he left for the day.

‘I should be there in an hour,’ he said.

Fredrika looked away as he dealt with the personal call. She stared as if hypnotised at the snowflakes landing on the windows, leaving tiny white dots behind for a split second.

Alex apologised for the interruption and put down his phone.

‘So you think it all boils down to the fact that Efraim just happens to be well-informed because he’s been given confidential details through the community’s own contacts within the police? I’m afraid I don’t agree,’ he said.

‘So what do we do? Do we try the phone number Peder gave us?’

Alex laughed dryly. ‘And say what?’

Fredrika ran a hand over her dark hair, making sure that no strands had escaped the thick plait hanging down her back.

‘We say we’re contacting him with regard to an ongoing police investigation, and that we believe he could be of assistance. We don’t have to confront him with a whole load of accusations; we don’t have anything concrete anyway.’

‘You mean we make it sound as if we’re impressed by how astute he is? That it was very perceptive of him to realise that the killer would leave or send some kind of calling card?’

‘Something along those lines.’

It wasn’t a bad idea. They couldn’t rule out the possibility that Efraim Kiel just happened to have an instinct for what might be important in an investigation. Peder knew nothing about his background; perhaps Kiel was a former police officer, or had something to do with intelligence? In either case he would be well placed to be able to put two and two together and to draw conclusions which appeared to be unexpected.

‘There isn’t necessarily anything odd about the fact that he realised the killer might have left something behind,’ Fredrika said to underline her point. ‘I say realised, but he might just have guessed.’

Alex agreed with her in principle, but in that case why had Kiel checked into the hotel using a false ID? Or had he given Peder the wrong hotel so that no one would be able to find him? Either scenario didn’t sound like normal behaviour to Alex.

His thoughts turned to Eden Lundell. She would have a much better understanding of why someone would be travelling on a false ID. Perhaps Efraim Kiel wasn’t even his real name. If he had a sensitive job back home, there could be other reasons why he wanted to keep a low profile.

‘I’ll call him,’ Alex decided. There was no reason not to. He dug out the number Peder had given him, picked up his phone and keyed it in. He waited for Efraim Kiel to answer, but that didn’t happen. Instead a metallic voice informed Alex that this number was not in use.

He tried again.

And again.

He put down the phone.

‘No subscriber on that number,’ he said.

Fredrika frowned. Peder had once said that she looked pompous when she was thinking, but Alex didn’t agree; he thought she was a classic beauty.

‘But hadn’t Peder called Efraim on that number?’

‘Possibly, but it’s no longer in use.’

‘Maybe he’s left the country?’ Fredrika suggested. ‘If he’s not at the hotel, and he’s no longer using a Swedish mobile?’

Alex knew that could be the explanation. It had taken a few days to sort out the appointment of a new head of security, so it wasn’t surprising if Efraim had decided to get himself a Swedish phone number temporarily. If he had completed his mission, then it was logical to assume that he had gone back home.

But he had told Peder he was staying on.

So where the hell was he?

‘Eden Lundell,’ Alex said.

Fredrika went from pensive to surprised.

‘What about her?’

‘I want to ask her about Efraim Kiel. She might be able to throw some light on all these elements that seem so inexplicable at the moment. Tell us what kind of background a man like Efraim might have, why he’s behaving this way. And whether she thinks it’s worth contacting him.’

‘I didn’t realise you were still in touch with Eden.’

For the first time all day, Alex saw a hint of a smile on her face. It was a refreshing sight.

‘Oh yes, Eden and I are like this,’ he said with exaggerated enthusiasm, holding up two crossed fingers.

Fredrika burst out laughing.

‘Alex, no one is that close to Eden Lundell!’

That was probably true, but he still wanted to speak to her.

At that moment his mobile rang again. It was one of the IT technicians, finally ready to report on their examination of the boys’ computers.

‘Can you come over right away? We’ve found something that might be important.’

Any progress in the investigation into the deaths of the two boys was welcome. Because of a leak in the roof, the IT technicians had had to move down into the basement; entering their office felt like visiting another universe.

Lasse, the technician who had called, showed them into a dingy room that smelled of dust. He switched on a desk lamp, then closed the door behind them.

‘Look at this,’ he said, handing them a pile of computer printouts.

They looked like extracts from an exchange of emails.

‘That Super Troopers forum is interesting, to say the least. It was originally created by a man who’d made a name for himself as a so-called sports parent – you know, one of those idiots who’ll do anything to make sure his kids are going to be world-beaters at tennis or golf or chess or some other crap.’

Fredrika caught herself nodding. Oh yes, she had met parents like that.

‘As you already know, the boys were members and called themselves the Warrior and the Paper Boy. They rarely participated in the same discussion, and judging by their input they seem to have been very different individuals. The Warrior wants to win at all costs, while the Paper Boy seems more interested in having fun.’

That fitted in with what they had been told by the boys’ parents. Once again Fredrika thought of the pictures she had seen of Simon and Abraham: serious and focused.

‘Did they make any friends on the forum?’ she asked.

‘Not many, but there was one exception. Both boys were contacted by someone calling himself the Lion. At first they communicated briefly in the open chat room, then they moved over to email. And that’s where it gets interesting. Because if we’re interpreting their correspondence correctly, the Lion wanted to meet them.’

Lasse pointed to one of the pages he had given them. Fredrika quickly skimmed through the text; all the messages were signed Zalman, which she assumed was a forename.

According to the Lion, he was able to give excellent advice on how to achieve success. He said he was planning to set up a new tennis academy in Stockholm, and had therefore started to look around for fresh talent in Sweden. He had heard from his Swedish contacts that Simon and Abraham had won a number of minor competitions and tournaments, and he was curious to know more. To Simon, who had slightly less drive to win than Abraham, he wrote that it was possible to win without being nasty. The tone was playful, the messages brief. All communication had taken place in English; the boys seemed to be pretty good at the language. On one occasion the Lion apologised for his lack of expertise in Swedish: ‘but I’m going to learn as soon as I move to Sweden’, he wrote.

Fredrika’s heart beat faster when she saw the date on which the Lion had suggested meeting up. Some time between January 23 and 27. Now, in fact. The week they went missing. This was something they would have to discuss with the boys’ parents, as soon as possible. They had to find out whether this meeting had taken place.

‘Have you managed to find out who the Lion is?’ she asked.

Lasse spread his hands wide.

‘I’ve been working on it all day, but I’m getting nowhere. I even became a member of Super Troopers so that I could get closer, but the Lion isn’t on there any more. I’ve contacted the administrator, but it’s impossible to trace the Lion.’

‘Why?’ Alex said.

‘Because he or she has used different public computers every single time the Lion has been active.’

‘Where, for example?’

‘Places like the 7-Eleven convenience stores, or smaller internet cafés.’

‘Give us a list and we’ll contact them. With a bit of luck one or two will have CCTV, and we’ll be able to get a picture.’

Lasse’s expression was grim.

‘I can give you a list, but it won’t do you any good.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because all the places are in Jerusalem.’


All roads lead to Rome. But not this time. In this case all roads appeared to lead to Israel. Alex Recht was alone in his office; Eden Lundell was on her way over from Säpo to talk about Efraim Kiel, although Alex had chosen not to mention his name on the phone. He had simply said that a certain individual had come up in his investigation, and he thought Eden might be able to tell him more about that person.

Fredrika had gone home. Alex had said he would call her later, because he still hadn’t had time to discuss his plan with her. He sincerely hoped she would think it was as good as he did; if all roads led to Israel, there was no point in the team setting off in a different direction.

Just before Eden arrived, he called Diana.

‘Sorry, I’m going to be really late tonight as well.’

A laugh at the other end of the phone.

‘In that case I’ll have a glass of wine in the meantime. Come home as soon as you can.’

‘I will.’

And then, just as he was about to end the call, he said: ‘I love you.’

‘I know.’

And then she was gone.

‘I know.’ What a way to answer, but a warm feeling spread through Alex’s chest, because he knew that Diana loved him too.

The sound of rapid footsteps in the corridor interrupted his train of thought, and then there she was, standing in the doorway. Taller than he remembered, glasses perched on the end of her nose. Messy blonde hair and a thin smile on her lips.

‘Alex.’

‘It’s been a while.’

He got up and shook Eden’s hand. He had never seen a woman wearing so many bracelets, fine and chunky, on both wrists.

She sat down, crossed her legs and looked around.

‘You should do what we’ve done – knock down the walls and go open plan.’

Alex suppressed a snort of laughter. Several of his colleagues would rather sell their own children than work in an open plan office.

‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea.’

‘People get used to it. Can I smoke if I open a window?’

Alex was so taken aback that he didn’t know what to say. Smoke? Indoors? She took his silence for assent.

‘Thanks!’

In a single fluid movement she rose and pushed open a window, letting in cold air and snow.

‘Bloody awful weather,’ Eden said, lighting her cigarette before she sat down again.

‘It’s supposed to get better next week.’

‘Really?’

She raised an eyebrow.

‘I think that’s what they said. The experts. But what the hell do I know – it might carry on snowing until midsummer.’

Why was he rambling on about the weather? There weren’t many people who had that effect on him, but Eden certainly did.

The smoke from her cigarette was making his eyes sting. Alex blinked and wondered what she did in her own workplace; surely she couldn’t smoke in an open plan office? He suspected the answer was that she probably could. Eden did as she pleased.

‘You asked for my help,’ she said.

She was in a hurry to get home, of course. Her family were waiting, and the weekend was approaching. Alex felt slightly stressed, unsure where to begin.

‘You’ve heard about the murders in the Solomon Community?’ he said eventually.

‘Indeed.’

He saw a flash of surprise on her face.

‘I’ve already told the community that I don’t want to get involved,’ she said.

It was Alex’s turn to be surprised.

‘The community?’

Eden nodded and reached for an empty coffee cup on his desk.

‘Okay if I use this as an ashtray?’

Not really, no.

‘No problem.’

Grey ash landed in the bottom of the cup.

‘Are you saying the community rang you?’

‘They think they can count on my support, my resources. But they can’t. I work for Säpo and no one else.’

‘And exactly what did they want your support and your resources for?’

‘You might well ask.’ She sighed and rolled her neck from side to side. ‘It’s not that I don’t sympathise with their situation, because I do. It would be stupid to deny that there’s a increased threat level against Jews and Jewish interests, but dealing with security issues of that kind is not part of my job.’

She stubbed out her cigarette in the china cup and pushed it away.

‘But I don’t imagine I’m here to talk about the Solomon Community’s security issues.’

‘No. You’re here because a certain individual has come up in our inquiry, and to be honest I have no idea how to approach him. I contacted you because I suspect you have a similar background, and I thought it would be interesting to hear if you have any advice.’

‘I’m listening.’

Alex took a document out of his secure filing cabinet.

‘There are certain things that link the three murders – the teacher and the two boys.’

‘Really?’ Eden said. ‘My guess was that they were unconnected.’

‘Mine too, but it seems we were wrong. For example, all three victims were shot with the same gun.’

Eden let out a whistle.

‘That makes it rather difficult to claim there’s no link,’ she said.

‘Quite.’ Alex took out a photograph of the paper bag in which the plant had been delivered to the Solomon Community. ‘And then there’s this.’

He passed her the picture, and she looked at it closely.

‘It’s identical to the bags the boys had over their heads,’ she said.

Alex knew she had been out to Drottningholm before he and Fredrika arrived; he had heard her name mentioned among his colleagues.

‘Not identical, but almost,’ he corrected her.

He told her about the delivery, and how the bag had ended up in the hands of the police. When he had finished, Eden sat there motionless, staring at him.

‘Can I just check if I’ve got this right?’ she said slowly. ‘An Israeli is currently helping the community, and he seems worryingly well-informed about what the police are doing?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you want to get hold of him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you think I can help you?’

He felt utterly stupid. What had he been thinking? He spread his hands wide.

‘I realise I’m skating on thin ice here,’ he said apologetically. ‘It’s just that I don’t like the way this guy is behaving. He’s not at the hotel where he said he was staying, at least not under what he claims is his real name. And the phone number he gave is no longer in use.’

Eden held up a hand.

‘You misunderstand me, Alex. I’m not saying he’s not suspect, or that he might have a background in intelligence. The problem is that I don’t know how I can help.’

Nor do I, Alex thought.

‘By giving me some good advice?’

Eden burst out laughing.

‘Good advice costs nothing. If he has an intelligence background, he might well have several passports, and good reasons to use different names in different circumstances. There’s nothing strange about that. But let me ask you a question: is this man a suspect in some way? Why are you surprised that he thought the killer might have left some kind of calling card?’

‘Well, that’s just it,’ Alex said. ‘I’m not necessarily saying there’s anything suspicious about his behaviour, but as he guessed correctly, it would be interesting to talk to him. There’s no more to it than that, really.’

Eden looked pensive as she fiddled with her bracelets.

‘If you can’t get hold of him, you might just have to wait until he gets in touch with your former colleague at the Solomon Community,’ she said.

‘You could be right. I’d just like to find out if he’s conducting his own investigation running parallel to ours. And if so, is it on the instructions of his employer in Israel?’

Eden looked dubious.

‘I find it very difficult to imagine that the Israeli authorities would have any interest in a case like this.’

She tilted her head on one side.

‘But I can ask around, if you like. What’s the name of this man?’

‘Efraim Kiel. Would you like me to spell it for you?’

‘That won’t be necessary, thank you. But you didn’t answer my question: is he a suspect? Do you think he’s involved in the murders?’

Her face changed from open to closed so fast that Alex didn’t have time to react.

He needed to think.

Did he believe Kiel was involved?

No.

Besides which, he had an alibi for both murders; he had been at the community centre finishing off the appointment of Peder Rydh. Hadn’t he?

‘No,’ Alex said. ‘But as I said, we’d still like to speak to him.’

‘I’ll do what I can.’

Alex felt a wave of relief.

Eden looked as if she was about to leave.

‘One more thing before you go,’ he said.

She waited patiently.

‘There are several loose ends in the case that all lead to Israel. Do you think it would be possible to set up some kind of collaboration with the local police if I sent over someone from our team?’

‘That depends,’ Eden said. ‘Who were you thinking of sending?’

‘Fredrika Bergman. The thing is, her husband is going out there anyway on Sunday.’


At first she had thought he was joking, but apparently he wasn’t. Fredrika Bergman couldn’t believe her ears when Alex outlined his so-called plan. A plan that involved her travelling to Israel to follow up on various leads over there.

If she wanted to. As Spencer was going anyway.

Otherwise Alex would go himself.

But there wasn’t much time if she was to leave on Sunday. It was only in films that the police hopped on a plane and started conducting an investigation in another country. In reality that kind of thing was extremely rare, and it never happened without a preliminary discussion with the local police authorities. Alex didn’t really know how it worked.

A collaboration with the Israeli police.

Had they ever done anything like that before? Alex’s boss could recall a few occasions, but there were no established channels to fall back on. Eden Lundell had made it very clear that she couldn’t provide any contacts in Israel, but she had promised to check out Efraim Kiel for them. Fredrika thought that sounded very useful.

But travelling to Israel with Spencer… How was she going to manage that, even if she wanted to?

‘You wouldn’t have to stay long,’ Alex had said. ‘Just a couple of days.’

‘I don’t see how I could do it,’ Fredrika had replied. ‘Who’d look after the children?’

Alex didn’t have an answer to that.

Nonetheless, Fredrika had called her parents as soon as she finished talking to Alex, just to ask if they could possibly have the children.

Her mother sounded worried.

‘But why do you have to go to Israel as well?’

‘It’s work, Mum. Otherwise of course I would have taken the kids.’

Spencer overheard the conversation, and was staring at her when she put down the phone.

‘Pardon me for asking,’ he said. ‘But am I to understand that you’re coming with me on Sunday?’

‘It looks that way. If Mum and Dad will have the kids.’

Spencer smiled, and she knew that he remembered too. The time they had gone to Israel together. Locked themselves in their hotel room and said that Spencer was too ill to attend some of his conference sessions. When darkness fell they had crept out into the city, away from the prying eyes of his colleagues.

Those were the days.

The decision-making process would take care of itself. If the practical issues could be solved, she was prepared to go.

Her mother rang a little while later; they were happy to look after the children, who at that moment were whirling around the apartment like two small tornadoes, heartily sick of their mother’s lack of attention. Spencer had spent a great deal of time alone with them over the past few days. She hoped they would be okay; she hardly ever went away and left them.

She grabbed her son as he shot past.

‘Yes, I am coming with you,’ she said firmly to Spencer, ‘but only for a couple of days.’

‘What will you be doing there?’

‘Working on the case. We can’t find all the answers we need here in Stockholm.’

Alex could sort out all the practicalities. It was Friday evening, the beginning of the Jewish Sabbath. On Saturday everything would be closed, and it would be impossible to get hold of anyone, or at least anyone in authority. And then it would be Sunday, the day they were supposed to be travelling. Alex would have to get things moving so that Fredrika could set to work straight away; she didn’t have time to sit around waiting when she got there.

With her son balanced on one hip, she made a start on dinner. Spencer worked beside her in silence, preparing a salad as she fried the meat. The potatoes were already in the oven, and the wine was breathing.

Isak chortled as the meat began to sizzle. Fredrika kissed his forehead, thinking that he was like his daddy, and that he ought to be proud of that.

Thoughts of the investigation were threatening to overwhelm her. Alex had unrealistic expectations of what she was going to be able to achieve. He wanted a more detailed description of who the Paper Boy was. Fredrika had searched online for the mysterious boy, but had found nothing. She had even asked Spencer, since he was a professor of literature, but he had had nothing to contribute.

Alex also wanted to know more about why the Eisenberg and Goldmann families had left Israel. Success depended on whether Fredrika managed to track down any relatives, and she felt as if the project was doomed from the start. Why should they agree to speak to her, even if she did find them?

The last thing Alex wanted her to follow up was the only one that seemed achievable: to visit the places from which the Lion had emailed, and to ask if she could look at any customer records they might have.

If they could just find out who the Lion was, Fredrika thought they would have made significant progress.


When he fired her, Eden Lundell’s British boss had mentioned what he regarded as her finest quality: an uncanny ability to spot connections that anyone else would have missed.

‘Don’t imagine that I believe for one second that you didn’t realise who Efraim Kiel was,’ he had roared, slamming his fist down on the desk. ‘You knew perfectly well that you were fucking Mossad and taking a huge risk.’

He had been both right and wrong. Eden certainly had a unique talent when it came to drawing conclusions far beyond the obvious, but on one occasion it had let her down, and that was when she embarked upon a relationship with Efraim Kiel. A man who was once again haunting her and turning her life upside down.

Eden was a gifted strategist, but she was also a very good poker player. She hadn’t even blinked when Alex mentioned Efraim Kiel’s name. He had unconsciously confirmed what she had suspected – that there was a link between Efraim’s stay in Stockholm and the murders in the Solomon Community. Alex had said that he didn’t suspect Efraim, and nor did Eden. But somehow Efraim knew more than seemed reasonable about what had happened, and Eden wanted to know how and why.

As expected, Mikael was furious when Eden walked in and announced that she was off to London the following morning.

Tomorrow? It’s the weekend, Eden. That means you spend time with your family; we do stuff together.’

Eden looked at her daughters, who were watching wide-eyed as their parents argued. They saw this kind of thing far too often, which wasn’t good. The knowledge that she was damaging them was painful, and it made her feel sad. And exhausted.

It’s for your sake I’m doing this, she wanted to say.

Because as long as Efraim Kiel was on her mind, she would have no peace.

There were times when she wondered if she had been right to tell Mikael what had happened. It wasn’t the fact that she had told him per se; she had had no choice. However, she wasn’t sure she had told him enough.

She had told Mikael only that she had met someone else. That it had to do with work, which was why they had to leave London.

She had admitted that she had fallen for this other man, started a relationship with him.

And ended it after a very short time.

Which wasn’t true. Her affair with Efraim had lasted, on and off, for two years, which told her two things she found very difficult to cope with: that she had really wanted him, and that Mossad had really wanted her.

Two years was a long time to run a recruitment operation. They had got nothing from her. She had no idea how frustrated that made them, but she could hazard a guess.

Dani crept over to Eden and wrapped her arms around one leg. Eden stroked her curly hair, which had surprised so many members of both her family and Mikael’s. A trick of nature, Eden always said if anyone mentioned it.

‘Are you going away?’ Dani said.

‘I’ll be back on Sunday.’

‘Is that a long time?’

‘It’s hardly any time at all, sweetheart.’

Dani smiled. She was much easier to cheer up than Mikael; easier to talk round.

Eden freed herself from her daughter’s iron grip and went into the kitchen.

‘This is important, Mikael,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you any more than that, but I’m asking you to trust me. I wouldn’t do this if there was any alternative.’

He stared at her, his eyes burning with anger. His hair was loose for once, long and dark, falling to his shoulders. His hair had been utterly fantastic when Eden first met him: a priest, over six feet tall, with long hair and a beard. His confirmation students called him Jesus, which Eden thought was a very appropriate nickname.

‘Please, Mikael,’ she said, reaching out and placing a hand on his chest, pleading for understanding in a way that was unusual for her.

‘Is there really no one else who can go?’ he said.

He was beginning to crumble; he hated arguments.

‘Not on this particular trip, no. I’m the only one who can do what needs to be done.’

All of a sudden she felt fragile. She couldn’t cope with a row, not right now. It was too hard, too exhausting. What bothered her most was the fact that he was right, of course. It wasn’t fair to mess up a weekend with a trip to London. So Eden did something that was even more rare than pleading. She offered a compromise.

‘I’ve been thinking about that holiday you mentioned. In March?’

A spark appeared in Mikael’s eyes, but was immediately extinguished by doubt. Justifiably so. She tried again.

‘You were right and I was wrong. If we settle on a date now, of course I can prioritise and book some time off.’

‘Seriously? You’ve thought about the holiday, and you can take some time off?’

The first part was a lie – she hadn’t thought about the holiday at all. But the second part was true; of course she could take some time off, if she wanted to.

‘Yep. Where would you like to go?’

Mikael didn’t react as she had expected at all. Instead he placed his big hands on her cheeks, and in his eyes she could see nothing but fear.

‘Eden, you have to tell me what’s happened.’

Shaken by his reaction, she backed away. He stepped forward.

‘Nothing,’ she whispered. ‘Nothing’s happened.’

That was one of the reasons why she was so keen to go. Because the fact that nothing had happened was not enough. It was equally important to ensure that nothing was going to happen.

She knew who she was going to see: a man who had been involved in the sensitive operation which MI5 must have carried out against her when they realised she was in an intimate relationship with a Mossad agent. A man who had to tell her everything he knew, so that she would have sufficient knowledge to free herself from Efraim Kiel once and for all.

If she didn’t win this final battle against Efraim, she would pay the highest price of all.


The film was called Katinka’s Party; images of something that Efraim Kiel assumed was supposed to be a Swedish idyll flickered on the cinema screen. All the actors were speaking Swedish. Efraim didn’t understand a word, which amused him.

He had made a point of leaving the hotel by the main entrance so that his Säpo shadows couldn’t possibly miss him. They had caught a tram to Sergels torg, then walked to Hötorget. Efraim grinned to himself, wondering what the Swedish security service would make of the fact that he had gone to the cinema to watch a Swedish film.

He sank down in the soft seat and allowed his thoughts to run free. It was still early; he would call Peder Rydh as soon as the film was over. He wanted to know if anything new had come up; something that might explain how that paper bag had turned up at the Solomon school.

He hadn’t received any more messages, but that gave him no peace of mind. There was something frantic about his pursuer, something that suggested a lack of patience, and for that reason Efraim had been expecting further attempts to contact him. The silence frightened him. It would be unfortunate if this was the preliminary to an escalation; as long as Efraim didn’t know who was after him, he was at a disadvantage. And that was never a good thing.

His superiors in Israel had raised no objections when he said he was staying on in Sweden for a few more days. Complications with the recruitment process, he had told them. Peder Rydh needed to be supervised for a little while, assessed. They bought his explanation lock, stock and barrel back in Jerusalem; Efraim was a trusted colleague who was allowed to plan his own overseas trips as he saw fit.

He was shaken by the turn his visit to Stockholm had taken. It had sounded so simple, so uncomplicated. It had seemed like a welcome break from the usual intensity of his work, which mainly consisted of recruiting new sources and double agents for the Israeli military security service.

Eden had been a failure. The project had taken two years, and had produced nothing. Two years, two attempts. The first had been broken off for the simple reason that Eden had told him she was pregnant when Efraim first seduced her. He had made sure that she was well and truly hooked before he brought the first attempt to an end. And then, when she was back at work after her maternity leave, he had reappeared. It had gone well. Very well, in fact. But not well enough.

No one within the organisation had blamed him. Sometimes you succeeded, sometimes you didn’t. Efraim had many assets, and was still regarded as one of their most skilful agents. Eden Lundell had been a high risk project, they had known that from the start. And they had lost.

Eden most of all.

The film was indescribably boring. Efraim didn’t think he would have liked it even if he had been able to understand what they were saying. When it came to an end at long last, he had to make a real effort to stop himself running out of the cinema.

It had finally stopped snowing as he set off back to the hotel. The sky was dark and clear, studded with stars. It was a quarter to nine, and the inner city had a pulse that Efraim hadn’t noticed before. A Friday night phenomenon, no doubt. There were people everywhere, even though it was so cold. In a country where it was apparently impossible to motivate men and women to train to bear arms, people were clearly happy to freeze to death for a couple of beers.

It would have been easy to dump his Säpo shadows in the crowd, but Efraim let them stay with him. They were between fifteen and twenty metres behind him, all wearing black boots and woolly hats. If he had been their boss he would have turned around and asked them what the hell they were doing.

The soles of his shoes were too thin to keep out the cold, so he increased his speed and went past the theatre and the attractive little shops along the first section of Strandvägen. By the time he reached the warmth of the hotel, his cheeks and ears were glowing.

He went up to his room, using the stairs rather than the lift. There were no messages outside his door. Or inside. He opened up his laptop and plugged in the micro-camera that he had installed above the bathroom door in order to check whether anyone was coming into his room. No one had been there since he left.

He took off his coat and picked up his mobile. He had got rid of the first pay-as-you-go card he had bought when he came to Sweden; he was trying to make himself as invisible as possible. Traceability equalled vulnerability.

Peder Rydh answered almost immediately. When he realised who was calling, there was a brief silence.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ Efraim said.

‘No, not at all. How can I help?’

You would have needed only half of Efraim’s experience to hear that Peder’s tone of voice had changed since they last spoke. It was strained, almost stressed. Possibly with a hint of fear and nervous anxiety. A clear indication that he wasn’t comfortable speaking to Efraim.

‘Have you spoken to the police?’ Efraim said.

‘What? No, absolutely not, of course not, why would I do that?’

The words came pouring out. With a certain amount of surprise Efraim realised that he had been given more information than he had expected: Peder had definitely spoken to the police.

About Efraim.

‘Why would you do that,’ Efraim said rhetorically. ‘Perhaps because I asked you to?’

Silence.

Efraim pictured Peder, cursing his own stupidity.

‘Oh right, yes, of course,’ he said, his voice a little steadier. ‘Yes, I have.’

‘In that case, let’s try again. Have you or have you not spoken to the police?’

‘I have spoken to the police.’

‘Okay. What about?’

Efraim wished Peder had been sitting in front of him; that would have made things so much easier, both in terms of frightening him and reading his reactions.

‘About… about what you said.’

‘Which was?’

What kind of fucking amateur had they appointed as head of security? Efraim had met children who were better liars than Peder Rydh.

‘The bag. You wanted to know more about the bag. So I asked.’

‘Who did you speak to?’

‘Alex Recht.’

‘Good. And what did you find out?’

‘He didn’t say anything about the paper bag.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘He wouldn’t tell me whether it was of any significance in the investigation; he said it was too early.’

‘But the police came and collected the bag, didn’t they?’

Peder hesitated.

‘They did, yes.’

‘So Alex Recht wouldn’t tell you anything about the paper bag; did he say anything else that might be of interest to me?’

A longer hesitation this time.

‘Only what’s already in the news.’

Efraim frowned. He hadn’t checked the news since he got back from the cinema, and to be honest it was a fairly pointless exercise; he didn’t have a decent translation program to work with.

‘For obvious reasons I find it difficult to follow the Swedish news,’ he said. ‘What exactly are you referring to?’

‘This business about the gun.’

Efraim froze.

‘The gun?’

There was a rushing noise inside his head, and his pulse rate had increased to an alarming level.

‘The boys were shot with the same gun as the teacher,’ Peder said.

Impossible.

Impossible, impossible, impossible.

He forced himself to answer Peder.

‘Oh yes, I knew about that.’

Then he ended the conversation with a promise to call Peder again over the weekend.

He stood there with his mobile in his hand. This was worse than he had thought. If the children had been shot with the same gun as the teacher, then that ought to mean that they had been killed by the same perpetrator.

But they hadn’t.

Because Efraim Kiel knew who had shot the boys, and that person had had nothing whatsoever to do with the murder of the teacher.

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