The Dangerous Game

A nurse showed them to the room. Their Stockholm colleagues waited outside the intensive care ward.

‘I need to ask you to treat him very gently,’ the nurse said as she opened the door. ‘Don’t try to force anything. Let him take as much time as he needs, and see that he doesn’t get upset. He’s still in a lot of pain, even though we’ve given him medication for it. So go easy with the questions. It’s not certain that he’ll be able to give you any answers. We don’t know what he remembers, or if he remembers anything at all. At the moment he’s not able to speak or write, so you’ll have to find some other way to communicate.’

Markus Sandberg’s eyes were closed as he lay in bed under a yellow hospital blanket. His head was heavily bandaged, with two tubes snaking out from under the dressing. His face was swollen, with huge bruises that were various shades of yellow, green and brown. A plastic tube had been inserted in the front of his throat to allow him to breathe. The nurse placed her hand on his arm.

‘You have visitors.’

Jacobsson had to take a deep breath and collect herself as she stepped into the room. It was impossible to imagine that the man in the bed was the roguish and charismatic TV host who had often been seen rubbing shoulders with celebrities on the red carpet.

‘Just press that button if you need anything,’ said the nurse, pointing at a button attached to a cord that hung from the wall. Then she left the room.

‘Hello,’ said Jacobsson quietly. Then she introduced herself and Wittberg.

She couldn’t tell whether Markus was awake. His eyes were still shut, and he gave no indication that he was aware of anyone having come into the room.

She pulled a chair over to the bed, sat down, and cautiously tapped his arm. Then he opened his eyes and turned his head slightly towards her. The expression in his eyes was inscrutable.

‘We’re from Visby police. We’re investigating the assault that left you injured. It’s very important that we get your help in finding the assailant, and that’s why we wanted to talk to you as soon as possible. We’re so happy to see you awake.’

She gave him a little smile of encouragement. No reaction.

‘I understand that you’re not able to speak, so we have to find some other way for you to communicate with us. Could you blink twice for yes and once for no?’

A long pause. Then Markus blinked twice.

‘Do you remember what happened out on Furillen?’

Several minutes passed without a response. Markus’s right eyebrow twitched uncontrollably. Jacobsson and Wittberg waited patiently. Finally, Markus replied by moving the palm of his hand back and forth. He seemed to be saying that he recalled at least a little of the event.

‘Did you recognize the person who attacked you?’

Markus Sandberg narrowed his eyes.

Two blinks.

‘Was it a woman?’

No reaction.

‘Was it a man?’

He gave her a blank look. As if he wasn’t listening or hadn’t understood what she said. Jacobsson repeated her question. A trickle of saliva seeped out of his mouth and ran down his chin. He whimpered as if in pain. The next second he uttered a long-drawn-out sound, a howl that rose up from his throat. Jacobsson jumped in fright and was just about to press the call button when the door opened and the nurse came in. Markus raised one arm. Greatly agitated, he grunted and pointed at her. Jacobsson cast a helpless glance at Wittberg, who merely shook his head.

‘You need to leave now,’ said the nurse firmly. ‘As I said, we don’t want him to get upset.’

‘But we really need to talk to him,’ Jacobsson objected. ‘It’s terribly important that we continue the interview.’

‘Not at the moment. He has been seriously injured, and it will endanger his life if he doesn’t have peace and quiet.’

The nurse refused to give in.

‘You can come back tomorrow if he doesn’t get any worse. Now, out!’

She shooed the two police officers out of the door as if they were children.

Jacobsson and Wittberg reluctantly left the hospital ward.

‘He’s much worse than I thought,’ said Wittberg in the car as they drove to police headquarters. ‘And he seemed really distraught.’

‘He got upset when the nurse came in, and then he pointed at her.’

‘But she can’t be the one who did it.’

‘No,’ said Jacobsson. ‘But he pointed at her when I asked him whether it was a man or a woman.’

‘How could it be a woman?’ Wittberg objected. ‘The clothes that were found in Kyllaj belonged to a man.’

‘I know. That’s something we’ll have to work out.’

THE PREMISES OF the Fashion for Life agency were in a beautiful, early-twentieth-century building in a street with trendy restaurants and shops in central Stockholm. Jacobsson and Wittberg had made an appointment to meet with Robert Ek, the agency director. The young receptionist who greeted them had raven-black hair cut in a pageboy style with a fringe that completely hid one of her eyes. Heavy black eyeliner and mascara had been applied to the eye that was visible, which regarded them with some curiosity as she rang her boss. Her fingernails were long and perfectly painted in a leopardskin pattern. Fascinated, Jacobsson couldn’t help staring. She was amazed that such women existed. She felt like a twit and a country bumpkin in her jeans, Converse shoes and ugly old army-surplus jacket. If only she had at least remembered to comb her hair and put on some lipstick. Made some sort of effort. But the next second she was cursing herself. What a fool she was. First of all, she was a police officer, not a wannabe model. And secondly, what difference would it have made? In their eyes, her appearance was beyond hope, no matter what she did.

At that moment a man opened a glass door and came in. Jacobsson guessed that he was probably about forty-five. Tall and clean-shaven, with close-cropped hair that gleamed with recently applied gel, as if he’d stepped right out of a toiletries commercial. His face was as shiny as a newly polished copper pan. He wore a light-coloured shirt, leather trousers, red braces and a chic little ascot around his neck. He gave them a big smile, revealing unnaturally white teeth. He wore rectangular eyeglasses with heavy red frames and quite a few rings on his fingers. Jacobsson shook his hand more firmly than usual, as if to make up for her drab appearance and to counteract the antipathy she felt towards this man.

They went to his office. Robert Ek closed the glass door and invited them to sit down on a lime-green sofa. On the wall above it hung an enormous portrait of a woman holding a tartan umbrella as she crossed Fifth Avenue on a windy, rainy day in Manhattan. The woman wore only knickers and a bra, and her long red hair was being blown in all directions, just like the umbrella that she was trying to manoeuvre. Jacobsson immediately recognized Jenny Levin.

‘Our new star,’ said Ek when he noticed her looking at the photo. ‘She’s come a long way. Isn’t she fabulous?’

‘Yes, she certainly is,’ said Thomas Wittberg reverently.

Jacobsson merely nodded.

‘Can I offer you anything? An espresso? Macchiato? San Pellegrino?’

‘What is…’ Wittberg began, but stopped when Jacobsson poked him in the side.

‘No, thanks,’ she said. ‘We won’t stay long.’

‘Okay. I understand. So how can I help you?’

If only he’d wipe that damned grin off his face, thought Jacobsson. His top photographer is in intensive care, for God’s sake.

‘How would you describe your relationship with Markus Sandberg?’

‘Excellent. We’re on very friendly terms. We’ve known each other a long time.’

‘How long?’

‘Oh, it must be about fifteen years now, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Long before Markus started working in the fashion business?’

‘That’s right. We used to run into each other at various functions. Stockholm isn’t as big as you’d think if you were from the provinces.’

He gave Jacobsson another amiable smile, but she did not smile back. This man was already proving to be unbearably irritating. And she was surprised at how unfazed he seemed to be by Markus’s present unfortunate condition.

‘How do you feel about what happened to Markus?’

As if he’d read her mind, Robert Ek immediately changed his expression.

‘It’s awful,’ he said emphatically. ‘Terrible. That’s the only word for it. I was so shocked when I heard what had happened.’

As if to illustrate his words, he clasped his hands and opened his eyes wide. Then he shook his head, took off his glasses, and wiped the corners of his eyes with a tissue which he took from a holder on the table. ‘We’re all hoping that he’ll recover, and as quickly as possible.’

‘Where were you on the night that Markus was attacked?’

Ek raised his neatly shaped eyebrows. Jacobsson wondered whether he might have dyed and enhanced his eyelashes. They were unusually long and dark.

‘On Monday night, a week ago? I was at home with my family. Probably asleep in bed.’

‘You’re married and have four children. Is that right?’

‘Precisely. I’m married to Erna Linton. You may remember her. She was once a very celebrated model. Although that’s a long time ago now. The years pass so quickly.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘In Saltsjö-Duvnäs, right outside Stockholm, in Nacka. We live in my parents’ house.’

‘What sort of professional relationship do you have with Markus?’

‘We don’t really see a lot of each other. He’s always dashing off on various photo shoots, while I mostly stay here and take care of the administrative work, when I’m not away travelling myself.’

‘Do you know whether Markus has any connection to Flemingsberg?’

‘Out in Huddinge? No, I wouldn’t think so. He has always spent most of his time in the city. Unless a woman is involved, of course.’

‘Does Markus have any enemies? Is there anyone who might want to harm him?’ asked Wittberg, jumping into the conversation for the first time.

Robert Ek’s gaze took in Wittberg’s toned and well-dressed figure. He hesitated a moment before answering.

‘Not that I know of. He’s always been popular here at the agency – sometimes a bit too popular, if you know what I mean. And that has led to a number of problems over the years. I don’t know how many models have left in the middle of a job because Markus had just dumped them and started an affair with someone else. It was a big problem, until I finally decided to have a talk with him, six months ago. It’s really none of my business, but when I see my models looking unhappy, I have to step in. I tried to explain things and asked him to try to restrain himself. We can’t afford to have jobs delayed or adversely affected or, in the worst case, cancelled because he can’t control his cock – excuse my French, but that’s really what this is about.’

Jacobsson cast a glance at Wittberg. His face was impassive.

‘So how did Markus react?’

‘He tried to laugh it off.’

‘He didn’t take it seriously?’

‘No, and that’s putting it mildly. But I do think that, lately, he’s been on his best behaviour. Or maybe he’s just been more discreet about managing his love life.’

‘But his frequent affairs must have caused other problems,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Were there any that were particularly significant, or had serious consequences?’

Robert Ek’s face darkened. For the first time during the conversation his expression seemed genuine. He looked honestly worried, almost distressed.

‘That makes me think of the incident with Marita. A Finno-Swedish model he was dating. Marita Ahonen.’

‘And?’

‘She was a very promising model who came to us a couple of years ago. Just under six feet tall, legs like a gazelle, platinum-blonde hair like a wood nymph, her complexion like the smoothest Meissen porcelain, and you wouldn’t believe her eyes. They were like Finland’s 100,000 lakes all in one glance, so pure that one look could make you blush. She was dream-like, a fairy-tale figure. Unlike anybody else. We predicted a brilliant career for her. The whole world lay at her milky-white feet. Until she met Markus. She fell for him hard. She was so young, only sixteen. I don’t think she’d ever had a boyfriend before. It was the classic scenario. He played with her until, as usual, he grew tired of the relationship, and after six months he dumped her for the next cute girl who started working as a model for the agency. I mean, that happens all the time. There are always new girls. Well, Marita was shattered, and she’d also just found out that she was pregnant, but Markus was through with her. He was no longer interested in her or the baby. He persuaded her to have an abortion, and she never recovered after that. She started using cocaine and got very depressed. She let herself go and had to stop modelling a few months later because she wasn’t taking care of herself. Towards the end she was more or less high all the time. It just couldn’t go on.’ Ek’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I feel so guilty about the whole thing. Haven’t been able to put that girl out of my mind. It was awful.’

‘What happened to her?’ asked Jacobsson indignantly.

‘Someone said that she eventually went back to Finland. I haven’t heard anything about her since.’

‘And when did this happen?’

‘It was about two years ago that she came here, and then she disappeared six months later. It all happened so fast.’

‘You said her name was Marita? Marita Ahonen?’

‘That’s right. Just a minute.’

Ek summoned his assistant and asked him to get the file for Marita Ahonen. He looked from Jacobsson to Wittberg as they waited.

‘Do you think the assault on Markus Sandberg could have something to do with what happened to Marita?’

‘We have no idea,’ said Jacobsson. ‘But we need to look into every possibility. And speaking of girlfriends, what other women have been part of his life, besides Jenny?’

‘The first that comes to mind is Diana Sierra.’

‘Diana Sierra?’

‘Yes, she’s his girlfriend.’

‘You mean his ex-girlfriend?’

‘I don’t know about that. She’s working in New York right now.’

‘And they’re still together?’ Jacobsson persisted.

‘Yes. That’s what I understand.’

‘But what about Jenny?’

Robert Ek shrugged.

‘This is what Markus always does. He’s hopeless. Thinks only about himself. Doesn’t give a damn how many hearts he breaks along the way.’

BY THE TIME Jenny caught a cab from Bromma Airport, it was already evening and dark outside. She phoned the hospital. Visiting hours were over, so she’d have to wait until the next day. Just as well, she thought. She needed time to prepare herself mentally for seeing Markus again.

The flat where she stayed whenever she was in Stockholm belonged to the agency and was out on Kungsholmen, very close to the water at Kungsholm beach. It was a four-room flat used by foreign models when they were working in the city. Jenny had stayed there many times before. Occasionally, she had the place to herself, but sometimes she shared the flat with other models. It was pleasant and modern, with all mod cons. Right now, she was hoping that no one else would be there. She needed to be alone.

Due to roadworks, the taxi couldn’t drive her to the door, so she had to get out quite a distance away, in the dreariest part of Pipergatan, near an office complex down by the Karlberg canal. Since it was past eight, the offices were empty, and the big windows facing the water were all dark. The cab driver apologized, but Jenny assured him that it didn’t matter. She had hardly any luggage, so she could easily walk the rest of the way. Taking a firm grip of her carry-on suitcase, she went down the stairs to the street that ran parallel to the canal. Her high heels clacked on the damp stone stairs. The water was black and still. The street was deserted. The street lamps stood at attention like silent sentries along the canal. She heard the sound of her own footsteps, mixed with the roar of traffic from the Sankt Erik Bridge a short distance away.

Suddenly, she noticed a shadow moving among the trees down by the water. Probably someone walking their dog, she told herself, trying to stay calm but casting an uneasy glance at the trees. But the man seemed to be standing still, and she couldn’t see or hear a dog. In her mind she saw Markus’s lifeless body in the cabin on Furillen. And the blood sprayed all over the walls. What if it was her turn now? The man in the dark might be a lunatic with an axe. Good Lord, pull yourself together, she thought.

After walking on for a bit, she couldn’t help turning around. The man was heading in her direction. And she was all alone on the street, which stretched out dark and empty in front of her. Rigid with fear, she walked as quickly as she could without actually running. All she wanted was to get safely inside the flat. And now she was hoping that some other models would be there. Anyone at all. She walked even faster. She could see the building now. She was almost there. Unfortunately, the entrance was not on the street. She had to go around the building and into a small courtyard. She didn’t dare turn around, trying to convince herself that the man in the trees had gone off in another direction. Then she went around to the other side of the building and sighed with relief. She rummaged in her purse for the keys and took out a cigarette at the same time. She needed a smoke after such a nerve-racking walk. But now she was safe. Lights were on in all the surrounding buildings.

As she raised the match to light her cigarette, she saw him. He was standing only a short distance away, but the cap he wore shadowed his face.

With a gasp Jenny dropped the match. It went out the instant it hit the ground.

THE COMMON ROOM, which is in the centre of the ward, is furnished with sofas and armchairs strewn with soft pillows and stuffed animals. Even though the staff have tried their best to smarten up the place, they can’t erase the institutional feel. It seems to be ingrained in the walls. Woollen blankets are everywhere, and placed several metres apart are extra heating units which can be plugged in if anyone is in need of more warmth. Anorexic patients are always cold. Everyone is dressed the same: loose trousers, big warm jumpers and thick socks or fleecy slippers. The TV is always on. Linda is huddled on the sofa under a woollen blanket, watching Oprah Winfrey. Ironically enough, the popular talk-show host has the fashion designer Valentino as her guest. The interview is interspersed with photos of thin-as-a-rake models on the catwalk and comments about how beautifully the clothes drape their bony figures. Agnes doesn’t want to watch, but she doesn’t dare ask Linda to change the channel. Her request could easily turn into a quarrel. Josefine is sitting in one of the armchairs, frantically knitting, not paying attention to anyone else. And Sofia is sitting in front of the coffee table, studying her maths. No one is talking. It’s quiet in the room except for Oprah’s ingratiating remarks about how wonderful Valentino is.

They are immersed in their own thoughts, ignoring everyone else.

Agnes is restless and bored. Per hasn’t been at work for several days, and she misses him. He’s the only one she can confide in here. Not that he ever says much, but he’s a good listener. And that’s exactly what she needs. The other girls are so paranoid. She has nothing in common with them. She wonders what he’s doing right now.

She listlessly leafs through a copy of the women’s magazine Svensk Damtidning. She’s not interested in any of the boring magazines here: Illustrerad Vetenskap, Sköna Hem, Kamratposten, Min Häst. All fashion magazines and most weekly tabloids are forbidden, because photos of models and any articles about dieting might have a negative effect on the patients. And yet this is exactly what they’re showing on TV. How absurd.

She sighs. On the news this morning there was another report about that horrible assault out on Furillen. Markus had almost been beaten to death. It seemed so unreal. She couldn’t believe it was true. The reporter had stood outside the hospital and said that Markus was still hovering between life and death. The girl who found him, Jenny Levin, is from Gotland, but Agnes doesn’t know her personally. They’re from different parts of Gotland, and Jenny is several years older than she is. Things have gone well for her in the modelling world, unlike for Agnes. And now it was being reported on the news that Jenny and Markus were in a relationship, and that might have something to do with the assault.

Agnes wonders how he’s been treating Jenny Levin. She still feels ashamed when she thinks about the things they did together. She even slept with him, although she was only fifteen. After that first kiss, it had been difficult for her to act natural with him. She had felt awkward and embarrassed. Couldn’t think of anything else as he photographed her.

That summer she had taken classes on how to pose for the camera. She had learned to walk in high heels, and they had tried to get her to relax. They had also told her that she needed to lose weight, as fast as possible. She was sent to a nutritionist, and they showered her with tips on special exercises and diet foods. She had every chance of becoming a successful model, if only she were thinner. In the autumn, she did get a number of modelling assignments because she was exceptionally beautiful. That’s what they told her, but it was obvious that she needed to lose weight. Their clients would not be happy if the agency sent out a model who wore almost a size ten and let her appear in flashy fashion spreads. She understood that, didn’t she?

Everyone at the agency was constantly talking to her about her weight. The boss, the staff that booked the modelling jobs, and Markus, too. Whenever he was tired and in a bad mood, he would complain that she was hard to photograph because she looked so heavy. He did the best he could, but even he couldn’t work miracles.

Naturally, Agnes wanted him to be happy with her, admire her, think she was cute. She was in love and lived for those occasions when she was allowed to go home with him. She didn’t care that this occurred only on his terms. She would go to his flat late in the evening, and sometimes they’d eat together. Then they’d have sex. At the same time he would taunt her about her figure. He would study her body intently and say, ‘Hmm, lose eleven pounds and you’d be almost perfect.’

She was determined to show him.

Agnes’s reverie is interrupted by the clanging of something hitting the floor. Josefine has dropped a knitting needle but doesn’t seem to notice. She is no longer knitting but instead has turned her attention to Oprah. As she watches, she is jabbing the other knitting needle at the soft flesh between her thumb and index finger. Agnes stares in horror. Josefine is jabbing harder and harder, her eyes fixed on the catwalk on TV. Finally, she punctures the skin and blood runs out.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ snaps Linda when blood drips on to the sofa. ‘Are you out of your mind?’

Josefine doesn’t answer, just lets the blood flow, keeping her eyes on the TV. As if she’s not really aware of what’s just happened.

‘I can’t even watch TV in peace and quiet in this damned place!’ shouts Linda, jumping up with tears spilling down her cheeks. She sweeps a vase of hyacinths off the table and on to the floor, where it breaks into a thousand pieces. A nurse comes running, and another opens the door from a conference room and peers at them, wanting to see what all the noise is about.

‘What’s going on here?’ cries one of the nurses. ‘What happened?’

Agnes shrugs. She doesn’t want to get involved. The nurse makes a great fuss when she discovers that Josefine’s hand is bleeding. She hurries the girl out of the room to be bandaged. Agnes doesn’t move a muscle. She has the ability to close down when any quarrels or conflicts arise in the ward. Such things don’t concern her. When calm has been restored in the room, she sinks back into her own thoughts. Returning to the memories of her brief modelling career, which ended before it really began.

She had never felt fat before; she’d always been quite pleased with how she looked. But then things had changed, and she started to hate herself. All the sighs and criticisms about her size, all the disapproving looks, made her feel sick to her stomach. She started dieting in earnest and quickly lost weight. At first, the reactions were invariably positive. Everyone praised her new, thin figure. The agency was finally pleased, as was Markus. Agnes took on more modelling jobs, while trying to keep up at school. Her father, Rikard, was both proud and happy. This was an excellent way for his daughter to escape from her grief and give her life new meaning. He was also, gradually, starting to live again. He met a woman named Katarina in Stockholm, and they began seeing each other more and more often. Agnes was happy for her father, even though she had not the slightest desire to meet this Katarina. At the same time, Agnes felt he was beginning to distance himself from her. He no longer gave her the same amount of attention he used to. But if she became a successful model, that would probably change. He would be even prouder of his daughter. She would become as important to him as she’d been before.

‘If only Mamma could see you now,’ he’d said with tears in his eyes as he admired a fashion spread that she’d done for one of the biggest-selling women’s magazines. Agnes was so glad she could make her poor father happy.

She would never forget those words.

HER LEGS TREMBLING, Jenny Levin entered the lobby of Karolinska University Hospital in Solna on Tuesday morning. She was filled with contradictory emotions. On the one hand, she longed to see Markus; on the other, she was afraid of what she might find. She went to the nurses’ station on the ward and gave her name. A young nurse whose brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and who wore white wooden clogs led the way to Markus’s room. Jenny could tell that the nurse knew who she was. It was apparent from the way she spoke to her and because she kept looking at the clothes Jenny had on.

She felt a bit queasy as she noticed the dirty yellow walls, the green linoleum and the hospital smells. The only hospital she’d ever been inside was the one in Visby. That hospital seemed so neat and clean and pleasant compared to this sterile monstrosity. And in Visby there was a splendid view of the sea from most of the windows. Here the windows on one side faced a cemetery, and on the other a busy thoroughfare.

Markus had a private room on the ward. Just that morning he’d been moved there from intensive care. His life was no longer in danger.

‘He’s still exhausted,’ the nurse warned Jenny. ‘And he looks bad right now, but things will get better.’

‘Does he remember what happened?’ Jenny asked.

‘It’s too early to tell. It was only twenty-four hours ago that he regained consciousness after being sedated. He can’t speak. He needs lots of peace and quiet. We don’t want him to get upset.’

‘I’ll just sit with him for a while.’

‘That’s fine.’

The nurse smiled as she opened the door.

Even though she had mentally tried to prepare herself, the sight of Markus was shocking. She gasped, and her hand flew up to her mouth. The big bandage wrapped around his head, the tubes, his swollen and disfigured face. She didn’t even recognize him. At the same time, his body looked so small and thin. As if he’d shrunk several sizes.

‘Hi,’ she said, giving him a smile. She tried hard not to show how horrified she was. ‘It’s me. Jenny,’ she said as she felt her smile freezing. When she’d thought about everything and tried to picture this first meeting, she hadn’t imagined that he would look so bad or be so unreachable. He didn’t even glance at her. She was on the verge of tears but managed to hold them back.

She cautiously sat down on the edge of his bed and reached out her hand, placing it gently over his.

‘How are you?’

Not even a hint of a response. His head turned away. She waited patiently. The minutes ticked past. Here they sat, like two strangers who had never met before. Only just over a week ago they had been cooking dinner in his kitchen and laughing at the latest Woody Allen film. Markus had taken her in his arms and made love to her, wildly and passionately, until they were both exhausted. Right now, the very thought seemed utterly surreal.

‘Do you recognize me?’ she asked.

He still refused to look at her.

Jenny was feeling more and more bewildered. As if she were sitting here with a complete stranger. His face looked awful. This was not her handsome Markus. Nausea overtook her and the room began to spin. She couldn’t stay here even a minute longer.

‘I’m afraid I have to go now,’ she said and set the carrier bag with the grapes, magazines and chocolate on the bed. ‘But I’ll be back, of course.’

Without looking at Markus, she left the room and hurried down the corridor.

ON TUESDAY MORNING Karin Jacobsson and Thomas Wittberg met with their Stockholm colleagues, who gave them an update on the interviews they’d conducted so far. No one knew of any connection that Markus Sandberg might have to Flemingsberg, which was where his mobile had been traced to. The police had done a thorough examination of his life, talking to many of his closest family members, co-workers and acquaintances. They’d come away with a clear and unequivocal picture of the man. An irresponsible womanizer with an appetite for good food, alcohol and a number of different drugs, primarily cocaine, at least when he was young. These days, he might still smoke a joint or snort a line at some party, but his level of drug use was nowhere near what it had been in his youth.

Markus Sandberg was the son of one of Sweden’s foremost defence lawyers. He had grown up in a huge flat in Stockholm’s Östermalm district, where his parents still lived. He was used to moving in upper-class social circles, and he’d always had plenty of money. Yet he was the black sheep of the family. His three brothers had all followed in their father’s footsteps and each in his own way had dedicated his life to the law. They were all married and lived in large homes in the posh suburbs. They had steady jobs within the banking sector and with various law firms. The fact that Markus had chosen photography as his profession had been hard for his family to swallow, and it was even worse when he gravitated towards porn. The family’s patience finally ran out when that scandalous TV programme debuted with Markus as the controversial host. When the police interviewed his family members, it became clear that he was regarded as their enfant terrible – charming and charismatic, but a temperamental rogue who was impossible to rein in or control. When Markus left the TV show and stopped taking pornographic pictures to become a respectable photographer, as his father expressed it, the entire clan had heaved a collective sigh of relief.

When Markus Sandberg’s name began to attract notice in the most exclusive fashion circles, his family finally stopped disapproving of him. Instead, he became the son of whom his parents were most proud. He was not only successful in his profession and made lots of money, he was also a celebrity. A star who hobnobbed with Sweden’s elite. And that was what impressed Markus’s family most. He was the one son who could measure up to his father’s fame, and for that he was greatly admired.

So the brutal assault and its consequences were the worst thing that could have happened to his family. Both parents were utterly distraught, and his father had quarrelled with the hospital every single day, demanding that all sorts of experts be called in. His brothers were better at keeping their composure, although they, too, were worried and upset.

As far as his colleagues and friends were concerned, they had all told the police much the same story. Markus Sandberg was a well-liked and charming rogue who managed nevertheless to carry out his work brilliantly. Even though he was pushing forty, he still lived very much for the present and didn’t seem at all interested in settling down. Nor did he worry about the future. He earned a huge salary, but he spent it fast. There were always new trips, new parties, new girlfriends.

‘I wonder where his restlessness comes from,’ Jacobsson said as she and Wittberg left police headquarters. ‘Markus seems to be constantly on the move, as if he’s either searching for something or running away.’

‘His behaviour sounds perfectly normal to me,’ said Wittberg. ‘If you’ve got the money and the opportunities and don’t feel like settling down for the moment, then why not? To me it sounds like a great life – one day jet-setting to Cannes, the next day going to a nightclub in Milan and mingling with Hollywood stars. I could see myself doing that.’

‘I’m sure you could,’ said Jacobsson, laughing. ‘Your life isn’t that much different, just on a more modest scale. Surfing at Tofta in the summer, partying at the Gutekällaren, and showing off your muscles at the Kallis beach club. And in the wintertime you keep your summer romances going by taking exotic trips to see Eva in Haparanda, Sanna in Skövde, and Linda in Lund.’

‘What about you?’ said Wittberg, irritated. ‘You should talk. You haven’t exactly settled down either. And don’t forget that you’re ten years older than me.’

Jacobsson ignored his remarks and merely walked faster. But Wittberg wasn’t about to give up.

‘You’re always so bloody secretive. So tell me. How’s it going with that photographer you met – Janne Widén?’

‘None of your business,’ said Jacobsson, annoyed to feel herself blushing.

They weren’t exactly a couple, but they did spend a lot of time together.

At the same time she’d made contact with her daughter, she had met Janne. All of a sudden, two new people had come into her life, which was otherwise quite solitary. And ever since, she’d been preoccupied with both of them, although for very different reasons. Right now, she was looking forward to Janne coming home. But that was nothing compared to how much she longed to see Hanna.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of her mobile.

‘Hi. My name is Anna Markström, and I work on the reception desk at the Grand Hotel.’

‘Yes?’

Jacobsson and Wittberg hadn’t yet managed to pay a visit there.

‘My boss told me that the police are interested in a phone call that was made from here on 15 November by a man who rang the Hotel Fabriken on Furillen.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, when I heard about that, I remembered that we had a big fashion show here that day – in the Winter Garden – and all the models were from the same agency, Fashion for Life. Jenny Levin was one of the models.’

‘Are you sure? This was on 15 November?’

‘Yes, that’s right. I checked to be sure, and that’s when it was.’

JENNY CAME OUT of the hospital and sank down on to a bench next to the front entrance. She lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, trying to calm down. She quickly realized that she was sitting at a taxi rank, since cabs kept driving up to ask if she needed a ride. After this happened five times, she got up and left. She needed to take a walk, to regain her composure and gather her thoughts. She headed along the path which passed under the thoroughfare, went through a dark tunnel, and then over to Brunnsviken and Haga Park. She wandered along the shore, thinking about Markus. What would happen if he didn’t regain his memory? She was filled with despair when she recalled the way he had looked. She tried to tell herself that he’d be better soon. The swelling would go down, his wounds would heal, and whatever disfiguring marks didn’t disappear on their own could be dealt with by plastic surgery. She shivered when she thought how vain Markus was and how important his appearance was to him. She sincerely hoped that the hospital staff wouldn’t allow him to look in a mirror.

She stopped at the water’s edge. Several ducks glided towards her on the smooth surface. Winter was approaching, but they hadn’t yet had a proper snowfall, and a few leaves were still stubbornly clinging to the tree branches. The air felt damp and raw. She pulled up the zip on her jacket, then continued walking to stay warm as she tried to clear her head. Again, she pictured Markus’s lacerated and bruised face. He simply had to get well. She left the waters of Brunnsviken behind and moved further into the woods. The trees, tall and cold, crowded in around her. The smell of damp earth made her long for home. For her mother and father and all the farm animals: the lambs and horses and dogs. She wanted to bury her face in Miranda’s thick coat and forget everything else. Miranda was her favourite ewe. All the sheep had names, and her parents knew every one of them. Jenny had more trouble telling one from the other because she was so seldom home, but she could always recognize Miranda among the hundreds of sheep. She had a shimmering, dark-grey coat and such a gentle expression on her face. Her eyes, set so wide apart, radiated warmth and intelligence. She would always come running on her skinny legs, bleating loudly, whenever Jenny called her name. Jenny had been present in the sheep barn when Miranda had been born five years earlier. The lamb had been in the breach position, so the birth had been difficult and taken a long time. At one point, it wasn’t certain that Miranda would survive.

Jenny’s reverie was interrupted by the sound of a branch snapping right behind her. She turned around and peered into the trees, but didn’t see anything. She realized then that she hadn’t seen anyone in quite some time. Near the water, plenty of people had been out walking, some of them with their dogs. But here in the woods no one was about. Just her and the big, mute oak trees. She decided to go back the same way she had come. A few minutes later the path divided and she was suddenly in doubt; she couldn’t remember which way to go. She paused and looked around.

Jenny was not familiar with the area. She’d heard about Haga Park, but she’d had no idea it was so big. Again, a snapping sound in the trees. She knew there were deer that lived very close to central Stockholm. She took a chance and chose one of the pathways, picking up her pace. She wanted out of here. The overcast skies made the light dim, even though dusk was several hours off.

After a while she realized that she’d made the wrong decision, because she found herself going deeper into the woods and further away from the most frequented paths. Good Lord, she thought, am I really lost in a stupid city park? In broad daylight? What a joke. She felt both nervous and irritated. What was she doing out here? Right now, all she wanted was to go back to the warmth of the flat, which even had a fireplace. She would make a fire and ring up a friend. Then they could make dinner together. She needed company, didn’t want to be alone after everything that had happened. She thought about the man who had seemed to be following her when she’d arrived in a taxi from the airport and had to walk the short distance to the block of flats. He had appeared out of the dark, and stared at her. She had asked him what he wanted, but he merely turned on his heel and left. She wasn’t certain that he’d been following her. Maybe she had just imagined it. But there had definitely been something odd about that man.

Now, as she continued on, all alone, her uneasiness grew. She had to find her way back to the main path. How could she feel so isolated when she was so close to the middle of the city? She hurried along. The ground was soggy, and she stumbled over some wet leaves, coming dangerously close to falling, but then she regained her balance. She was aware of how quiet it was all around her. She could no longer hear the traffic.

This doesn’t seem much like a park, she thought. It’s more like the green belt. Her heart almost stopped when, without warning, a screeching pheasant flew out of the bushes right next to her. She started walking even faster. She needed to calm down. She was in no danger.

None at all.

KARIN JACOBSSON HAD just stepped inside her hotel room when Knutas rang.

‘Bad news. I spoke to the hospital and Markus Sandberg has suffered another cerebral haemorrhage. He’s in a coma.’

‘Oh, no. Don’t tell me that. And here we were just starting to interview him. Damn.’

‘I know. It’s bloody awful,’ Knutas agreed. ‘The doctor said that at the moment they don’t know how things might go. Apparently, it could go either way. If Sandberg does pull through, he’ll need more surgery. No matter what, it will be a while before we can speak to him again.’

‘What terrible luck. We were so close.’ Jacobsson sank down on to the bed.

‘All we can do is try something else,’ said Knutas.

‘Of course.’

‘How are things otherwise?’

‘I already told you everything we’ve done today.’

‘Right. I meant, how are things with you?’

‘Okay. But now we’re back to square one.’

‘I know,’ said Knutas. ‘Take it easy. We’ll talk more tomorrow.’

Jacobsson decided not to join Wittberg and a few other colleagues for dinner. She wanted time to herself. She was extremely disappointed about the news of Markus’s deteriorating condition, but she was also thinking about her daughter, Hanna. She was trying to decide whether to call or not. She hesitated, because she didn’t know if she could stand to hear the response she feared most: No, I don’t want to see you.

Listlessly, she stared out of the hotel-room window at the black roofs with their chimneys and garrets. Sleet was falling from the leaden-coloured sky. In a few places the snow was sticking, creating patches of white. Her room was on the top floor of the hotel in Gamla Stan, and she was only a kilometre from her daughter’s flat. She was feeling too restless to stay here. She glanced at her watch. Ten past seven in the evening. She hadn’t had any dinner, but she wasn’t the least bit hungry. Without deciding what exactly she was going to do, she went into the bathroom to pee, then combed her hair and put on some make-up. Next, she put on her boots, her leather jacket, her scarf and gloves, and then left the room.

It was bitterly cold outdoors. As she peered inside the restaurants she passed, everything looked so pleasant and inviting, with glowing candles, warm food on the plates and wine in the glasses. She left Gamla Stan and headed towards Slussen, then continued over Hornsgatan hill, admiring the small galleries lining Mariaberget. When she happened to look into a restaurant with big glass windows facing the street, she stopped short.

At a table towards the back of the room Hanna was sitting with another young woman. They were drinking wine and seemed totally immersed in their conversation. Karin’s eyes filled with tears and her heart lurched. She couldn’t help staring at them. Then the other girl got up and left, probably to go to the loo. Hanna stayed at the table. She took a sip of wine and looked around. Suddenly, their eyes met. Karin froze. She didn’t know what to do. Incapable of moving, she simply stood there, staring at her daughter, this person she had carried inside her body, this person to whom she had given birth. The other girl came back from the loo. Through a fog, Karin saw Hanna put her hand on her friend’s arm and lean forward to say something. The next instant she stood up and came towards the door. Karin felt the ground give way under her feet, and she had to hold on to a lamp post in order not to fall.

She saw Hanna appear in the entrance to the restaurant and then take a step outside, a quizzical look on her face.

THE AFTERNOON PLODS along. The afternoon snack is over, and there are still several hours until dinner. The days in the clinic are so monotonous, each day exactly like all the others.

Agnes’s father, Rikard, and his girlfriend, Katarina, came to visit in the morning. Or, rather, her father did. Agnes never speaks to Katarina, who had to stay in the day room and wait, as always. Agnes refuses to let her take part in the visits, won’t allow any outsiders into her private hell. Yet Katarina stubbornly insists on accompanying Rikard every time. As if she doesn’t dare let him out of her sight. Rikard seemed a bit stressed and didn’t stay long.

Now Agnes and her room mate Linda are stretched out on separate sofas in the common room. Linda is reading, as usual. Agnes can’t understand how she does it. Personally, she’s too restless to read even one chapter of a book. She just can’t concentrate. The letters seem to leap and dance before her eyes, and the words keep changing places. She can read the same sentence twenty times without comprehending what it says. And that’s scary. She used to be such a good student. Now she understands what it must feel like to be dyslexic. She thinks that she’s probably just tired and lazy; that’s why she can’t read anything. Per doesn’t read either. They talked about that this morning. He says he simply doesn’t feel like it, can’t concentrate properly. Just like her. She finds that consoling. As if the two of them have something in common.

Instead, she absent-mindedly leafs through an old issue of Sköna Hem. How absurd to see all these huge mansions and Scanian houses sandwiched in between quaint little cottages and idyllic summer homes. Perfectly set tables in neat and tidy country kitchens. Exquisite flower arrangements, fragrant herb gardens, lilac arbours with hammocks, and drinks made with raspberry juice. As if there were not a problem in the world.

Yet for her, every day is a battle between life and death. A war in which she is always fighting new armies. With a sigh, she lowers her hands and the magazine sinks on to her lap as her thoughts wander.

At the moment the most important thing is to keep the disease inside herself. And not gain any weight. That was exactly the argument she used at the beginning of her brief modelling career. And it had brought her recognition and success, all because she had won the battle against those extra pounds. This spurred her to continue. She would get even thinner, then things would go even better. The skinnier she was, the more successful she would be. Everyone stopped complaining about her weight, and even Markus showed his appreciation and admiration for her increasingly slender figure.

But after a few months all the positive comments began to wane. No one mentioned any more how beautifully thin she was. Agnes came to the only possible conclusion: she needed to lose even more weight. And the transformation had to be so dramatic that no one could avoid seeing the change. Then they would begin to praise her again. That was how she would control her fate and gain control of her life.

Eventually, various people at the agency began to say that she was too thin, that she needed to eat more. Agnes couldn’t for the life of her understand their reasoning. In the end, the agency dropped her because she was anorexic.

The disappointment she felt was overwhelming. No matter what she did, they were never satisfied. Yet she personally believed that she needed to be even thinner.

Then things went downhill fast. She continued to lose weight. In hindsight, her father blamed himself for not noticing how ill she was during that time, how she exercised so much and ate so little. Agnes doesn’t think it’s strange that he didn’t notice.

As a carpenter, he had to start work early in the morning, so he usually left the house at 6 a.m. What he didn’t know was that his daughter would get up the minute the front door closed and go for a two-hour walk before school. She never ate breakfast. At lunchtime in the school cafeteria she would always pile food on to her plate, though she ate only a little salad and threw the rest out. Dinner proved more difficult. It started with her demanding more wholesome food at home: salmon and bulgur wheat instead of savoury crêpes. She became a vegetarian and refused to eat any sort of fast-release carbs. No bread or pasta or potatoes. Increasingly, she would go for a long walk at dinnertime.

Agnes began having trouble concentrating in class because she was always tired. She withdrew from her friends and spent more and more time alone. Sometimes she would get up in the middle of the night and exercise, or leave the house and go running in the pitch dark. She always wore baggy clothes, so her father never saw how thin she had become.

That summer, when term was over, things got much worse. Her father worked extra-long hours, since the Swedes who came to Gotland during the summer months were constantly having their cottages remodelled and there was a lack of skilled workmen. He was always working, except when he went to Stockholm to see Katarina, so Agnes was often left on her own. She lied to him, saying that she was busy doing things with her friends. In reality, she felt isolated and abandoned.

In the autumn she started at secondary school, but after only a few weeks she suddenly collapsed at home. She was taken by ambulance to hospital and then transferred to the mainland and admitted to the anorexia clinic in Stockholm.

She has been here now for three months, and the staff keep complaining that she isn’t gaining weight fast enough. The doctor has threatened to increase the amount of food she needs to eat, which is the worst thing that could happen.

Her stomach is still too big and her hips too wide.

Dusk is falling outside. Agnes stretches out her hand to turn on the lamp on the table next to the sofa. She notices how the fat jiggles under her arm. She hasn’t done a very good job of cheating today. She ate everything that was served. The nurses have been watching her like hawks.

Tomorrow she needs to do better.

ONE MODEL AFTER another appeared on the runway that had been constructed in one of Stockholm’s most exclusive department stores. Each was more striking than the last. The lights flashed, the music was throbbing and sensual. At a fast tempo and evenly spaced, the models glided across the stage. They moved like suggestive dream women, thrusting their pelvises forward so that their legs and the incredibly high heels they were wearing seemed to precede the rest of their bodies. Hips swaying, their long, slender arms hanging at their sides, earrings dangling, with piercing eyes, fluttering fringe. Their lips were gleaming, their knees slim, their collarbones clearly visible. Straight backs and shoulders, swinging necklaces, glittering nails and sparkling sandals. Breasts that were exposed, without embarrassment, beneath transparent garments. Serious expressions and dark eyebrows.

Crowding together at the first turn stood the photographers. There the models paused and set their hands on their hips. A few twirled around; others posed provocatively; some offered a hint of a smile, an amused glint in their eyes. They were enjoying this. They knew how much they were worth.

The audience was thrilled; spontaneous bursts of applause and shouts rose above the music. The journalists clutched notebooks and pens, watching with accustomed intensity and then frantically jotting down notes.

For the past two weeks, Jenny Levin had once again been working full time. In that short period, she’d travelled to five different countries, criss-crossing the world. Stockholm to New York to the Bahamas to Paris to Munich to Milan and back to Stockholm. Occasionally, she would forget where she was in the constant succession of new airports, new hotel rooms, new people. Frequently, she got only three or four hours of sleep at night, so she had to sleep on the planes. She’d returned to Stockholm and the agency-owned flat feeling completely exhausted. Fortunately she was now going to be working closer to home.

Even though she’d been working hard, it had been wonderful to get away for a while. Away from Markus and everything that had happened. And, somehow, it felt as if her absence had done her good. She now saw him in a new light. He was not the same person as before and probably never would be. He was twenty years older than her. His appearance had totally changed, even though she didn’t want to admit to herself that something like that mattered.

And all those rumours about other women. Especially that girlfriend of his named Diana.

Jenny cringed at the thought of meeting her at the agency’s traditional Christmas party, which was being held this evening. She’d heard that Diana was back in Stockholm. On the other hand, Jenny was looking forward to the party itself. Drinking champagne, dancing and having fun. Her career was going brilliantly, and she knew that the agency was glad to have her in its stable.

Seconds before she was to appear on the runway for the last time, the lights were turned off and the music silenced. The anticipation could be felt in the whole room.

She was fully aware that she was radiantly beautiful in the gleaming white dress with the neckline that plunged down to her navel. The next moment, she appeared on stage in a cascade of glitter as the music began pounding. The effect was instantaneous. Loud applause, and one by one the audience members rose from their seats and cheered. Jenny felt everyone’s eyes on her; even the most experienced and blasé of the old fashionistas gazed at her with admiration.

This was her life now, and she planned to devote herself to it with all her heart.

ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON it was snowing hard, as it had done all morning. The streets and buildings were blanketed in white, which contributed to the holiday mood. Knutas left work early so he could go out and buy Christmas gifts. For once, he hadn’t left it to the very last minute, and this time he wanted to buy something special for Lina. As a token of his love. She had shown him a beautiful pair of earrings at the silversmith’s down on Sankt Hansgatan. That was what he planned to purchase first. But he might get her something else, too, maybe a gift card for a massage. She often complained that her back hurt, and she seldom took the time to pamper herself.

He quickly made his way through Östercentrum and continued on towards Österport. Inside the city walls an entirely different atmosphere reigned. Strung between the buildings were Christmas decorations in the form of glittering garlands with big stars in the middle. Some of the shop owners had frosted their windowpanes with artificial snow and laid pine boughs outside the doors. Several businesses had strings of lights adorning the windows and lanterns with candles inside. At the toy shop ‘White Christmas’ was thundering from the loudspeakers, and in the big front window a whole winter landscape had been created, with a toy train chugging along between snow-capped mountains. Over by Waller Square some schoolkids were selling ginger biscuits and glögg, the traditional mulled wine. Knutas stopped for a moment to chat with a few friends. An enormous Christmas tree towered over Stora Torget, and all the marketplace stalls were busy with customers buying sheepskins, peppermint rock, sausages, honey, mistletoe and wreaths. Warm glögg was served from a big kettle. He bought two sausages with bread, which he ate as he looked for the best mistletoe, which they always had in their house. It was an essential part of the family’s Christmas celebration.

As Knutas tended to his errands, thoughts of the investigation whirled through his mind. Almost a month had passed since the attempt on Markus Sandberg’s life. The photographer was still in a coma, in critical condition. He would probably not be able to tell the police anything for the foreseeable future. According to the doctors, he was going to need several more operations. As for Sandberg’s parents and siblings, it turned out that they had very little knowledge about his activities. His contact with his family had been sporadic at best. They celebrated Christmas and various birthdays together, but that seemed to have been the extent of his involvement with them. They had never heard him mention Diana Sierra or Jenny Levin. The police had also interviewed Diana. She was not suspected of committing the attack, since she’d been on a photo shoot in the Bahamas at the time of the assault on Furillen. But she still could have been responsible for initiating it.

Test results had come in from the crime lab. They showed that the blood found on the boat and on the clothing had come from Markus Sandberg and from another, not-yet-identified individual who was not in any police records. But the blood analysis proved without a doubt that the person in question was a man, not a woman. When it came to the earring that had been found, its story remained a mystery.

The police had followed up on the phone conversation that had been traced to the Grand Hotel. It turned out that the information they’d received from the receptionist was correct. The hotel had hosted a fashion show on that day, and Jenny Levin was one of the models. Markus Sandberg had also been present, taking photographs. The police had talked to everyone who had participated in the show, but no one had noticed anything out of the ordinary. And that was as far as they’d got with the investigation.

It might be worthwhile to interview Marita Ahonen, thought Knutas. No one in Sandberg’s family had ever heard of her either. But the agency staff knew all about her love affair with Markus and how deeply it had affected the young Marita. Everybody thought it was tragic, and they sympathized with the Finnish girl, but they hadn’t kept in touch with her after she’d returned to Finland last year. The police were having a hard time tracking her down. She didn’t seem to have a permanent address, and she’d cut off ties with her mother. Her father was dead, and she was an only child. The search for her was ongoing.

When Knutas had finally made all his purchases and was headed back to Östercentrum, he saw a couple coming towards him. They hadn’t yet noticed him, possibly because they only had eyes for each other. The man was tall and slim with gel on his hair. He looked to be in his forties and wore rather trendy clothes, including yellow corduroy trousers and a green jacket. He’d wrapped a scarf around his neck several times. He was walking arm in arm with the petite woman at his side. She was staring up at him with adoring eyes, and they were both laughing. Suddenly they stopped, and the man leaned down to take the face of the slender woman in both hands. Then he kissed her. She pressed her face against his chest, and he put his arms around her, pulling her so close that she almost disappeared.

Neither of them saw Knutas as he passed on the other side of the street. He didn’t know what he would have done if Karin had noticed him. His eyes stung, and his knees felt wobbly.

He was at a complete loss.

THE FERRY WAS just about to depart from Visby harbour. The three black towers of the cathedral were barely visible through the heavy snowfall. The forecast was for colder weather. It had also been snowing in Stockholm for the past several days, and there was every indication that they would have a white Christmas. As usual, the boat was packed with passengers. The spacious parking area on the dock had been crowded with cars, several horse trailers and quite a few long-distance lorries. Johan Berg couldn’t comprehend where all the traffic had come from. It was almost as bad as in the summer.

Johan and his family hurried upstairs to the restaurant to get a good seat next to the window. They had reserved deckchairs, as they always did, but it was actually easier with the children to stay in the restaurant, which had a play area they liked.

‘Do you want to eat right now?’ asked Johan, putting Anton in a high-chair he’d managed to grab. They were much in demand on these ferries.

‘Sure. That’s probably a good idea. It’s going to get crowded later on.’

They were lucky enough to have been among the first to drive on board.

‘Could you go and stand in the queue?’

Emma was unpacking felt-tip pens, drawing paper, activity books and various plastic toys so that Elin and Anton could keep themselves amused for the few minutes it would take her to go over and have a look at the menu. There usually wasn’t much of a selection: spaghetti with meat sauce, pan-fried fish with boiled potatoes and remoulade, or the day’s vegetarian dish. The quality of the food was about the same as in a school cafeteria. And she was sick and tired of that. She might as well just have an open shrimp sandwich. Although these days the restaurant did offer a gourmet option. That might be good.

Johan went first, taking a place in the queue that had already formed. It’s almost like being in Ikea, he thought. Practical, child-friendly and no surprises. There were kids everywhere. Many families had already found seats and were unpacking lunches they’d brought along: sandwiches, thermoses and jars of baby food. Not everyone wanted to buy food in the restaurant. Many Gotland residents went to Stockholm to do their Christmas shopping, so they chose to save their money for buying gifts.

Johan was looking forward to going home. That was how he still thought of the city, even though he’d been living on Gotland for several years now, and his family was there. But, in his heart, Stockholm was still home. They were on their way to visit Johan’s mother, who lived in the suburb of Rönninge, to celebrate Christmas with her. They planned to stay about a week, and he was looking forward to it. Not just because he’d get to see his mother, with whom he stayed in close contact, but because his four brothers would be there as well. Somewhat reluctantly, he’d assumed the role of family patriarch after his father had passed away a few years ago. Everyone seemed to turn to him, maybe because he was the eldest of the brothers. This morning, Johan had talked to his best friend, Andreas, who was among those he missed most. They were going to spend a whole evening in town together, have dinner and visit a few of his favourite hang-outs in the Södermalm district. Johan couldn’t think of anything he would enjoy more. Part of him would always long to be back in Stockholm.

He said hello to a few acquaintances and watched Visby disappear through the window. There was something about this stretch of water between Gotland and the mainland. In reality, the distance wasn’t very great. The trip took less than three hours by ferry. Yet it felt like a long voyage. The crossing almost had an inexplicably exotic feel to it, this passage over the sea. Maybe that was why so many mainlanders loved going to Gotland in the summer. It felt like they were truly getting away, almost like going to another country.

They finished eating their food, which was not much of a culinary experience, but everyone ended up feeling full and content. Then Elin took Anton over to the play area, where a Christmas elf was reading stories to the children. Johan checked the paperback display and bought a detective novel entitled Unseen. The plot sounded exciting, so it would do just fine. Emma bought coffee and several magazines. Jenny Levin was on the cover of one of them.

‘She looks amazing, but nothing like she does in real life,’ murmured Emma.

‘What do Tina and Fredrik think about her modelling career?’ asked Johan as he skimmed the blurb on the back of his book.

‘They’re thrilled for her, of course.’

‘But aren’t they the least bit nervous that she might get involved in bad situations? I mean, with dirty old men, drugs, that sort of thing?’

‘I suppose so. But Jenny is a strong girl who has her feet on the ground. She can take care of herself. She’s always been very independent. I think she can handle just about anything.’

‘What about Markus Sandberg? It sounds like he was just using her.’

‘Okay, that was a mistake. But even Jenny is entitled to make a few wrong choices once in a while. Good God, the girl is only nineteen.’

‘Exactly.’

‘What do you mean?’

Johan stirred his coffee.

‘I don’t know. I was just thinking that there may be other things about Jenny that we don’t know.’

‘Like what? And why are we talking about this now? This is the first time we’ve been on holiday together in I don’t know how long. Let’s drop it, okay? You’re not a policeman.’

‘Aren’t you interested in finding out what happened? It’s your friend’s daughter who’s ended up in the middle of the whole thing.’

‘Of course I want to know.’

Emma reached across the table to take his hand.

‘But you’re not planning to do any work over Christmas, are you?’ Johan paused before answering. They’d had a rough autumn. The kids had been sick, and the daily routines had seemed particularly dreary. So they really needed a holiday and a chance to relax. He’d already told the children everything they were going to do: go sledding, build a snow cave, make a snowman and snow lanterns. Go skating and cross-country skiing along the wonderful trails near their grandmother’s house.

‘I’m not planning to do any work, sweetheart,’ he said then. ‘Of course not. We’re going to take it easy, enjoy Christmas, and not think about anything but ourselves.’

‘Good,’ said Emma, squeezing his hand.

THE AGENCY’S TRADITIONAL Christmas party was held in a private flat on Stureplan, which was the centre of Stockholm’s nightlife. The flat was directly across from one of the city’s hippest clubs, and after dinner the plan was for everyone to go there. Jenny arrived with the agency boss, which caused quite a few people to raise their eyebrows in surprise. Robert Ek was a married man, but known for having affairs. His wife happened to be away, so she couldn’t attend the party. Would Jenny be the next in a long line of young models whom Ek had exploited over the years?

The nightclub had promptly announced on its website that the famous modelling agency Fashion for Life was holding its annual party on the premises that evening. Models always enticed people to come to a venue, and it lent the club a higher profile. The agency had several hundred models in its stable, but only the top fifty had been invited to the party, along with the most prominent photographers, stylists, clients and other influential people in the Stockholm fashion world, including designers, journalists and several of the most important fashion bloggers.

Glasses of chilled champagne were served before dinner, and Ek took the opportunity to bid everyone welcome. He stepped up on to a podium to speak to the elegantly clad guests.

‘We can look back on a tremendously successful year, both here in Sweden and in the international arena,’ he began with great satisfaction. ‘Our models have appeared on the covers of some of the world’s most prestigious magazines. They opened the most important shows during haute couture week in Paris, and they were first on the catwalk at the big Victoria’s Secret show in New York, just to name a few examples. First and foremost, I’d like to thank all the models who are here tonight. In different ways, they have each contributed to the agency’s amazing success during the past year. I also want to thank all the stylists, photographers, clients, and everyone else who is part of the fashion world in our beautiful city. You are all incredibly important to the agency, and I hope you know that. I would also like to take a moment to direct our thoughts to our most prominent photographer, Markus Sandberg, who is still recovering in hospital after the attack he suffered on Gotland last month. For all of you who are wondering how he’s doing, I can tell you that, for the most part, Markus’s condition remains unchanged. But he will undergo more surgery, and we are naturally hoping that he will make a full recovery so that eventually he’ll be able to return to working with us. Let’s all drink a toast to Markus Sandberg.’

Everyone raised their glasses and fixed their eyes on Robert Ek. The only sound in the room was the light clinking of glasses at the bar. After the toast, Ek continued in a noticeably more cheerful tone of voice.

‘This year, I would like to focus on one person, in particular, who has achieved acclaim that is largely without parallel in the history of our agency. She is a farmer’s daughter, from a village on Gotland. During a visit to Stockholm, she was discovered by our scout Isabelle. She had never thought about entering the modelling profession but, by now, during her second season, she has been in more than sixty fashion shows, she has opened Valentino’s show in Paris, and she has been on the cover of the Italian edition of Vogue. I can also reveal that she recently signed a contract with H&M to take part in their Christmas advertising campaign next year, which means she will be on billboards all over the world.’

A ripple of excitement passed through the audience. Ek paused for effect.

‘So let’s all drink a toast to Jenny Levin.’

He motioned for Jenny to come up to the podium as everyone applauded. She was completely unprepared for such attention and hardly had a chance to gather her thoughts before she found herself standing in the spotlight next to her boss, who coaxed her towards the microphone.

She managed to ramble off a brief thank-you speech, thinking that she clearly hadn’t expressed herself very well, but everyone smiled and again raised their glasses, to drink a toast to her. At that moment she noticed someone she had never met, although she recognized her at once. Markus’s former girlfriend Diana was standing nearby, wearing a fabulous creation. The glint in her eye competed with the sequins on her dress, and suddenly Jenny felt an icy gust sweep through the warm and festive room. She stepped off the podium and quickly downed the rest of her champagne. Desperate for more, she snatched another glass from a tray carried by a passing waiter. Several of Jenny’s modelling friends came over to congratulate her. Luckily, not everyone was the jealous type.

She noticed Robert giving her an appreciative look. She was glad that he was so generous. His words had warmed her heart and offered some solace after all the misery she’d been through in the past few weeks. He was talking to a couple of designers but kept glancing in her direction. I just hope he doesn’t get too interested, Jenny thought. She knew of his reputation, but so far he hadn’t displayed those sorts of tendencies towards her. Not at all. He had seemed genuinely happy about her success, although the looks he gave her hinted at his undisguised admiration. She sighed and turned back to her friends, deciding to ignore him for the rest of the evening. She didn’t need any more problems. She just wanted to have fun.

The flat that had been chosen for the party was amazing. It was in a beautiful early-twentieth-century building, with high ceilings and stucco decoration, and tiled stoves with blazing fires in every room. Dinner was served in the dining room on numerous round tables elegantly set with linen tablecloths, crystal glasses and elaborate candelabra. The only light came from the glow of hundreds of candles, and there was a magnificent view of Stureplan outside with all the neon lights glittering in the night.

One of the city’s celebrated chefs had prepared dinner, which consisted of coquilles Saint-Jacques, veal escalope and lime sorbet.

Jenny was in luck. The other guests at her table were all models or photographers. Seated next to her was Tobias, a cute and very pleasant photographer who was liked by everyone. They had worked together only once so far, but it had been a great experience. Jenny relaxed. Now she was going to have fun, and she happily drank a toast with all the others seated at her table.

An hour later, Jenny needed to find the loo. On her way out of the dining room she came face to face with Diana. She had to admit that the woman was extraordinarily beautiful. She was of Chinese heritage, with a pale complexion and almond-shaped brown eyes. Her hair was black and thick, billowing over her shoulders. She was blocking Jenny’s way, staring at her coldly.

‘So you’re the one,’ she said. ‘You’re the one he was sleeping with.’

‘Sorry?’ said Jenny uncertainly.

She was in no mood for confrontation. She pushed past and fled to the bathroom. When she came out and looked around, Diana seemed to have vanished.

Jenny needed a smoke, so she went out on the balcony.

She had no sooner lit a cigarette than Diana appeared in the doorway, along with several models that Jenny didn’t know. Jenny pretended to talk on her mobile so she wouldn’t have to speak to them. Down below was Stureplan, with its neon signs, taxis rushing past in the street, and beautifully dressed city people on their way to various clubs and restaurants.

The next instant, Diana was standing right next to Jenny, her eyes seething with anger.

‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ she snarled.

Jenny turned her back on Diana and continued her feigned phone conversation, although her heart was pounding.

Suddenly, Diana grabbed the mobile out of her hand. Jenny watched as it was hurled over the railing and shattered on the street several storeys below.

‘You need to listen to me when I’m talking to you!’ shouted Diana.

‘What are you doing? Are you out of your mind?’

At that moment, Robert Ek turned up.

‘What’s going on here?’

‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing,’ said Jenny, and she hurried back to her table.

There, she tried to shake off her feeling of unease. Tobias filled her glass with more wine, and she gratefully took a big swallow.

Now the evening could continue.

TEN O’CLOCK IS bedtime on the ward, and an hour later it’s lights out. Even though she’s exhausted after all the travails of the day, she can’t fall asleep. Instead, she lies in bed in the dark, thinking about her day. In her mind she weighs up how much she was able to exercise versus how much she has eaten. She goes over everything, hour by hour, from the moment she woke up until now.

First, she had done as much jumping as she could in the bathroom, until the nurse knocked on the door, asking her if she had finished. She had managed to do twenty jumps before the nurse had turned up, and she had to pretend that she was constipated. Not a success, in other words, since she needed to do at least thirty jumps in order to feel satisfied.

Then it was time for breakfast. Lately, Agnes has been allowed to eat in the dining room with the other patients.

No Widget is used at breakfast time. Instead, staff members serve the food portions, and that lends a certain liberating air to the meal. But it also prompts uneasiness and frustration among the patients. It’s important to make the right choices and not take too much of any one thing. Nor to get more food than anyone else.

This morning they had been served oatmeal with a choice of half a banana, a pear or a plastic container of plums. The pears were huge and there were no bananas left, so Agnes chose the plums. On a tray stood ten cups lined up, with six plums in each. She examined all of them with great care and only made up her mind when the nurse in charge told her to hurry up. Agnes is almost certain that she managed to choose the cup with the smallest plums.

When the oatmeal was served, she trembled at the size of the portion and she couldn’t help protesting. ‘That’s way too much. She got a lot less than me,’ Agnes said, pointing at Erika, who was ahead of her in the queue. The nurse ignored her. The next challenge occurred when she had to pour the milk for the oatmeal. The goal was to make as little milk as possible look like a large amount. Agnes splashed the milk around on top of the oatmeal; that produced the best effect. But then something happened that should never happen. As she stirred the cereal to make it look like a bigger portion, air bubbles formed underneath and all the milk disappeared, slipping away to hide under the cereal. Agnes was filled with panic and on the verge of tears as she tried to explain that she’d already poured at least three and a half ounces of milk into her bowl. But the nurse refused to be convinced, pointing out that she couldn’t see any. So Agnes had been forced to add more.

When she finally sank down on to her chair at the table, she was feeling so anxious she could hardly breathe. A nurse was always seated at each table to keep an eye on the patients. But Agnes was still able to remove the cold cuts from one sandwich, along with two slices of cheese, which she put in her pocket. She also spilled several spoonfuls of oatmeal on to the table. All in all, what she managed to avoid eating at breakfast compensated for the ten jumps she’d missed and the excessive amount of milk. In other words, breakfast and her morning exercises were a draw. Feeling slightly relieved, Agnes continued reviewing the day.

After breakfast there was always an obligatory thirty-minute rest period, although they weren’t required to go to the warm room. It was enough to sit in the common room or on a sofa in the corridor. She had succeeded in trudging around for at least half of the rest period. When it was time for the morning snack, she was in good shape.

A container with ten ounces of a nutrient-rich drink had to be consumed in fifteen minutes. The same for everyone. Now, an interesting interval ensued. As soon as all fifteen patients had taken their seats at the table, the shaking began. Silence reigned, except for the sound of fifteen drink containers being frantically shaken. Tense muscles, resolute expressions. Everyone was focused on the task at hand. It was important to shake the container as long as possible, since the motion caused foam from the drink to settle on the inside of the packaging, which meant that there was less for the patient to drink. Agnes had also managed to pour some of the drink into the screw-on top. Foam was still in the top when she screwed it back on, so she had even less to drink. The nurse made sure that each container was empty, but it was impossible to detect the foam left inside. Yet another small victory.

Before lunch they always went out to get some fresh air. That was definitely the high point of the day. All the patients had to go outside, but there was no question of taking a long walk. Accompanied by two nurses, they took the lift down to the ground floor. It was a relief just to see the Pressbyrå news stand, the hospital entrance, and other people. Outside, they turned left and walked along the paved pathway, past the shelter put up for smokers and maybe two hundred metres further along, moving at a slow pace. At the grove of trees they turned around and headed back. They walked in single file along the path, as if treading an invisible line, all of them following the same crack in the asphalt. More than a dozen young girls who looked almost skeletal, dressed in tracksuit bottoms, fleece shirts, big sweaters, jackets, leg warmers, and knitted caps. Yet they were always cold. Looking pale and solemn, they slowly marched forward. Like a funeral procession. No one spoke to anyone else. Some occasionally took little detours, for instance choosing to go around a pillar in front of the entrance instead of proceeding straight ahead, which would have been more natural. One girl walked on the grass instead of on the pavement because that required more energy; another made a point of veering around every puddle of water. Always the same urge. Each extra step, no matter how small, counted. But it was blissful to be outside and get some fresh air. Any time the daily outing was missed it was cause for hysteria. If it was raining hard or there was a strong wind or the snow was really coming down, the outing would be cancelled. That was the worst thing that could happen. And that sort of decision often led to loud outbursts on the ward. It’s not raining that much, there’s hardly any wind, please, oh please.

In the afternoon, her father had come to visit, with Katarina in tow, although she had had to wait in the day room, as usual. When Agnes and her father went down to the cafeteria on the ground floor, they saw Katarina sitting there, having coffee with Per. He must have taken pity on her. Agnes pretended not to see them.

At least she had been able to skip the afternoon snack, since she was with Pappa. And she’d told him that she’d already eaten. Extra points for that.

Dinner had been a torment, but afterwards she’d managed to slip away to the conference room and spent at least twenty minutes jumping up and down. She’d seen her reflection in the window and that had made her cry. The pain in her chest was almost unbearable. No one had noticed what she was doing.

The feeling of anxiety had eased a bit after that. She’d done much more than she’d expected.

Only when she comes to that satisfying conclusion is she able to relax enough to fall asleep.

‘SHALL WE GET together later and have a cosy time? Just you and me?’ The brunette placed her hand on Robert Ek’s shoulder as she whispered in his ear. He looked down into her plunging neckline. Then she moved on through the crowd, turning around once to give him a flirtatious smile. She was so voluptuous that he felt weak in the knees. It was now past midnight, and by this time Ek had had rather a lot to drink. He’d spent the past hour hanging out in the club with various models and colleagues as he cast covetous glances at the never-ending stream of young women who passed by. Bare shoulders, trim bodies in tight dresses, long, supple legs, swaying breasts beneath gauzy fabric, seductive glances.

In his capacity as head of the country’s biggest modelling agency, Ek was well aware of his high status as a desirable companion, even though he was married. He was rich, he held a not insignificant position of power, and he had a guaranteed place among the elite and famous. He also looked good for his age. He had a smooth complexion, high cheekbones, green eyes with thick, dark lashes, and a lovely mouth with Cupid’s-bow lips. Robert Ek was careful to stay fit and keep off the weight. And, in the eyes of many, he had exquisitely sophisticated taste in clothes.

There were so many available women. The only problem was the promise he’d recently made to his wife. That promise had put a stop to any dreams. He truly intended to keep himself under control tonight, because Erna had given him an ultimatum. If she ever found out that he’d again been unfaithful to her, she would leave him for good. This time, she was serious. And she would take the children with her. They were old enough now that they could decide for themselves which parent they wanted to live with. But he knew as well as Erna did what they would decide. All four would choose to live with their mother, who had taken care of them all these years, had always been available, cooking their meals and helping with their homework, showing them love, offering support and encouragement. Robert Ek had always made his job a higher priority than his family. And that had cost him. It was the price he would have to pay if there was ever a divorce. If Erna Linton had not loved her husband with all her heart, they would have separated long ago. But true love could withstand only so much. Even she had finally reached her limit, and Ek realized that his wife would no longer forgive his transgressions or ignore what was going on. ‘Good Lord, we’re both close to fifty,’ she’d told him. ‘I can’t do this any more. I want peace and quiet and harmony. I want to reap my rewards after all the work I’ve done with the children. I want to travel, go to the theatre and the cinema, and enjoy good meals. To put it simply, I want to enjoy life. And if you can’t accept that, then we need to get a divorce and I’ll do it on my own. I don’t want to be sad any more. Or feel hurt and disappointed.’

If only this party had been a couple of weeks earlier, the doors to an extramarital fling would have stood wide open. The situation couldn’t have been better, with the agency’s annual Christmas celebration coinciding with his mother-in-law’s eightieth birthday up in Leksand. The whole family had gone to Dalarna for the weekend, and he had had the house to himself. Since he lived so close to town, it was a simple matter to invite people over. And the house was set sufficiently apart from the neighbours that no one would notice who was coming and going – something that had made his escapades in the past that much easier. He wasn’t tempted to go to a hotel; that seemed too tawdry. It didn’t bother him in the least that he played out his sexual desires in his family home. ‘What someone doesn’t know won’t hurt them’: that was Robert Ek’s philosophy. And, besides, the house belonged to him. He had paid not only for the house itself but for every single thing inside it.

Yet now he was planning to give up all such amusements. He didn’t know if he dared take the risk of defying his wife. The thought of becoming a lonely old man frightened him, and in his heart he had to admit, however reluctantly, that Erna was right. How long could he keep carrying on these affairs? And did he really want to be unfaithful? The thought of sitting all by himself in a flat somewhere without any family or sexual desire scared him out of his wits. So there was only one thing to do: stop having these flings. Even though that seemed nearly impossible in this situation.

And it wasn’t that he and Erna had no sex life; when it came right down to it, they enjoyed making love to each other. But a sense of excitement was missing, the titillation of going to bed with someone new, someone he didn’t know. He wasn’t sure he was going to be able to keep his promise. He could feel the effects of the alcohol and, faced with all the available women around him, his resolve began to weaken.

He slipped off to the loo. After relieving himself, he stood at the sink and splashed cold water on his face. Then he stared at himself in the mirror. Should I or shouldn’t I? Erna wouldn’t know a thing. The thought of finding himself in the arms of that brunette was getting more and more enticing. He was interrupted when his mobile phone began ringing in his jacket pocket. Wouldn’t surprise me if that’s Erna, he thought. She can probably sense what I’ve been thinking.

He took out his mobile. When he looked at the display, he froze. The message was not from his wife.

It was from a number he hadn’t used in a long time. The number belonged to Markus Sandberg.

IT TOOK ONLY a few minutes for Robert Ek to walk from the club to the agency. He tapped in the security code at the front of the building then stepped inside. He wasn’t fond of lifts, so he decided to take the stairs. As he passed the entrance to the courtyard, he noticed that the door was ajar. Someone’s been very sloppy, he thought, and carefully closed the door. He checked several times to make sure it was locked. They didn’t want any homeless people or drunks getting inside the building.

He unlocked the door to the agency and turned on the lights in the hall and kitchen. Several bottles of champagne stood next to numerous empty glasses on the worktop. The staff had gathered here to have a drink before the party, along with some of the models, including Jenny. Now that he thought about it, she’d seemed unusually lively tonight, almost flirtatious. He felt desire burning inside him. He’d experienced a momentary confusion after reading her message, but then he’d sent back a text, saying that he would wait for her here. Any hesitation about being unfaithful had vanished completely. This was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. He would never forgive himself if he did. He looked at his watch. Ten more minutes until she’d arrive. He should have enough time. Eagerly, he unbuttoned his shirt and hurried to the shower room. All sorts of images whirled through his head as he lathered himself with soap. Jenny, of all people. He felt dizzy at the thought of touching her body, caressing and kissing her. Her message had surprised him. It said, ‘Meet me at the agency in half an hour. Hugs. Jenny.’

At first, Ek had been puzzled to see that the text had been sent from Markus’s mobile. But then he decided that Jenny must have taken possession of the phone when she found Markus in that cabin on Furillen. And after that she’d probably taken it home to recharge it. A bit odd, perhaps, but what the hell. Women were always coming up with the strangest ideas. And Diana had tossed Jenny’s mobile over the balcony railing.

It never occurred to him to question why Jenny would have brought Markus’s phone to the Christmas party. He was preoccupied with entirely different thoughts.

He quickly dried himself off and put on more aftershave. At the same time, he told himself that this was going to be the absolute last time that he was unfaithful to Erna. When he was dressed, he checked to make sure the agency door was unlocked so that Jenny could easily get in. Then he went to the staff lounge, lit a few candles, took a bottle of champagne from the fridge and washed two glasses. Glanced at his watch. She would be here any minute. He poured the champagne, turned off the ceiling lights and sat down on the sofa. All right, he thought, filled with anticipation. He was ready.

The minutes ticked by, but Jenny didn’t appear. He sipped his champagne. When almost an hour had passed, he sent a text:

‘I’m here. I’m waiting for you.’

After a while he went to his office and sat down at the desk, switching on the lamp. He might as well take care of some of the paperwork he’d been planning to take home over the Christmas holiday. He looked at the clock on the wall. Already 2.45 a.m. He’d stayed at the party longer than he’d intended. Old habits were hard to break. He’d always been a night owl.

Ek had nearly finished his work when he heard a sound. The front door opened and closed. Finally. He decided to stay here in his office and let her come to him. His heart was beating hard. Another minute passed, and she still hadn’t made her appearance. For a moment he was puzzled. He didn’t hear any footsteps. Was she playing with him? Maybe she was hiding somewhere. Maybe she had stretched out on the sofa and was waiting for him there.

He got up and padded across the floor to peek inside the staff lounge. She wasn’t there. The agency offices weren’t big enough to offer many hiding places. And he should have heard her by now.

‘Jenny?’ he called, filled with anticipation. ‘I’m in the staff lounge.’

No answer. He stood in the doorway for a few minutes. Motionless, his lips parted, his eyes open wide. Expectant and confused. Gradually, doubts began to form in his slightly hazy brain. He listened tensely. He thought he’d heard someone pressing down a door handle. But now there was only silence. Quickly, he returned to his desk and sank down on his chair, reaching out his hand to turn off the desk lamp. The room was cloaked in darkness. He sat still, waiting. When a couple more minutes had passed and Jenny did not turn up, he realized he’d been tricked. Slowly, he got up from his chair, hearing the faint creak of the leather seat and thinking that he was not dealing with some run-of-the-mill burglar. Who had pretended to be Jenny, and why? And how did the person in question happen to have Markus’s mobile? There could be only one explanation.

Ek tried to make as little noise as possible as he made his way through the kitchen towards the office of the booking agents, which was right next to the reception area. That was when he heard it. A creak. There was no doubt about it. And the sound came from the office. He could make out the furniture and the counter. He hurried as fast as he dared towards the front hall.

He touched the door. Panic sank its claws into him as he realized that the door was not only locked, but the key was missing. He turned around. And then he froze as someone reached for the switch on the wall and the hall was suddenly bathed in light. Robert Ek saw at once that his suspicions were correct. The person who had broken into the agency was no ordinary burglar.

Not at all.

WHEN JENNY AWOKE, she had no idea where she was. The first thing she noticed was that the duvet felt different. It was heavier than her own and the covering was made of silk, as was the sheet underneath her. The bed was big and soft. At home, all of her bedlinen was cotton. Cautiously, she opened her eyes, which felt as if they were filled with sand and her lashes stuck together. She squinted at the window, which was covered with a heavy curtain. She could make out the faint sound of traffic in the distance. Slowly, she turned over and discovered next to her a muscular shoulder with a tattoo she didn’t recognize. Straggly blonde hair. She let her eyes wander onward. Further away, she saw a leg that couldn’t possibly belong to the person with the straggly hair. It was lying at the wrong angle. Her brain was sluggish; her thoughts crawled along. Again she looked at the leg, noticing that it was slender and nicely shaped, without a trace of hair. The toenails were painted black. So the leg must belong to a woman. She stared at the leg, trying to gather her thoughts. When she shifted her body, she realized that she was lying on a waterbed. Good Lord. Who had a waterbed these days? Where was she? How had she ended up here? She tried to get up, but the movement immediately brought on a splitting headache. She sank back against the pillows, trying desperately to remember what had happened last night. Some fragmented images appeared in her mind. The confrontation with Diana, Tobias’s warm eyes, wild dancing at the club, drinks at the bar, a white pill in the palm of her hand. Had she taken it? That’s what she must have done. Her head felt so muddled. What on earth had happened? At the club she’d met a big bunch of people she didn’t know; they were drinking champagne in the VIP room, laughing uncontrollably and having fun. She had danced, while her friends had disappeared. She didn’t know where Tobias had gone either. She thought they might have all gone home together, but he had been dancing with some blonde.

Blurry memories of the group leaving the club in the wee hours of the morning. Several girls and guys who had all crammed into one large taxi. Or was it a limousine? She recalled hands reaching under her shirt. She didn’t know who they belonged to, but she didn’t try to stop them. She was so drunk she no longer cared. She just passively went along with it. Let things run their course. It didn’t matter any more. She was beyond thinking about possible consequences or that she might put herself in some sort of danger or relinquish control. She remembered a staircase, music, a bare-chested girl, hands on her body. Then everything went black. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t recall anything else. All that remained was an aching feeling in her head and between her legs. And that spoke volumes.

Panic came creeping over her. She had to get away. She had to get out of here. Away from these people she didn’t know. What had they done to her? She started crying and sat up, making the bed shake. She staggered to her feet and managed to find her clothes in the dim light. Then she noticed a huge sectional sofa at the other end of the room. Two men and a woman, all of them naked, were sprawled on top of each other, sound asleep. When she went downstairs, she saw that it was broad daylight, or at least as light as it ever got in December. She looked out at a neatly maintained garden and caught a glimpse of water in the distance. She was clearly in someone’s luxury home. In the high-end kitchen with the panoramic views, she found her jacket and boots. Her handbag was on top of the dishwasher. To her relief, she found a packet of headache tablets in the loo and an unopened bottle of the energy drink ProViva Active in the fridge.

She decided to take it with her. Then she fumbled with the lock and opened the door to feel the fresh suburban air come gusting towards her.

TWO DAYS PASSED before anyone discovered what had happened to Robert Ek. His wife and four children stayed the whole weekend in Dalarna, and his friends who had spent the night after the party in his house went their own way after regaining consciousness on Saturday afternoon. As agreed, they left the house key in a pot under the veranda stairs at the back of the house.

When the family returned home on Sunday, they found clear signs that a raucous party had gone on inside the house. And no one had bothered to clean up afterwards.

Someone had slept in the children’s beds. One or more people had also used the master bedroom, since the bedclothes were in disarray and several glasses, half filled with wine, stood on the bedside table. The last straw was when Erna Linton found a thong in the woodpile next to the fireplace. At that point she turned on her heel, gathered up the children and dog, and left the house. She phoned her sister, who had also spent the weekend with their parents in Dalarna and who lived nearby. At her sister’s house she left the dog and the children, who were happily surprised to find that they were going to have more time to play with their cousins. It was only a short while ago that they’d said goodbye at the service station where they had all stopped to have refreshments on their way home from Leksand.

Erna Linton then headed over to the agency. She was boiling with rage. Robert had promised never to do this again. He’d kept his promise for only two weeks, maybe even less. Over the weekend she’d tried to reach him several times, both on the home phone and on his mobile, but without success. Now she realized that he’d been busy with other things.

With a grim expression she drove her SUV through the Söderled tunnel and towards central Stockholm. Since it was Sunday evening, and the Christmas holiday had begun, it was easier than usual to find a parking spot. Normally, that was no easy task in Östermalm, where most of the streets were one-way.

She found a spot on Riddargatan, only a block from the agency. She had a strong sense of foreboding as she walked along the street and turned on to the lower section of Grev Turegatan.

She tapped in the security code and the heavy, polished door of the building opened with a faint buzzing sound. The door to the agency was decorated with a big wreath of lingonberry branches and red bows. She rang the bell. Waited a minute. No answer. She held her breath as she pushed down the door handle. The door opened. The floorboards in the hall creaked under her feet. A quick glance in the mirror. She looked pale and tired.

She surveyed the floor in the front hall. No shoes, or any coats lying about. She peeked inside the room where the bookings were done. Everything was neat and tidy. She continued on to the kitchen. On the worktop were a dozen empty champagne bottles, along with a number of glasses, some with lipstick on the rim. And a bowl with a few cashews left in the bottom. A sour smell hovered over the kitchen.

The agency’s most beautiful room had a tiled stove at one end and a large sofa. On the coffee table she saw two glasses filled with champagne and a bottle in a wine bucket. Candleholders had been set on the table.

The door to her husband’s office was ajar. When she looked into the room she noticed at once the congealed blood on the oak parquet floor.

She would have given anything to avoid seeing the scene that now confronted her.

WHEN THE PHONE rang late on Sunday evening, Knutas was at home, having fallen asleep on the sofa while watching a film on TV. Lina was working the night shift at the hospital, and the children had, for once, gone to bed early.

Still feeling groggy, Knutas recognized the voice of Martin Kihlgård, his colleague from the NCP, the National Criminal Police, in Stockholm. Kihlgård had worked with the Visby police many times.

‘Hi, Knutie. Sorry to disturb you so late, but there’s been a major development here.’

Knutas chose to ignore the fact that he hated being called Knutie. Fortunately, Kihlgård was the only person who ever used that nickname.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Well, you know that modelling agency – I think it’s called Fashion for Life? Tonight, the boss, Robert Ek, was found murdered in his office there. It was his wife who found him.’

Knutas stood up abruptly. He was suddenly wide awake.

‘You’re kidding me. How was he killed?’

‘With an axe. Apparently, he received blows to his head as well as to his body. Kurt’s the one who asked me to ring you, because he’s got his hands full at the moment. Over here at the NCP we’re already working on the case.’

‘Okay. What have you found out so far?’

‘Not much. According to the preliminary assessment the medical examiner did at the crime scene, the victim has been dead at least twenty-four hours. The agency had a party on Friday night and, as far as we know, nobody has seen him since then. His death is probably connected to the party.’

‘Where was the party held?’

‘In a rented flat on Stureplan, only a few minutes’ walk from the agency. The body is being taken to the pathology lab. The whole area is already crawling with journalists, of course, and they’ll probably be ringing you up as well. Do you want to send someone from your team to Stockholm?’

‘Definitely. Jacobsson and Wittberg will catch the first plane tomorrow morning.’

Knutas pictured Kihlgård’s face lighting up. He was very fond of Karin Jacobsson.

‘Great. Tell them to give me a call. I’ve got to go. But at least now you know what’s going on. Talk to you later.’

Knutas informed his colleagues on the investigative team about what had happened. Then he checked the news reports to see what the media were saying about this development. All the reports were largely the same. A man had been found dead in an office in central Stockholm, and the police suspected that it was a homicide. At this stage, that was really all the journalists were saying, and Knutas was grateful for that. Robert Ek’s children and parents might not yet have been told what had happened to him.

An hour later, Karin Jacobsson and Thomas Wittberg were sitting in Knutas’s office. He made a pot of strong coffee and offered them some ginger biscuits. There wasn’t anything else available at this time of night. The vending machine with sandwiches had been emptied before the weekend started.

‘This puts a whole new light on the Markus Sandberg case,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I don’t think there’s any doubt that it’s the same perpetrator. Or at least we have to assume that the two cases are connected.’

‘Right,’ Wittberg agreed. ‘My first thought is that the motive has something to do with their profession and the agency.’

‘The only difference is that, this time, the assailant succeeded in killing his victim,’ said Knutas grimly.

‘I’m sure he intended to do the same in the cabin on Furillen,’ said Jacobsson. ‘When the perpetrator left, he probably thought that Sandberg was dead.’

‘But who would have a motive to kill these two individuals?’ Knutas rubbed his chin. ‘Someone in the fashion world? Or could the motive have roots further back in the past?’

‘That’s certainly possible,’ said Wittberg. ‘For instance, both men seem to have had an extremely active sex life. Robert Ek was apparently notoriously unfaithful to his wife. And Sandberg has had plenty of affairs.’

‘Have you heard that either of them was ever mixed up in anything irregular? I mean, did they have any ties to criminal elements, for example?’

Jacobsson shook her head.

‘No. You can say what you like about Sandberg’s career with all those porn photos and tits-and-bum shows on TV, but there’s nothing illegal about any of it.’

‘At least so far,’ muttered Wittberg. ‘But it wouldn’t surprise me if-’

‘Did you say something?’ Jacobsson said sternly.

‘No, no. Nothing.’

Wittberg held up both hands as if to ward off any criticism and then took a few more biscuits from the plate on the table. He was too tired to do any of the usual sparring with Karin. He’d met a girl on Friday night, and they’d spent all yesterday in bed. Which had proved far from restful.

‘Who phoned from Stockholm?’ asked Jacobsson, to change the subject.

‘Kihlgård. And he sends his regards to both of you.’

Jacobsson’s face lit up.

‘Martin? How nice. But why did he make the call? Is the NCP already involved in the case?’

‘Apparently. He’d like you to contact him as soon as you get to the city. The two of you will be leaving first thing tomorrow morning.’

Jacobsson and Wittberg exchanged glances. It was three days before Christmas Eve.

‘That’s fine with me,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I was thinking of going to Stockholm anyway. Hanna has invited me over for Christmas Eve.’

A big smile appeared on her face.

‘That’s wonderful,’ said Knutas warmly.

‘Yeah, that’s great,’ Wittberg agreed. ‘But I can’t say that a visit to Stockholm was part of my holiday plans. Of course, this means I won’t have to eat any of the brawn that my grandmother always serves, and that’s a positive thing. Plus, there’s a bird or two in the city I could always ring up.’

‘It’s not certain that either of you will have to stay there over Christmas,’ said Knutas. ‘But I think it’s important for you to be on the scene as soon as possible so you can get your own impression of the situation. The perpetrator might be from Gotland. At this point, we just don’t know.’

JENNY SAT ON the sofa in the flat on Kungsholmen and stared into the dark. It would soon be daylight, but she hadn’t slept at all. A sense of unease had kept her awake. She still didn’t have a clear idea of what had happened after the Christmas party. The scattered images that she’d had upon waking up in the waterbed in the stranger’s bedroom kept coming back, but that was all she could remember, no matter how hard she tried. The ache in her pelvic region had gone, but an unpleasant feeling remained because she had only a fragmentary idea of how the evening had ended. What had she got herself mixed up in? And where had she been?

The house stood in a secluded spot, with no neighbours close by. Without her mobile, she couldn’t even ring for a taxi. After walking several kilometres along the road, she’d finally entered a residential area with more houses.

She stopped at an intersection, pausing to consider which way to go. Apparently, she had looked bewildered enough that a female driver pulled over and rolled down her window. When Jenny asked where she might find the nearest bus stop, the woman had offered her a lift. Jenny found the whole situation so embarrassing that she gratefully accepted the offer without asking where she was. The woman was driving into town and was kind enough to drop Jenny at the front door of her building.

As luck would have it, the other models who had spent the night in the flat had already left. She bought a take-away pizza and rented a film on Saturday evening, trying to shake off all thoughts of the unwelcome experience of the night before.

On Sunday she slept until one in the afternoon and didn’t leave the flat for the rest of the day. She hardly had the energy to move at all. She was glad she didn’t have her phone, so she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. She was just waiting for Monday to arrive so she could go back home. She was going to spend the Christmas holiday with her parents on Gotland and didn’t have to return to Stockholm until the 26th. She was longing to be with her parents and feel safe on the farm.

She had gone to bed early but couldn’t fall asleep. Finally, she gave up and went into the living room to sit on the sofa. She could sleep when she got to Gotland. Her plane was due to depart at ten thirty in the morning. She had already packed her bag and cleaned up the flat. She looked out of the window, catching a glimpse of the canal below. The water glittered in the light from a solitary street lamp but, otherwise, everything was wrapped in darkness. No people were visible on the narrow pathway. With a shiver she recalled the last time she’d walked along that path. And the man who had appeared out of the dark. But he hadn’t spoken or done anything, so she had decided not to tell anyone about it. She didn’t want to alarm her mother for no reason; she was neurotic enough as it was. But Jenny had definitely found the incident unsettling.

Overcome with restlessness, she decided to go out to Bromma Airport as soon as possible. She couldn’t bear to sit here waiting, drinking coffee and reading the morning papers. She wanted to get out of this flat. Away from all this shit. She looked at the clock on the wall and saw that it was four fifteen. She really couldn’t see herself getting there before six.

So she took a shower and washed her hair. Then she spent time rubbing lotion on her skin and putting on some make-up, which made her feel more alert. In the kitchen she turned on the radio and hummed along with the tune that was playing. At five o’clock the music was interrupted by the Eko news report. By that time she had sat down at the table with a bowl of yoghurt. As she listened to the news, she lost her appetite.

On Sunday evening a man in his forties was found dead in an office in central Stockholm. The police suspect foul play. The office belongs to one of Sweden’s biggest modelling agencies, Fashion for Life. This is the same agency which employed Markus Sandberg, the well-known fashion photographer. In late November he was the victim of a brutal act of violence on Gotland when he was assaulted and seriously injured. The police refuse to say whether they’ve found any direct links between the two cases, but they won’t rule out a possible connection.

Then a police spokesman was interviewed, giving a terse and unrevealing account of the investigation.

Jenny jumped to her feet. This couldn’t be true. She refused to believe it. She dashed into the living room to turn on the TV. The early-morning news bulletin was longer on television than on the radio, so the report about the murder at the agency was still on. A reporter was shown standing in front of the agency building. He said that it was the wife who had discovered her husband’s body inside. The victim could be only one person. Robert Ek.

The footage then shifted to another scene, and Jenny could hardly believe her eyes. She was looking at a luxury home with police vehicles parked outside it. In spite of the darkness, sections of the façade were visible, along with the front entrance, which had a lion sculpture on either side of the door. The disembodied voice of the reporter echoed hollowly:

The victim lived in this house in Nacka outside Stockholm. The police have searched the premises and apparently found evidence that an unknown number of people spent the weekend here while the victim’s family was out of town. The police would be grateful for any information from the public regarding any individuals who were seen in the vicinity of the home over the past few days.

Jenny recognized at once the house where she’d found herself on Saturday morning. And she felt her throat slowly closing up.

‘HI, SWEETIE.’

Her father looks happy, as usual, but she notices concern in his eyes as he swiftly appraises her thin figure to see if she has put on even a tiny bit of weight. He gives her a cautious hug. Katarina makes no attempt to hug her. She knows that Agnes would not welcome such a gesture. Instead, she gives her a quick, uncertain smile and whispers hello. Katarina is so pathetic.

Agnes takes her father by the arm and turns to head back to the ward. She has been longing to see him. Last night, she hardly slept. She lay in bed thinking about the murder of Robert Ek, who was head of the modelling agency she once worked for. She’d heard about it on the evening news. She had met Ek several times. Now she wants to talk to her father and find out what he knows. Probably more than she does.

She expects Katarina to trudge off to the day room, as she always does. But she sees that something is up with her father. His feet seem to be glued to the floor.

‘Well, er, you see, Agnes,’ he says, ‘I was thinking that, uh…’ He casts a quick glance at Katarina. ‘… we were thinking that Katarina would come with us today. With you and me. Is that okay?’

Agnes is completely unprepared for this request. Why would she want to spend time with that woman? She isn’t the least bit interested in the idea and can hardly bear to look at her. For a moment, no one speaks. Agnes stares at her father as she struggles with herself. The two adults wait for her to answer, exchanging looks with each other. She can sense their nervousness seeping through their coats.

But she doesn’t want to behave like a stubborn child. That would merely confirm Katarina’s preconceptions about her. Before she manages to say anything, Per appears, like a guardian angel.

‘Hi. Come on in.’

As if he understands the difficulty of the situation, he leads the way down the corridor, and the others follow. Agnes’s cheeks are burning with shame. So far, she has simply ignored Katarina, pretending not to see her at all. That’s going to be harder to do now. She’s also disappointed because today she won’t have any private time with her father.

They take seats in the common room. Per goes to the kitchen to get coffee for all of them. Agnes’s father sits next to her on the sofa while Katarina sits in an easy chair.

‘It’s very nice in here,’ she says appreciatively, looking around the room.

Agnes gives her an icy glare but doesn’t say anything. Her father nervously shifts position.

‘So, how are you?’ he asks in his gentle voice, placing his big, dry hand on top of hers.

‘I hate this place. You know that,’ she snaps, pulling away her hand. ‘And I feel shitty, in case you want to know.’

He ignores her tone of voice.

‘Grandma and Grandpa send their love.’

‘Huh.’

She’s already regretting her attitude. She doesn’t want to appear weak in Katarina’s eyes. Or as if she cares about her being there. Agnes casts a surreptitious glance in her direction. Come to think of it, Katarina actually looks rather nice. Dark hair under the beret she’s wearing. Brown eyes and a fresh complexion with rosy cheeks. Distinctive features. Pale-pink lipstick. Agnes shifts her gaze to her father and is suddenly seized with tenderness. He looks tired. His calloused hands are fidgeting. She notices the faint scent of his aftershave.

Per brings them their coffee. The china clinks and his hands tremble slightly as he fills their cups, one by one. It takes for ever.

‘Why don’t you join us?’ Agnes suggests. ‘You would ease the situation a bit. It’s rather tense, as you can tell.’

The next second, Katarina is on her feet, her lips pressed together in a tight line.

‘I can see this isn’t a good idea. I don’t think Agnes is ready.’

‘Don’t go,’ Rikard pleads as she leaves the room.

‘It’s okay,’ Per tells him. ‘I’ll go after her.’

He hurries after Katarina, who is angrily striding down the hall.

‘Was that really necessary?’ Agnes’s father gives her a reproachful look. ‘Couldn’t you at least try?’

‘She’s so highly strung,’ Agnes defends herself. ‘Can’t stand even the slightest criticism.’

‘This isn’t easy for her either. She’s been sitting in that day room for three months now. Don’t you think it’s about time you cut her a little slack?’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘Because Katarina and I are together and have been for quite a while now. How do you think I feel when you ignore her, pretending that she doesn’t exist?’

‘What about me? Don’t I mean anything to you?’

‘Agnes, sweetie. You’re everything to me. But I need to live my own life, too. I have my work, but everyone else has a family they can go home to. I don’t want to sit at home alone every evening and every weekend. And you’re here. And you don’t seem to be getting any better. Don’t you want to get well?’

‘Of course I do. But it’s not that easy.’

‘I spoke to the head of the clinic, and she says that you’re resisting the treatment. That you’re not helping yourself.’

‘Huh.’

Her father looks deep into her eyes, then reaches out to caress her cheek gently. She’s on the verge of tears, but she fights against it.

‘My beautiful daughter,’ he says tenderly. ‘My beautiful little girl. You’re the only one who can make yourself well. Nobody else can do it for you. What’s so awful about gaining weight? What are you afraid of?’

She shrugs. The words lodge in her throat.

Then she says, ‘I don’t know how to act if I’m not anorexic. I can hardly remember what I used to be like.’

‘Before all this happened, you were a happy, sweet girl who had lots of friends and enjoyed going to school. Until those damn fashion people came into the picture. Katarina agrees that it’s awful how they destroyed your life. I hate them for what they did. She does, too. She thinks it’s terrible how they treated you. I want you to know that Katarina cares about you, even though you don’t think she does. But you can have your life back, and everything can be the same as it was before. Don’t let those cold, calculating people win. They’ve already caused enough harm.’

JOHAN BERG WAS about to have his morning coffee when he switched on the TV, as he usually did on Mondays. It made no difference that he was on holiday and staying at his mother’s home in Rönninge. He still had to watch the news. It was in his bones.

‘What the hell?’

He reached for the remote control to turn up the volume. His colleague from the Stockholm office Madeleine Haga was on the screen. She stood in front of a building in the city centre.

There is speculation that the murder may have had something to do with the staff Christmas party, which the agency hosted on Friday evening at a club on Stureplan, only a stone’s throw from its office. Robert Ek may have lain dead in his office all weekend. But the police are also asking the question…

Emma came into the living room, carrying a mug of coffee. The children were still asleep in one of the guest rooms upstairs. Johan’s mother wasn’t yet awake either.

‘What is it?’ she asked, sitting down on the sofa next to Johan.

‘The head of Fashion for Life is dead. He was found murdered at the agency.’

‘Really? Good Lord, this is too much.’

‘I know. His body was discovered last night. And they haven’t caught the killer.’

‘That’s unbelievable. What’s going on with that agency? And Jenny works for that place. This is starting to get really scary. I need to call Tina.’

She got up and left the room.

In the meantime, Johan rang his boss, the editor-in-chief, Max Grenfors, in Stockholm. He sounded out of breath. Johan could picture him running along the corridors of the huge television building.

‘What a bloody mess! The morning meeting starts in a few minutes, and after that we’ll decide how to tackle this story. Right now, Madeleine is on the scene, and I’ve got two reporters working on it here in the office. I’ll phone you back after the meeting and we’ll work out how to handle the Gotland angle.’

‘What are you hearing?’

‘There’s speculation that it’s some sort of personal vendetta against the two victims – that they were involved in some shit together, and that’s what provoked the attacks. They share a long history.’

‘Is that right? I didn’t know that.’

‘I’ll brief you later. Haven’t got time to talk right now. But since you’re here in Stockholm, why don’t you drop by the office? This could be a big story.’

Johan could hear excited voices talking in the background. Apparently, there were others who wanted Grenfors’s attention. Johan yearned to be there, in the midst of it all. He wondered what Emma would say about Grenfors’s idea.

He went back to his mother’s kitchen, which was elaborately decorated for the holidays with red curtains, Advent stars, Christmas elves and a gingerbread heart which hung in the window. The whole room was still fragrant from the ginger biscuits they’d baked the day before.

It was two days before Christmas Eve.

KARIN JACOBSSON AND Thomas Wittberg were sitting in a conference room at police headquarters in Stockholm, along with Detective Inspector Martin Kihlgård of the NCP. They had just arrived from Visby and were about to get their first report on the situation. Outside the window, the light was fading, even though it was only eleven in the morning. Snowflakes were briskly tumbling down from the gloomy sky. In the big windows facing the park, someone had placed electric candles, which produced a warm glow against the hazy backdrop. Stockholmers hunched their shoulders as they hurried along the street in the snowstorm. No one paused or glanced to the side or bothered to meet the eye of other pedestrians. It was too cold for that. In these days before Christmas, everyone deadened their senses by spending too much on gifts and decorating their homes in a desperate attempt to withstand the darkness.

Martin Kihlgård reached out his hand to take a saffron bun from the basket of pastries on the conference table. He was famous for his appetite, and he was almost always eating something. He was solidly built, without being obese. Jacobsson thought his rotund appearance gave him a certain air of authority. And confidence. She had liked him from the very first time they met, several years ago, when he came to Gotland to help hunt for a serial killer.

‘How much do we know?’ she asked him now.

‘Robert Ek was found in his office at the Fashion for Life agency, murdered with an axe. He had been brutally attacked and had multiple wounds on his head and body. His skull had been split clear down to his eyes. It was one of the worst things I’ve ever seen.’

Kihlgård shook his head, making his cheeks quiver.

‘What about the perpetrator?’

‘Not yet apprehended. But we did find some interesting items in the rubbish early this morning, including what appears to be the murder weapon. A bloodstained axe.’

Wittberg whistled.

‘Damn. Is it the same one that was used on Furillen?’

‘We don’t know yet. It was sent to the lab for analysis. The forensics guys also found Ek’s mobile phone. And it turns out that he received a text message from another mobile on the night of the party. And not just from anybody. The message was sent from Markus Sandberg’s phone! At 1.10 on Saturday morning.’

Wittberg and Jacobsson stared in astonishment at their colleague.

Kihlgård paused for dramatic effect before he went on.

‘This is what the message said: “Meet me at the agency in half an hour. Hugs. Jenny.”’

‘Are you serious?’ exclaimed Jacobsson.

‘Yup. That’s what it said. Word for word. I have the transcript here. And the next minute, Robert Ek sent a reply, saying that he would wait for her. Fifty-one minutes later, at 2.01 a.m., he sent a text saying, “I’m here. I’m waiting for you.”’

‘So that means the cases are definitely connected and, judging by the text, it’s the same perpetrator,’ said Jacobsson. ‘The question is whether Jenny Levin wrote it, or whether the killer pretended to be her in order to lure Ek to the agency. Sandberg’s mobile has been traced to Flemingsberg ever since Markus was assaulted, and Jenny hasn’t been anywhere near there, at least according to her. What does she say about all this?’

‘The problem is that we haven’t been able to reach her, but we just heard from her parents that she’s on a plane heading for Visby right now,’ said Kihlgård, casting a glance at his watch. ‘She should be landing any minute. I’ve asked our colleagues in Visby to contact her as soon as possible. From what I understand, she was one of the last people to see Robert Ek alive. Witnesses told us that the two of them were seen talking together at the bar during the party, around midnight. So that was about an hour before he left.’

‘What did the crime scene look like?’ asked Wittberg.

‘Lots of blood, of course. The SOCOs found footprints, but no fingerprints. There was no sign of a struggle, or any indication that someone had broken in. So either Ek left the door unlocked or the perpetrator had a key.’

Wittberg raised his eyebrows.

‘Is there anything that might lead us to think that one of the employees is the murderer?’

‘It’s far too early to say. We need to question more people and then put together the information from the interviews we’ve already done. The work has just started.’

‘What about the footprints?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘What can you tell us about them?’

‘They’re from a heavy shoe with a rubber sole. A rather small size. Five and a half.’

Jacobsson and Wittberg exchanged glances.

‘The same as on Furillen. We found footprints that were the same size.’

‘Interesting,’ murmured Kihlgård, biting into another bun. ‘One more thing,’ he said as he chewed. ‘There were two glasses filled with champagne and a bottle of Taittinger in a wine bucket on the table in the staff lounge. And he seems to have set the mood with candles.’

‘Taittinger?’ enquired Wittberg.

‘A type of champagne,’ Kihlgård clarified.

‘Do we know what time Ek left the party?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘And did he leave alone?’

‘The bouncer and the cloakroom attendant both say the same thing. He left the club around 1 a.m. and they think he left alone. There was a lot of coming and going, because people kept leaving to have a smoke. So they weren’t a hundred per cent positive, but he was alone when he picked up his coat.’

‘Was he drunk?’

‘He’d definitely had a few, but he wasn’t too bad.’

‘Since he was such a ladies’ man, he had plenty of opportunity to take someone home with him that night. His wife and kids were away, so he had the whole house to himself. Why didn’t he ask Jenny to go home with him?’

‘That’s a good question,’ Kihlgård agreed. ‘Although he’d already invited some people to stay the night. Maybe he didn’t want them to see her. At any rate, Robert Ek wasn’t planning to be at home alone. He’d invited a couple of male friends and given them a key. They brought along some girls from the club.’

‘How do we know this?’

‘His wife, Erna, could tell that there’d been a party in the house. She gave us the phone numbers of several of Ek’s closest friends, and they were quick to answer our questions. One of them, who also happened to be at the Christmas party, had borrowed a key to the house. We interviewed him late last night. He said that a bunch of them went to Ek’s house for an after-party, thinking that he’d turn up later on. When he didn’t, they assumed that he’d decided to stay with some girlfriend instead. This friend left the house on Saturday afternoon and put the key inside a pot at the back, as he and Robert had agreed. He didn’t give it any more thought.’

‘How many people were in the house?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘That’s a bit vague. This guy doesn’t seem completely trustworthy. He claims that he was really drunk and can only name one of the women, who also happens to be his girlfriend. He didn’t know the others. They were people he’d met at the club and had never seen before. He can’t recall exactly how many spent the night, but he thinks five or six. When he and his girlfriend woke up on Saturday, everybody else was gone.’

‘What’s the name of his girlfriend?’ asked Wittberg.

‘Katinka Johansson. She lives in Bagarmossen. Twenty-seven years old. Works at the 7-11 on Grev Turegatan.’

‘Has anyone talked to her yet?’

‘Yes, but she really had nothing to say. Could hardly remember where she’d spent the night, and she couldn’t name a single person who was there, except for her boyfriend.’

Wittberg looked at Kihlgård.

‘What about surveillance cameras? There must be some at the entrance to the club or along the street on the way to the agency. The building is smack in the middle of Stureplan.’

‘We’ve already thought of that. The club has cameras at the front entrance, but we didn’t see anything of interest. We’re checking the whole area and should have more information later in the day. We can only hope we find something useful.’

‘What about the other tenants in the building?’ said Jacobsson. ‘Did anyone see or hear anything?’

Kihlgård was starting to look annoyed.

‘We don’t know yet. Robert Ek’s body was only found last night, damn it. Of course, we’ve got officers knocking on doors and questioning the neighbours.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Jacobsson waved her hand, trying to calm him down.

Kihlgård drank some coffee and leaned back in his chair.

‘Naturally, our first thought was that the murder of Robert Ek and the assault on Markus Sandberg must have something to do with the fashion world,’ said Wittberg.

‘I agree. And Jenny Levin is involved in both cases,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I wonder how she figures in the whole thing.’

‘Sure. But it could also be a coincidence. All these people work together. And the attacks might have nothing to do with the fashion industry. The motive could have something to do with women. Ek has a reputation for being a ladies’ man, just like Sandberg. And what about Ek’s wife, Erna Linton? She’s also an ex-model. What was her relationship with Sandberg? It’s clear that she had a motive for killing her husband. Or at least the desire to do so – if she knew about his escapades.’

‘Does anyone know how he’s doing now?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘I’m talking about Markus.’

‘I spoke to the hospital this morning,’ said Kihlgård. ‘His condition is unchanged, so it’s impossible to question him. And, apparently, there’s no light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak. Unfortunately. As for Erna Linton, so far we’ve only conducted a brief interview with her. We’re going to meet with her here after lunch. You can sit in as witnesses, if you like. But she does have an alibi. She was visiting her parents in Leksand all weekend.’

‘But the murder occurred well after midnight,’ countered Wittberg. ‘How long does it take to drive from Leksand in the middle of the night when there’s no traffic? Three hours? Let’s suppose that she left around eleven or twelve on Friday night. Arrived in Stockholm around two or three in the morning. Maybe she’d pretended to be someone else in order to set up a rendezvous with Ek at the agency. And then she killed him. Afterwards, she drove back. If she left the city around three thirty, she’d be back in Leksand by six thirty. She could have done it.’

‘You could be right,’ Kihlgård admitted. ‘We’ll have to take a closer look at her alibi. And I have no idea where she was when Markus Sandberg was assaulted.’

He gathered up the papers lying on the table.

‘So, are you starting to get hungry? There’s a new place down on Kungsholmstorg that serves great home cooking.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Jacobsson. ‘There’s one more thing. I was thinking about that Finnish model Marita Ahonen. The one that Markus got pregnant. Do you have any material from the agency here? A catalogue showing the models and information about them? I’m thinking in particular about their shoe size.’

‘We confiscated all sorts of material – computers, and the like – yesterday. It’s over in the technical department,’ said Kihlgård, clearly worried that lunch might be delayed another hour. ‘Wait here.’

He left the room, grabbing another saffron bun on his way out. A few minutes later he was back, his face flushed.

‘I found out about that Marita Ahonen. She wears a size five and a half shoe.’

KARIN JACOBSSON WAS sweating in the lift on her way up to the fifth floor. This was the first time she’d been invited to her daughter’s flat. Even the front entrance had made her nervous. It had to be one of the poshest buildings in all Stockholm, with its stucco flourishes and embellishments. A thick red carpet adorned the steps of the grand marble staircase in the vestibule, and on display in one corner towered a stately Christmas tree decorated with ornaments and lights. Marble sculptures stood in several niches, and a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. She had never seen anything like it. Thankfully, she knew that Hanna was not a pretentious person, or she would have been terrified.

On the top floor of the building there were two flats. One of them belonged to Hanna.

Jacobsson smoothed down her hair, took a deep breath, and rang the bell. She was clutching a bouquet of white tulips, which she held out in front of her.

The heavy door opened almost at once.

‘Hi, Karin. How nice. Welcome!’

Hanna’s sunny smile calmed her, and the warm hug helped even more. The dog came over, wagging his tail, clearly delighted with the visitor as he leapt about on his long legs.

‘Okay, Nelson. That’s enough.’

Karin handed over the bouquet.

‘Thank you. Come in.’

Hanna led the way to the kitchen, which faced Mariatorget. Karin couldn’t help pausing on the threshold. It was as far from a traditional kitchen as it could possibly be. A long counter made of black marble against a bright-yellow mosaic wall, an inverted zinc basin that served as the ceiling lamp. And the walls were decorated with old-fashioned Swedish enamel signs trumpeting various products such as Mazetti cocoa eyes, the orange soda Loranga, oatmeal from AXA and Tre Ess margarine. No refrigerator, freezer, or kitchen cabinets in sight.

Hanna pulled on a handle that was the same colour as the mosaic to reveal a spacious, ultra-modern fridge. Karin realized then that all the appliances and cabinets were built into the walls. Hanna took out a bottle of white wine.

‘Would you like a glass?’

Karin nodded.

‘What a beautiful kitchen. And there I was thinking you had simple tastes.’

‘Appearances are deceptive,’ replied Hanna, laughing.

They went from room to room. Karin saw that the flat was even bigger than she’d thought. The grand balcony that she’d seen from the street ran the full length of the flat. They took a tour of the dining room, living room, home office, guest room and bathroom. A lovely oak staircase led up to the floor above. There, Karin saw two large bedrooms, a huge bathroom with a sauna and its own little balcony, and yet another living room, which looked more like a library, with a fireplace and countless bookshelves holding both books and DVDs.

‘This is amazing,’ said Karin with a sigh. ‘How big is this flat?’

‘Just over 250 square metres,’ said Hanna. ‘I inherited it from my uncle. He died of cancer three years ago, and he insisted that I should have it. We were very close. The one condition was that I had to take care of his dog and stay here for as long as Nelson is alive. So I can’t sell the flat. He didn’t want Nelson to have to move. He thought it was traumatic enough for the dog to lose his master. He was a bit eccentric, my uncle. But he had a heart of gold. He also left money in a bank account that was to be used for only one purpose. To renovate the entire flat according to my own taste, because he knew I’d want to do that. He hadn’t done a thing to the place in thirty years, so it was really run-down and outdated. And he also made sure that the managing agents’ fees were paid for the next twenty years. He overdid things a bit. I realize that. He knew that Nelson couldn’t possibly live that long.’

‘What an incredible story. And what about your parents? How are they doing? If it’s okay for me to ask,’ she hurried to add.

‘Of course. They still live in our house in Djursholm, where I grew up with my little brother, Alexander. He’s two years younger than me. They’d been trying for years to have a baby when they adopted me. And it wasn’t that long after they brought me home that Mamma got pregnant. They’re still married.’

‘What sort of work do they do?’

‘Pappa has his own company. He’s in the construction business. Mamma is the head of an advertising firm. We get along well, and I’m especially close to my father. It’s largely because of him that I became a structural engineer. I suppose I’ve always been Pappa’s little girl. But now I think the food is probably ready.’

They went back to the kitchen. Hanna busied herself at the hob while Karin sat down at the counter.

‘We’re having vegetarian lasagne. I haven’t eaten meat in ten years.’

‘Okay. Why not?’

‘I don’t like the way the animals are treated. I won’t eat anything that has a mother or father.’

‘But where do you draw the line? For example, do you eat eggs?’

‘No. And not shrimp, either. They have parents.’

‘Right.’

Karin sipped her wine. There was so much they didn’t know about each other. They were strangers. Even so, she felt an odd sense of connection. Maybe it was just her imagination, but she wanted to hang on to the feeling. Savour it as she sat here, in Hanna’s kitchen. She could sit here for all eternity, just looking at her daughter. Fixing her eyes on her.

For as long as possible.

ROBERT EK’S WIFE was an attractive woman, tall and elegant, dressed in a bright-pink rib-knitted tunic that reached almost to her knees and heavy turquoise tights that were barely visible above her black, high-heeled boots. Her taste in clothes is just as colourful and striking as her husband’s, thought Jacobsson.

Erna Linton sat down on a chair in the interview room, which was similar to the one in Visby, although bigger and with a view of Agnegatan. Wittberg and Jacobsson were seated in a corner of the room and would take part only as witnesses. Detective Inspector Martin Kihlgård was handling the interview. He’d arranged for coffee, water, and a plate of ginger biscuits. Typical Kihlgård, thought Jacobsson. Always so thoughtful.

Even though they’d worked together many times, she’d never sat in on an interview with Kihlgård. This opportunity excited her almost as much as the thought of hearing what Erna Linton was going to say.

‘Would you care for milk or sugar?’ asked the inspector.

‘Milk, please. Thank you.’

Erna crossed her long legs and stirred her coffee. She blew on the hot liquid for a moment before raising the cup to her lips. Only then did she look Kihlgård in the eye. Her expression changed from wary to slightly alarmed when Kihlgård calmly dipped a biscuit in his coffee and then took a bite of the soggypepparkaka. He gave the woman across from him a kindly smile.

‘Tell me about Robert. What was he like?’

Erna’s slender white hand shook as she considered the question.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What sort of interests did he have? What did he enjoy doing in his spare time? What did the two of you do together for fun?’

‘I don’t really know,’ she replied hesitantly. ‘He worked so much at the agency. And we have four children, so they take a lot of my time. There’s not much left over for anything else.’

‘I see.’

Kihlgård fell silent for a few moments. Erna picked at a cuticle, then shifted her position.

‘Have a biscuit.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘A little sugar can be very soothing.’

‘Okay.’

She bit into the biscuit and then proceeded to eat the whole thing.

‘How are you holding up?’ he asked with a friendly expression.

‘Not so good.’

‘I understand.’

Again, silence.

Erna’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are we waiting for?’

Kihlgård shrugged without speaking. Jacobsson and Wittberg exchanged glances. What was he up to? In front of him sat a woman who had just lost her husband in the most brutal and awful way imaginable.

Erna moistened her lips with her tongue before she spoke again.

‘So maybe you think that I’m the one who did it?’ she said, clearly ready for a fight. ‘Is that why you’re using this silence tactic? You think that if you just wait me out, I’ll confess? Or else what the hell are you doing? I have four children at home who are very upset. I don’t have time to sit here and stare at the walls. So tell me, what do you want? What do you want me to say?’

She threw up her hands and half rose from her chair. Kihlgård didn’t take his eyes off her face. But still he said nothing. The seconds ticked by.

‘Okay, I was fucking furious with him. He was unfaithful to me, but I’m sure you already know that, don’t you?’ She turned to look at Jacobsson and Wittberg, who were huddled in the corner. ‘I was totally furious with him! Our youngest child is only nine years old, for God’s sake! But he didn’t care about that. He just followed his prick wherever it took him, without a thought for me or the children. His family! Then he liked to come home and sit down at the dinner table to play the darling father. And what’s the last thing that he does? The very last thing? He goes and gets himself murdered. And what does he leave behind? A sex orgy in our home, and preparations for a romantic interlude at the office, while the children and I are away at a family gathering. That’s what he leaves behind for me. That’s the last memory I’ll have of him.’

Erna Linton sank back in her chair. Tears were running down her cheeks. Kihlgård reached out and patted her hand.

‘There, there.’

‘He was unfaithful,’ she sobbed. ‘All the time. There were always new women.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I’ve known for a long time. I’d have had to be blind and deaf not to know. He would stay over at the office, he smelled of perfume, he had an unreasonable number of late business dinners or parties he had to attend. New models he had to take care of. My God. I was in the fashion business myself for ten years, so I know how things work.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on, now. You can’t be that naive. It’s all very competitive. You have to make an impression and meet the right people, cultivate the best contacts, get powerful men on your side, make them like you and value you so that you’ll get the choice assignments. They’re the ones who can boost your career. And a model is always hungry. It can drive even the smartest and most grounded person insane. If you want to be a model, you have to be prepared to be constantly hungry for at least ten years, or however long your career lasts. To satisfy the ideal of the world’s biggest fashion designers, you have to have the hip measurements of a twelve-year-old. How do you think all those models accomplish that? Not by eating full meals every day. Hunger is blind and deaf and drives a person to do the most hair-raising things. Why do you think my husband, who was almost fifty, was able to sleep with models who were only eighteen or nineteen? Do you think it was because of his fabulous personality? Hardly!’

At this point, Erna paused and loudly blew her nose on a tissue she took from her handbag. The salvo she’d fired, which had ricocheted off the cold walls, had now faded, leaving behind a bitter emptiness.

The emotional outburst had surprised the police officers. They were literally speechless. Silence settled over the room, and the air felt heavy. No one could think of anything to say.

The walls waited. Jacobsson and Wittberg waited. The table and chairs waited. Even the Christmas star in the window held its breath. When Erna Linton finally spoke again, her tone of voice had changed completely.

‘It’s true,’ she said calmly and matter-of-factly. ‘I could have strangled him with my bare hands when I saw that wine bucket with the bottle of champagne. But I didn’t. I didn’t kill my husband.’

THE FASHION EDITOR Fanny Nord studied the proofs for the next issue of the prestigious women’s magazine, which had been pinned up on the wall. Mini versions of page after page had been added as the layout was finished. Now she had the entire March issue, which was the big spring fashion issue, in front of her, and she was able to get a complete overview. From page one to page three hundred and sixty. With a critical eye she scrutinized the pages. She was primarily interested in the fashion reporting. They had four major fashion spreads, but was that enough? If only their biggest competitor didn’t have more. The nightmare scenario would be if they put six fashion spreads in their spring issue, which would make hers look terribly skimpy in comparison. The mere thought made her shiver. On the other hand, she decided that the mix they’d chosen looked good. It was a real juggling act, trying to appeal to older readers, including the editor-in-chief, while also being sensitive to the latest trends and staying on the cutting edge. It was a task filled with contradictions, and not always easy to handle.

The magazine couldn’t feel too young, and the models couldn’t be too thin. Yet she always tried to get the coolest and hottest names.

She and her colleagues had found the inspiration for the fashion spreads in this issue at the Hermès and Yves Saint Laurent shows in Paris during the late summer and early autumn. She was especially pleased with the spread she was personally responsible for, which had been inspired by the new French designer whose name was on everyone’s lips: Christophe Decarnin, for the fashion house of Balmain. Twelve pages in the magazine with a chic rock ’n’ roll theme: short black leather dresses, rivets, shoulder pads, the models’ hair pulled tightly back in sleek styles. Punky and decadent. Cheeky. If only it doesn’t seem too harsh, she thought uneasily. It might be too much for our older readers. Forget it, she thought in the next second. If we’re going to be Sweden’s biggest fashion magazine, we can’t satisfy everyone. And the younger readers are important, too.

She went back to studying the proofs, then frowned with displeasure. Why had they put such an ugly, full-page advert right there, in the middle of the spread? It ruined the impact. But the worse the economy, the more important the adverts. She sighed and turned away. In spite of her reservations about certain details, she was generally pleased with the issue. Especially because they’d managed to get Jenny Levin for the more subdued fashion spread for which her colleague was responsible. The perfect counterpoint to the Balmain spread. And since Jenny was considered one of Sweden’s top models, it was a real coup to have her in a big spread again, even though she’d been in the Christmas issue. She was truly exceptional.

On her way back to her desk, Fanny Nord went past her in-tray and grabbed a bundle of letters. She sat down at her desk in the big, cluttered room she shared with the other fashion editors and a number of assistants. Clothes hung on hangers everywhere. On the floor stood scores of boxes filled with clothing, while papers, books and magazines were scattered about. Their work was so frenzied and intense they never had time to clear things away. Fanny began opening envelopes, while keeping an eye on her computer and the emails that had come in during the morning. One letter she’d received in the post caught her interest. Initially, she saw only that it contained a card, or rather a folded piece of heavy paper, with a message inside, formed from words cut out of a magazine.

Her first thought was that it was yet another invitation to a fashion show. No doubt from an unusually creative new designer who wanted to attract attention with this sort of invitation. Hoping it would stand out. Then she read the text. There were only four words: ‘You are all killers.’ Surprised, she read the short sentence again.

She turned over the envelope. Was it really addressed to her? Yes, there was her name. She glanced at her co-workers, sitting around the room, all of them absorbed in their own projects. She called to her colleague Viktor, motioning for him to come over.

‘Look what I got in the post.’

Fanny handed him the card. He read the message in silence, then frowned. He pulled up a chair and sat down next to her.

‘What the hell is this?’ he said, keeping his voice low.

He didn’t want to upset the assistants unnecessarily. Then they both leaned close and stared at the cryptic message. Fanny felt a shiver race down her spine. Considering recent horrible events, she couldn’t help feeling alarmed as she reread the four accusatory words. She thought about the big issue they were now in the process of putting together, and she felt her blood run cold when she remembered the contents of the Christmas issue. At the last moment they’d included the fashion spread from Furillen as a supplement. Another photographer had edited Markus Sandberg’s amazing shots of Jenny Levin. And, as a tribute to Markus, they had included an article about him and his career at the end of the fashion spread. Was that why she had been sent this message? And what did the sender mean by saying they were killers? Fanny Nord didn’t understand. It was all very unpleasant.

‘We need to talk to Signe,’ she said.

‘Absolutely,’ Viktor agreed. ‘This is fucking serious.’

Editor-in-chief Signe Rudin had a private office next door. She paused to clean her glasses before she read the message.

‘I don’t think we should make a big deal out of this,’ she finally murmured.

‘What do you mean?’ objected Fanny indignantly. ‘This is damned scary. He could be coming after us now – or me, since it’s my name on the envelope.’ She sank on to the visitor’s chair in front of the editor’s desk. ‘I don’t understand. Why is he sending this message to me?’

‘It does seem odd,’ Signe Rudin admitted. ‘If he was out to get the fashion world in general, or the magazine in particular, he should have sent the letter to me.’

‘Good Lord. What have I done? Why is he threatening me? I don’t get it!’

The editor-in-chief studied the ordinary white envelope. The address was handwritten, in black ballpoint. A cramped, sprawling script. And, of course, the name of the sender was missing. Then she looked at the card that had been inside. A plain folded card that could be bought in any stationery shop. Four whole words had been cut out and pasted down – not individual letters, as she had seen in films and on TV shows.

Signe Rudin took off her tinted reading glasses, pushed back a lock of hair, and looked at Fanny.

‘Let’s not blow this out of proportion. As you know, it’s not unusual for us to receive threatening letters. This could be referring to just about anything. We have no idea what’s behind it. And the message is not specifically directed at you. No one has issued threats against you personally.’

‘No, but I still think it’s nasty. And very unnerving. I won’t dare even go out on the street any more.’

‘Let’s not be too hasty about all this.’

‘But we should call the police. Don’t you agree? Considering what’s happened.’

‘I’ll speak to the publishing director first and see what he thinks. Then we’ll decide what to do next.’

Signe Rudin closed up the card and put it back in the envelope.

Fanny felt both dismissed and powerless. As if this threat against her was not going to be taken seriously. But when the editor-in-chief spoke in that firm tone of voice, nothing would change her mind.

Her legs trembling, Fanny went back to her desk. She sat there, staring into space. Maybe it was just as Signe had said – maybe the note was merely another in a series of crazy letters sent to the magazine. She tried to convince herself of that.

But the uneasy feeling refused to go away.

AGNES AWAKES TO the sound of a traditional Swedish Christmas song blaring from the radio downstairs in the kitchen. She has been given permission to spend the holiday at home on Gotland. Her pappa came to fetch her from the ward – luckily, without Katarina – and pushed her in a wheelchair. The staff don’t want her to walk anywhere when she is away from the clinic because her heart is so weak.

They flew to Visby, and Agnes started to cry as the plane made its approach for landing because she could see the Gotland coast below. That was when she realized how much she had missed home.

She has been granted five days’ leave. And, best of all, she and her father will be on their own. Just the two of them. She had assumed that Katarina would insist on spending the holiday with them, since she’d come along every time Rikard had visited the hospital. But when they last spoke Agnes’s father had told her that they’d be alone, just like last year.

She looks up at the sloping ceiling, enjoying being in her own comfortable bed at home in Visby. She burrows her face in the pillow that feels so soft against her cheek. She’s had this old pillowcase and duvet cover for so many years. It makes her feel safe and cosy and reminds her of another time. Back when she had a mother and a father and an older brother. When she was healthy and had friends. When she went to school, like everybody else. She can’t get all of that back, but she can snuggle under the old duvet cover and pretend for a while. Daydream back to that time and let the memories wash over her.

Usually, when her mother and Martin pop up in her thoughts she tries to push them away as quickly as possible. Make them disappear. She doesn’t want to remember, can’t bear to see their faces or hear their voices. But here, at home in her bed, she allows herself to think about them. And, in a sense, it feels so liberating. She pulls the covers over her head, breathing in the familiar scent of home. She summons up pictures of her mother. Crawls into a make-believe world, her own safe cocoon, allowing herself to be wrapped in the warmth of the duvet and the cover that her mother bought for her at Ikea when they went to Stockholm long ago. It’s still here, but her mother is not. The very idea is absurd. How can a simple duvet cover outlive a person? But she refuses to think about that now. She wants to sink into her daydreams, go back in time a few years. Pretend that everything is the way it used to be when she was twelve. Soon she’ll get out of bed and have breakfast with her family; then she’ll leave for school. Her best friend, Cecilia, always used to stop by to collect her, waiting in the doorway for her to put on her coat. Then they would walk to school together. Now, it all seems like a dream.

She studies the pattern on the wallpaper and feels more cheerful than she has in a long time. Pappa has said that they’ll take their time over breakfast and then go for a walk, like they always used to do when Mamma and Martin were alive. Agnes and her father had both burst out laughing when he said the part about ‘taking their time’ over breakfast. With Agnes, every meal lasts a long time, since she can’t be hurried. And going for a walk means that he will push her in the wheelchair as best he can along the snowy streets. But it doesn’t matter. They will be together, Agnes and her father.

She runs her finger along the ceiling beam above her head where the wallpaper is coming loose. When Agnes was younger her mother had scolded her for poking holes in the paper. Now she pictures her mother’s face, still so vivid in her memory.

She remembers very little of the period right after the accident. Or how they managed to get through the days. Outwardly, Pappa had seemed able to cope with the daily tasks, but at night she would hear him sobbing in the bedroom he used to share with his wife. Every morning he would get up early and leave for work, as usual. Relatives and friends tried to persuade him to take some time off, but he stubbornly refused. He clung to his regular routines, which gave some semblance of order to the chaos. He didn’t want to talk to a psychologist; he thought he could handle things on his own. Agnes worried about her father being so alone. She stayed home from school until after the funeral. She couldn’t bear to see the look in everyone’s eyes or answer all their questions.

The funeral was a horrible, anxiety-filled experience that she would prefer to forget. In the cemetery, when the two coffins were lowered together into the ground, side by side, she realized for the first time that Mamma and Martin were really gone for ever. They were never coming back. And it was suddenly all too much for her, as everyone stood there, all clad in black and with big white snowflakes falling around as they watched the coffins disappear into the dark earth. It felt as if strong hands had seized hold of her throat and were trying to strangle her. Everything went black and she collapsed on to the damp, cold ground.

Fortunately, during the weeks following the funeral, Agnes received a great deal of help from her friends, especially Cecilia. She would sit with Agnes for hours and let her talk about her mother and Martin. Cecilia never grew tired of listening or offering support. She helped Agnes as best she could. That was before Cecilia gave up on her. Agnes aches when she thinks about that now. She has no friends left any more.

She had found it touching that her father showed such concern for her. She knew that he must have been suffering terribly, yet he was careful not to burden her with his grief. Only on a few occasions had he wept openly after the funeral. For instance, when they finally began cleaning out Martin’s room and packing his belongings in cardboard boxes.

Up until then, Pappa hadn’t been able to throw anything out. He had washed Martin’s clothes, which he’d found in the laundry basket, then neatly folded them and placed them back in the chest of drawers and wardrobe. But he left out one garment, a blue sweatshirt, which he would hold close, breathing in the scent, if he thought no one was watching. Agnes had also saved one of Martin’s T-shirts. She kept it in a dresser drawer. Now and then she would bury her face in the fabric. As long as Martin’s scent lingered, part of him was still alive. A small fragment she could cling to for as long as it lasted. She had cried all night when she discovered that the smell had gone.

On that Sunday when they’d decided to pack up Martin’s belongings, they were sitting in his room upstairs as the rain pattered on the rooftop. They put one thing after another into boxes. They worked slowly and carefully, both of them wanting to see and touch each item. It was excruciating. Martin was everywhere in that room. The bed he’d slept in, the desk where he’d done his homework, the TV on the wall. He’d been so proud of that TV, which he’d bought with the money he’d earned working at the ICA supermarket in the evenings and at weekends. Agnes remembered seeing all the notes he’d made in his schoolbooks and on his calendar. The writing was still there, but Martin was not. He was never coming back.

Cautiously, Agnes gets out of bed. With the thick down duvet draped over her shoulders, she pulls on another pair of tracksuit bottoms over the ones she slept in. Then she puts on two thin cotton shirts, a fleece jumper, her warm slippers and, finally, her mother’s old knitted tunic that she used to wear out in the country. Agnes goes into the bathroom.

The radio is on downstairs in the kitchen, with the volume turned up, as usual. Yet she can hear her father talking on the phone. His insistent tone penetrates through the loud music, and she catches a few phrases here and there. ‘But you have to understand, Katarina… Agnes needs… I know you’re lonely… No, that won’t work… We agreed that…’

Agnes stands still to listen. Her father’s voice grows more urgent, then entreating and gentle, filled with tenderness, and finally annoyed and angry. ‘But you can’t possibly understand… Agnes is seriously ill… She needs me… I know it’s difficult for you because you don’t have children, but… children always come first in every situation, and that’s how it should be, that’s our duty as parents, we have a responsibility, even though you’re having such a hard time understanding that.’

His voice rises, and now Agnes can hear every word.

‘No, you can’t come here. No, Agnes and I need to be alone. We’ve already talked about all of this. Don’t call me again, do you hear me?’

Agnes hears him slam down the phone. The next second the radio shuts off. Nothing but silence.

She waits for a long time before she goes downstairs.

THERE WAS A sense of anticipation in the conference room as Knutas took his usual place at the head of the table. It wasn’t enough that the director of Fashion for Life had just been found murdered. Over the last few hours, all sorts of speculation had been swirling through the air in the criminal division. Everyone was aware that there had been some new and important development in the investigation, but nobody knew what it was. Knutas had kept his office door closed, and talked on the phone all afternoon, and no one had dared disturb him. By the time he abruptly called together the team for an emergency meeting late on Monday afternoon, everyone was eager to hear what was going on.

All eyes were on the investigative team leader as he told them about the threatening message that had been sent to the editor of the fashion magazine.

‘Apparently, it’s not unusual for the editorial staff to receive hostile letters,’ Knutas explained. ‘According to the editor-in-chief, this might happen if the magazine shows a model wearing furs, and then the animal-rights activists react. Or people might accuse the magazine of being racist because there are rarely black models on the cover. Or the magazine is blamed for encouraging anorexia. But this particular letter arrived in their offices the day after Robert Ek was found murdered. And it wasn’t sent to the editor-in-chief or to the magazine in general. The name on the address was the fashion editor Fanny Nord,’ he told his colleagues.

Crime-scene technician Erik Sohlman was the first to comment on the actual message.

‘Letters cut from a newspaper or a magazine – that’s an age-old tactic. But the fact that the sender took the trouble to cut out the letters and yet wrote the name and address by hand seems awfully amateurish.’

‘Although he didn’t bother to cut out separate letters. Instead, he cut out whole words,’ Knutas pointed out. ‘Four words, in different colours and typefaces, but they seem to be from the same publication. Some sort of magazine. The fact that he wrote the address on the envelope by hand does seem to indicate that we’re not dealing with a professional. Would it be of any use to contact a graphologist to study the handwriting?’

‘Not really,’ said Sohlman. ‘We have nothing to compare it to. I assume that the letter has already been sent to the lab for DNA analysis. Where was it postmarked?’

‘In Stockholm. Yesterday. So it was probably mailed after Robert Ek was murdered.’

‘If the words were all cut out of the same publication, it shouldn’t be impossible to work out which one it was,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Do you have a photo of the message?’

‘They’re sending us one,’ said Knutas. ‘And I’m sure the Stockholm police are working on that angle. But we shouldn’t get our hopes up. Even if we identify the magazine, it doesn’t mean it will give us a lead in the investigation. Just think how many magazines there are in this country.’

‘The words didn’t come from that fashion magazine?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘Apparently not.’

‘What about fingerprints?’ asked Sohlman.

‘There are a lot of prints on the envelope, of course. But none on the card itself. The sender wore gloves.’

‘So the question is whether the killer we’re looking for sent the letter. And also, what does it mean that it was addressed to Fanny Nord?’ the spokesperson, Lars Norrby, summarized with a solemn expression.

‘What do we know about her?’ asked Smittenberg, turning to Knutas.

‘Not much,’ he replied, leafing through his papers. ‘She’s twenty-nine years old, and in spite of her young age she has worked at the magazine for ten years. It seems she started as an assistant right after secondary school. Then she worked her way up and is now both a stylist and a fashion editor. Which means that the magazine pays her to work with models at fashion shows and on photo shoots. She also does the planning and layout for fashion spreads. And she writes articles as well.’

‘Sounds like you managed to find out quite a lot,’ said Smittenberg, smiling.

‘Well, she was very talkative and pleasant, that Fanny Nord. Although nervous. She’s worried that the person who sent the letter is a madman and that, for some reason, he’s after her. And of course she’s asking herself why it was addressed to her when the message says: “You are all killers.”’

THE MAIN OFFICES for Regional News were located in the big Swedish TV building near Gärdet in Stockholm. When Johan Berg stepped through the glass doors on the day before Christmas Eve, he felt his stomach flutter. The TV building never lost its thrill.

As he walked down the long corridor on his way to the editorial office, he ran into several former colleagues, who greeted him warmly, stopping him to chat. It took him fifteen minutes just to get to the Regional News office, so he was almost late for the morning meeting. Everyone else had already taken seats at one end of the big room. He was greeted with happy shouts and thumps on the back when he joined his co-workers. Johan was quite touched by such a welcome. Suddenly, it didn’t matter that he had to work on the day before Christmas Eve. Unfortunately, Emma took a different view of the matter. She wasn’t happy about being left with her mother-in-law in the house in Rönninge, even though they got on well together. He would have to make it up to her later. But he couldn’t say no to his boss now that there were such major developments in the case. Max Grenfors had decided that Johan should come into the office and stay for as long as necessary, depending on how the murder investigation evolved.

As usual, Grenfors first reviewed the previous night’s news broadcast. Everyone discussed what was shown and offered critiques of what hadn’t been entirely successful. The big topic of conversation, of course, was the murder of Robert Ek.

‘It’s going to be the top story today, too, if nothing else important happens,’ Grenfors explained. ‘Johan is going to be working with us here in Stockholm, and we’re very happy about that. He’ll be primarily responsible for research. Andreas and Madeleine will, of course, continue to cover the case, in cooperation with Johan. The morning papers gave the story front-page attention, and this is what the evening papers look like today.’

He reached for a copy of the major Stockholm paper. The front page was dominated by a big photo of Robert Ek’s blanket-covered body being carried out of the agency’s building. The headline, in big black type, said: ‘FASHION FOR DEATH’.

‘Very clever,’ said Grenfors dryly. ‘Yesterday, we covered the press conference and interviewed the police spokesman. Today, I want to focus on the agency staff. I’ll leave that to you, Andreas. Madeleine can chase down the head of the investigative team and any criminologist or criminal profiling expert who can say something about what the next steps will be. I mean, both victims were viciously attacked with an axe. What does that say about the perpetrator? Johan will dig up any connections between Robert Ek and Markus Sandberg. That’s a good start, until we see how things develop as the day goes on.’

‘What are we doing about the Christmas party the agency had on Friday evening?’ asked Johan. ‘Doesn’t it seem likely that Ek’s murder was somehow connected with it?’

‘So far, the police haven’t confirmed anything like that, but you’re right. Andreas, see what you can find out, since you’re going to be talking to the staff.’

‘Was Jenny Levin at the party?’ asked Madeleine.

‘I think so.’

‘Shouldn’t we try to get in touch with her? She was the one who found Sandberg, after all. And now she’s involved in this case, too.’

Madeleine turned to Johan.

‘Don’t you have a contact for her?’

‘Yes, I do. Emma is good friends with Jenny’s mother, Tina Levin. I’ll try to reach her today. Although she may have gone home to Gotland for Christmas. If so, Pia can always interview her. We’ve already interviewed her once before.’

‘Good,’ said Grenfors, clapping his hands. ‘Let’s get going.’

The meeting broke up. Together, Johan, Andreas and Madeleine went to get coffee out of the machine as they discussed how best to divide up the work. Johan realized how much he missed working with a large group of colleagues. The hubbub and fast pace. Chatting with co-workers from all the other editorial offices in the building. He’d been assigned a desk next to Madeleine’s. He cast a surreptitious glance at her as they sat down. She was as attractive as ever. Hadn’t changed a bit in the ten years he’d known her. She looked exactly the same, pretty and petite, with full breasts, big blue eyes and almost black hair. They’d had a brief fling years ago, before his relationship with Emma got serious and he had ended up being posted to Gotland. He had to admit that Madeleine’s feminine charms still had an effect on him.

He reached for the phone. Right now, he had other things to think about.

KNUTAS STUDIED THE words in front of him. He’d kept a photocopy of the threatening message that had been sent to the lab for analysis. Those four words stared up at him: ‘You are all killers.’

He got out a magnifying glass from his desk drawer and examined the typeface. The words had been sloppily cut out, as if done in a hurry or under stress. Again, he read the brief sentence. What on earth did it mean?

He’d ordered back issues of the fashion magazine for the past year, thinking he might find a lead. The magazine was published fourteen times a year. He started in on the pile, spending the next few hours carefully leafing through each issue. He gave special attention to the pieces written by the editor-in-chief and to the fashion articles and columns that Fanny Nord had been responsible for.

When he was finished, he had a slight headache and he’d had his fill of fashion and beauty tips. He honestly wondered how women could stand all that rubbish. The readers of this magazine must be a small clique of wealthy city-dwellers who had nothing better to do than think about their appearance. It was like a competition to see who was the prettiest and most fashionable; a beauty pageant that never ended. He simply couldn’t understand it. The women in the photos were as different from his down-to-earth Lina as they could possibly be. But he was well aware that the magazine’s target audience was women just like her. A woman in her forties with an income high enough that she could afford to buy the clothes shown in the flashy pictures. If she was at all interested, of course.

He sighed heavily and put aside all the magazines except for the latest one. The Christmas issue had a supplement with the photos taken of Jenny Levin on Furillen. These were the last pictures that Markus Sandberg took before he became the victim of a murder attempt.

Against the bare backdrop and in the remarkable bluish-grey daylight, Jenny and the clothes she wore took on a special look. There was a bewitching atmosphere in those pictures, a captivating quality that drew the eye like a magnet. Fascinating, thought Knutas. Though he wasn’t sure whether it was because of everything that had happened to the individuals involved since those photos were taken, or whether the images themselves possessed an inherent sense of mystery all on their own. In certain pictures, Jenny stared into the camera with a hint of a smile in her eyes and on her lips. In others, her expression was serious, her eyes seductive and intense. He forgot to look at the clothes she was wearing. He saw only her. Who was Jenny Levin, deep inside? It was easy to be enticed by her exotic appearance, and that was probably why she was a model.

Earlier in the day, Knutas had spoken to her on the phone at her parents’ house. Her mother had begged the police to allow her daughter to celebrate Christmas in peace, so they had agreed to do the interview by phone. Jenny had no idea what had happened to Markus’s mobile, so she could not have sent the text message. For some reason, Knutas believed her.

Again, he studied the pictures. Markus Sandberg had done the photo shoot, completely unsuspecting, putting his whole soul into his work to make the images as good as possible. A few hours later, he was almost killed. What was the connection?

At the end of the fashion spread there was an article about Sandberg. Quite a handsome fellow, thought Knutas. No wonder women were attracted to him. His face nicely suntanned and slightly weather-beaten. Clear blue eyes, his teeth as white as in a Colgate advert. The article was about Sandberg’s career and how he’d gone from being a porn photographer with a tarnished reputation to a popular national celebrity and one of Sweden’s hottest and most respected fashion photographers. Now it seemed unlikely that Markus Sandberg would ever be able to work again.

Knutas had spoken to Dr Vincent Palmstierna earlier in the day. If anything, Sandberg’s condition was worse than before. He’d undergone yet more surgery, but that had resulted in further complications, and the doctors were still uncertain about the prognosis. The patient was still in a coma. It was tragic. Knutas put down the magazine and leaned back in his chair. He filled his pipe as he ruminated. Had the fashion spread from Furillen and the tribute to Markus Sandberg prompted the threatening letter sent to the magazine? He tapped in the phone number for the editor-in-chief and asked her when the Christmas issue had been published.

‘We put that one together very quickly,’ explained Signe Rudin. ‘Usually, we require three months to do the layout, but after the horrible attack on Markus, we wanted to include the fashion spread as soon as possible. We didn’t know how things would go for him. At first, it seemed very unlikely that he would survive. And since he’d done so much work for us over so many years, well-’

‘You wanted to be the first to print his story?’ Knutas finished her sentence.

‘That’s not at all how I’d express it,’ said the editor-in-chief indignantly. ‘We thought it was important to pay tribute to a photographer who’d been such a big part of the magazine. And it felt right to publish the photos from Furillen.’

‘I was struck by the way a certain line was phrased in the article.’ Knutas read it aloud: ‘“The last photographs taken by Markus Sandberg – this is how a master photographer worked.” It sounds like he’s already dead.’

‘Considering the injuries that Markus has sustained, I think we can all agree that he’s not going to do any more photography work. And you could also interpret that sentence to mean the last photographs he took before he was attacked. You’d understand that if you read the whole article.’

Signe Rudin was starting to sound cross.

‘Right,’ said Knutas curtly. ‘But what I really want to know is how soon the public had access to this fashion spread. When did this issue go on sale?’

‘The twelfth of December. The day before the Lucia Day celebration.’

‘A week before Robert Ek was murdered,’ said Knutas.

‘That’s right,’ said the editor-in-chief.

He could now hear a slight nervousness in her voice.

‘Do you think we received that threatening letter because of the article?’

‘At this stage, it’s mere speculation,’ replied Knutas. ‘But the fashion spread and the lengthy tribute to Sandberg might have provoked our perpetrator.’

‘But how does Fanny fit into the picture? Why was the letter addressed to her? She had nothing to do with that fashion spread or the article. A different stylist was assigned to the Furillen photo shoot. And I wrote the article about Markus myself.’

‘That’s exactly what we need to work out.’

THE GLITTERING LIGHTS from Gannarve farm could be seen from far away. Torches burned on both sides of the lane of old, gnarled oaks that led up to the buildings. Lanterns had been hung on the outside of the old barn and the sheep barn, casting a soft glow in the winter darkness. The snowfall over the past week had added to the drifts already covering the fields, giving the residents of Gotland a white Christmas, which was highly unusual. On Christmas Eve, the farmhouse was full. Close family members and other relatives had come from far and wide to celebrate the holiday together. Candles were everywhere, fires blazed in all the fireplaces, and the whole house was fragrant with the smell of Christmas cooking, glögg and the special pepparkakor biscuits.

A cheerful hum of conversation filled the room as everyone sat down at the long dining table to enjoy the meal. Both Jenny’s siblings were there, along with several cousins and other relatives, including her maternal grandparents. The dinner was so pleasant that, for long periods, Jenny managed to forget about all the awful things that had happened recently. It was great to be home.

She had been shocked to discover that she had spent Friday night in Robert Ek’s bed. The very night that he was murdered. She started to wonder if she was the target of some sort of conspiracy. Why was it on that particular night that she’d ended up being drugged, when that had never happened to her before? And why was Markus assaulted when he was on a photo shoot working with her? Why had the killer pretended to be her in the text that he sent to Robert, in an attempt to lure him to the agency? Was it just a coincidence that she had found herself nearby when both victims were attacked? Or was there some premeditated plot behind it all? Time after time, she thought about the man she’d seen outside the building on Kungsholmen.

She still hadn’t told anyone about that incident. She didn’t want to worry her parents. Yet the murder of Robert Ek had shaken her badly. Maybe she should talk to someone. Maybe even the police. Superintendent Knutas seemed very nice. Although that seemed a fairly drastic measure. He might even laugh at her. After all, the man hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t threatened her or even come close enough to speak to her. She was probably just imagining things.

She felt the warmth of everyone around her as she listened to them talking and laughing. All those horrible events couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her. She was just a model who worked for the agency. One of many. She could even switch agencies if she liked. Although she wasn’t yet prepared to go that far.

She needed a cigarette, but she didn’t want to go out into the cold to have a smoke right now. Instead she accepted another glass of wine and decided not to think any more about all the craziness at the agency. She had a couple of minor jobs in Stockholm during the coming week, and then she’d be going to New York for a prestigious show for Diane von Furstenberg. And after that, Paris. The whole world lay at her feet, and she had no intention of letting what had happened at the agency stop her. On Christmas Day she would go into Visby with all her old friends. She was longing to see them again and to be plain old Jenny. At least for a while.

ARE YOU ALL right, sweetie?’ Agnes’s pappa bends down and cautiously kisses her on the cheek as she lies on the sofa. He straightens the blanket that is wrapped around her.

‘You’re not cold, are you? I’ll be back in plenty of time to watch Donald Duck and His Friends Celebrate Christmas, and then we’ll have coffee. Are you sure you don’t want anything?’

‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’

It’s Christmas Eve, and he’s going to drive over to his parents’ house to deliver their gifts. They wanted Agnes to come, too, but she doesn’t have the energy. They live over in Klintehamn, and Pappa has explained to them that Agnes is too weak. She talked to her grandmother on the phone, and they agreed to see each other on Christmas Day instead. She hasn’t seen them in several months.

The front door closes as her father leaves the house, and the only sound is from the TV. He has rented several films for her, since she doesn’t feel up to doing much else. She is watching an American comedy that seems very stupid. She can’t really concentrate. Pappa has piled pillows and blankets on the sofa. But she’s feeling restless. Her gaze shifts, and she looks at the walls in the room. Her father has brought out the old Christmas star they always put up in the living room. It’s a bit fancier than the others. He has even bought a Christmas tree, a sweet but rather lopsided tree, which they decorated last night as they both shed a few tears. The holiday always brings back memories of Mamma and Martin. This is the third Christmas without them. It feels strange to be lying here on the sofa, home alone. It’s like going back in time. The sofa, the wallpaper and the coffee table are all the same. Mamma embroidered the cloth on the table. Agnes leans forward and sniffs at it. As if it might still hold her mother’s scent. On the bookcase there is a photograph of Mamma and Martin. Next to it, Pappa has set a family photo from Greece, taken the summer before the accident. The whole family, sunburned and laughing, with Naxos harbour in the background. They had rented a house on the Greek island with another family for two weeks. That holiday was the best they’d ever had. Agnes remembers how they would sit in the shade on the terrace in the late afternoon, playing cards after a long day at the beach. They had talked about going back there. But life had made other plans.

She feels tears welling up, but she doesn’t want to cry any more. She sits up straighter, takes a sip of water from her glass, and tries to focus on the film. But she can’t. She breaks out into a cold sweat and the prickling sensation in her hands and feet is getting worse. She’s hungry. They’ve just had lunch, but when Pappa’s mobile started ringing in his jacket pocket in the front hall and he left the room to take the call, she dumped half of her food in the rubbish bin. Afterwards, she felt guilty. She did want to get well. Deep in her heart, she really did. Maybe it was dumb to throw out her food. Maybe that’s why she is feeling so weak right now. She ought to eat something. Just a little. Then she’ll feel better.

She goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge. Hunger is screaming inside her. She’s just going to look at the food. Just look. And maybe choose a small piece of something so she won’t keep feeling so ill. The refrigerator light casts a gentle glow in the dim kitchen, and she hears its faint, familiar droning sound. She holds on to the door for support as she inspects what’s inside. Everything looks so good. She sees cheese, ham, beetroot salad, Christmas sausages. Her eyes stop on a bowl of homemade meatballs, big and dark and slightly irregular in shape. Just like they’re supposed to be. Just like the ones Mamma made, which Agnes always loved. Pappa said that he had made them according to Mamma’s recipe. And they look just as good. But she can’t eat them. If she does, she will be utterly lost. If she eats one, she won’t be able to stop herself from eating the whole bowl. She wishes someone would come in and force her to eat them all. Then she wouldn’t have to decide for herself. On the shelf underneath is a carton of cherry tomatoes. They seem less dangerous than anything else. She takes a few.

Then she discovers a dish of red Christmas apples on the worktop next to the fridge. Those crisp, shiny apples that are a dazzling white inside and taste so sweet. She chooses the smallest apple, takes out a plastic cutting board and a knife, and then sits down at the kitchen table. She cuts the apple into two pieces. It should be okay for her to eat half an apple; it doesn’t have many calories, and she’s really feeling awful. She eats half. It tastes better than she imagined. The moment she swallows the last bite, she realizes she has upset the entire day’s routine. So she might as well continue. She eats the other half of the apple, too. It tastes amazing. She has to have another one. She gets up and brings over the entire dish, setting it on the table. She takes another apple, not bothering to slice it in half this time. Sweet apple juice runs out of her mouth. Greedily, she eats the whole apple. It tastes so good, yet she is filled with feelings of shame and disgust. She starts to cry. Now she has lost all control. She eats fast, finishing off two more apples as tears run down her face.

A suffocating sensation abruptly sets in. She feels stuffed. Her stomach is heavy. What on earth has she done? Quickly, she clears away all traces. She puts the dish back on the worktop with the few apples that are left. She wipes down the chopping board and washes the knife. She has to try to throw up. She doesn’t usually do that, but it now seems the fastest solution. She goes to the bathroom, raises the toilet lid and kneels on the floor, sticking two fingers down her throat. She tries several times without success. Then she stuffs all the fingers of one hand as far down as they’ll go, but she still can’t vomit. Why is it so damn hard? She is sobbing in despair. She has to get rid of those apples. It’s absolutely essential. Good Lord, she has eaten four of them.

She dashes out to the kitchen and pulls open the drawers, looking for some sort of tool. She takes a spoon back to the bathroom and sticks it down her throat. That should activate the gag reflex. But, after several attempts, the only thing that happens is that she feels nauseated and a tiny little piece of apple comes up. Nothing more.

Desperate and distraught, she finally stands up and catches sight of her face in the mirror. What she sees is frightening. Her face is bright red from the strain, her eyes are swollen and bloodshot. She realizes there is only one thing to do. Her mind is working frantically. How many calories are in an apple? She did throw out half of her lunch, so that means the situation isn’t really so dire. She checks her watch. Quarter to one. At best, she has at least two hours before her father comes home. She does a quick calculation in her head, figuring out how many jumps and sit-ups she needs to do to burn off all the fruit. Then she’ll be back where she started.

She knows she can do it.

She takes up position on the soft rug in front of the TV and starts jumping.

THE TEMPERATURE HAD plummeted in Stockholm, and it had snowed all night. Karin Jacobsson had booked a room at the same hotel in Gamla Stan where she usually stayed. She’d been given an address in Södermalm and the name of a café; that was all. She was supposed to turn up there at eleven o’clock on the morning of Christmas Eve.

For the first time, she was going to celebrate Christmas with Hanna, but not at home in her flat on Mariatorget. That much, Karin understood. The door slammed behind her as she stepped out of the hotel and into the quiet lane glittering with snow. Christmas decorations hung between the beautiful old buildings in Gamla Stan, and the windows of the small shops gleamed. The narrow streets were covered with snow, which creaked under her boots in the cold. A few other people were walking along the main street of Västerlånggatan. Almost everyone she met gave her a friendly look and nodded a Christmas greeting. That hadn’t happened to her before in Stockholm – strangers saying hello. In a plastic carrier bag was her present for Hanna, the first she’d ever bought for her daughter. It hadn’t been easy to choose what to give her, since she hardly knew Hanna. But the old enamel signs in her kitchen had given Karin an idea.

In a little antique shop, she’d found an old advertising sign for Göta chocolate. She had decided that was the perfect present. She didn’t want to go overboard this first Christmas. She needed to proceed cautiously. The situation was still so fragile.

She walked south across the bridge at Slussen and continued up Katarinavägen. Across the water to the east was Djurgården and the frozen ground of Gröna Lund with its roller-coaster, now motionless. It would be months before the ride was once again filled with people. From there, it was easy to see how narrow the lanes were in Gamla Stan, spreading out like octopus arms from Stortorget in the centre and down towards the wide avenue of Skeppsbron. The rooftops and ground were blanketed with snow, and all the church towers reached for the sky.

She took a detour through Vitaberg Park, which was bustling with life. Children were sledging down the steep slopes, laughing and shouting, and their parents seemed to be having as much fun as the kids. Some youngsters had launched themselves headlong down an ice slide, and she was alarmed to see them bouncing over a rock at the bottom.

Karin continued through the pleasant neighbourhood locally known as Sofo, meaning south of Folkungagatan. Quiet streets with hardly any traffic but plenty of small shops, cafés, bakeries and restaurants.

She finally found the café she was looking for. It was on a corner, only a stone’s throw from Katarina Church. In spite of the sign, which read ‘Closed on Christmas Eve’, the door was unlocked and a bell chimed as she stepped inside. Hanna popped up from behind the counter.

‘Hi, Karin!’

‘Hi! Merry Christmas!’

Hanna put down what she was holding.

‘I see you found the place all right.’

‘Sure. No problem. It’s amazing how beautiful Stockholm is. I’m more impressed every time I come here. I walked through Vitaberg Park.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Hanna with a laugh. ‘A big crowd over there, right? We went sledging in the park yesterday. It was great!’

They gave each other a hug. A quick and slightly awkward embrace.

‘So, have a seat. Would you like coffee?’

‘Please.’

Karin took off her cap, gloves and scarf, then removed her big anorak, looking around. The room had an intimate feel to it. The walls were painted warm colours, and the café was furnished with old, worn sofas and easy chairs. The lamps all had interesting shades from the fifties and sixties. And there were candles everywhere. Against one wall stood a long table where stacks of plates, glasses and cutlery had been placed. A copiously decorated Christmas tree stood in the corner with a big pile of presents underneath.

‘Looks like everything is ready for Christmas in here,’ she called to Hanna, who had disappeared into the kitchen.

‘You better believe it.’

‘Why aren’t you celebrating Christmas with your family?’

‘Mamma and Pappa are spending the holiday in Brazil. They invited me and Alex to come with them, but neither of us wanted to go. He has a new girlfriend, and so do I.’

Hanna came back from the kitchen carrying a coffee mug, but she wasn’t alone. She was holding hands with a young woman who Karin immediately recognized as Hanna’s friend from the restaurant on Mariaberget.

‘This is Kim,’ said Hanna, and Karin instantly understood. She stood up to shake hands.

‘Hi. I’m Karin. Hanna’s biological mother.’

This was the first time she’d introduced herself as Hanna’s mother. It felt good. Hanna handed her the coffee mug.

‘So tell me,’ said Karin, ‘what’s going to happen here in the café?’

‘Well, the thing is,’ Hanna began, ‘Kim and I had this idea to arrange a Christmas for the homeless instead of just sitting in the flat and enjoying ourselves in our nice, cosy, safe bubble. So we rang up Situation Stockholm and various shelters. But they told us that if there’s one day when the homeless don’t need more meatballs and ham sandwiches, it’s on Christmas Eve. Because so many of the churches in town organize a Christmas meal for them. So we asked ourselves: Who are the most needy in this society? Who are the ones that nobody ever thinks about? And we decided that it has to be women with children staying in residential shelters and LGBT refugees. There are a lot of gay young people from other countries in Stockholm, and they can’t go back home because of their sexual orientation. They’ve been disowned by their families. And then there are also all the illegal workers who are invisible in society and hounded by the police. So we’ve invited them here for a Christmas celebration. Could you possibly forget that you’re a cop for one night?’