‘Petechiae?’ Martin repeated, uncomprehending.

‘Red spots in the whites of the eyes that occur when tiny little blood vessels burst as a consequence of increased pressure in the blood system. Typical with suffocation, strangulation, and the like.’

‘But couldn’t she have had some sort of attack that made it hard for her to breathe? Wouldn’t that produce the same symptoms?’ asked Erica.

‘Yes, that’s possible. Absolutely,’ said the doctor. ‘But upon first inspection I noticed a feather in her throat, so I’d bet that this is the murder weapon.’ He pointed to a white pillow lying next to Britta’s head. ‘Petechiae can also indicate that pressure was applied directly to the throat, for example if someone used their hands to choke her. But the post-mortem will give us a definitive answer. One thing is certain, though. I won’t be writing this up as “death by natural causes” unless the ME can convince me that I’m wrong. We need to consider this a crime scene.’ He straightened up and cautiously exited the room.

Martin did the same, then pulled his mobile out of his pocket to ring for the techs, so they could make a thorough examination of the room.

After ushering everyone downstairs, he went back to the kitchen and sat down across from Herman. Margareta glanced at him, and a frown appeared on her face as she saw that everything wasn’t as it should be.

‘What’s your father’s name?’ Martin asked.

‘Herman,’ she told him. Her concern grew.

‘Herman,’ said Martin. ‘Can you tell me what happened here?’

At first the man didn’t answer. The only sound was the medics talking quietly to each other out in the living room. Then Herman looked up and said very clearly:

‘I killed her.’

Friday arrived, and with it came glorious late summer weather. Mellberg stretched out his legs, taking big strides, as he let Ernst pull him along. Even the dog seemed to appreciate the warm day.

‘Hey, Ernst,’ said Mellberg, waiting for the dog to lift his leg on a shrub. ‘Tonight your pappa is going out dancing again.’

Ernst tilted his head and gave him a quizzical look for a moment, but then returned to his toilet activities.

Mellberg found himself whistling as he thought about the evening’s class and the feeling of Rita’s body close to his own. One thing was certain: he could get used to this salsa dancing.

His expression darkened as thoughts of hot rhythms slipped away to be replaced by thoughts of the investigation. Or rather, investigations. Why was it that they never got to enjoy a bit of peace and quiet in this town? Why did people have to go on killing each other? Well, at least one of the cases seemed straightforward. The husband had confessed. Now they were just waiting for the ME’s report to confirm that it was murder, and then that case would be solved. Martin Molin was going around muttering that it was a bit strange that someone with connections to Erik Frankel should also have been murdered, but Mellberg didn’t give much credence to that. Good Lord, from what he’d understood, the victims had been friends when they were kids. And that was more than sixty years ago, which was an eternity, so it couldn’t have anything to do with the murder investigation. No, the idea was absurd. But just in case, he’d given his permission for Molin to check things out, go through phone lists, et cetera, to see if he could find a link. Most likely he wouldn’t find anything. But at least it would shut him up.

Suddenly Mellberg saw that his feet had carried him to Rita’s building while he was lost in thought. Ernst was standing at the door, eagerly wagging his tail. Mellberg glanced at his watch. Eleven o’clock. The perfect time for a little coffee break, if she was at home. He hesitated for a moment, then rang the intercom. No answer.

‘Hello there.’

The voice behind him made Mellberg jump. It was Johanna. She swayed a bit from side to side, holding one hand pressed to the small of her back.

‘Hard to believe it could be so damn hard just to go out for a short walk,’ she said, sounding frustrated as she stretched out her back with a grimace. ‘I’m going nuts just staying at home waiting, but my body doesn’t really want to do the same thing as my mind.’ She sighed, running her hand over her huge stomach. ‘I assume that you’re looking for Rita?’ she said, giving him a coy smile.

‘Er, well, yes…’ said Mellberg, suddenly embarrassed. ‘We… that is, Ernst and I, are just out for a little walk, and Ernst wanted to come over to see… er… Señorita, so we…’

‘Rita’s not home,’ said Johanna, the smile still on her lips. She apparently found his confusion amusing. ‘She’s visiting a friend of hers this morning. But if you’d like to come upstairs for some coffee… I mean, if Ernst would like to come upstairs, Señorita is home.’ She gave him a wink. ‘And you can keep me company. I’m feeling a bit down in the dumps.’

‘Oh, ah, of course,’ said Mellberg and followed her in.

Once inside the flat, Johanna sat down on a kitchen chair to catch her breath.

‘Why don’t you just relax?’ said Mellberg. ‘I saw where Rita keeps everything, so I’ll make the coffee. It’s better if you rest.’

Johanna looked at him in surprise as he began opening cupboards, but she gratefully remained seated.

‘That must be awfully heavy,’ said Mellberg, casting a glance at her stomach as he poured water into the coffee-maker.

‘Heavy is just one word for it. I have to say that being pregnant is highly overrated. First you feel like shit for three or four months and have to stay near the toilet in case you need to throw up. Next there are a couple of months when you feel okay, and occasionally even quite good. But then it’s as if overnight you turn into Barbapapa in the French kids’ books. Or maybe Barbamama.’

‘And after that?’

‘Don’t even go there,’ said Johanna sternly, shaking her finger at him. ‘I haven’t dared think that far ahead. If I start thinking about the fact that there’s only one way out for this kid, I’m really going to panic. And if you tell me “women have been giving birth to children for eons and survived and even wanted to have more, so it can’t be all that bad,” then I may have to punch you.’

Mellberg held up his hands in protest. ‘You’re talking to somebody who has never even been close to a maternity ward.’

He served the coffee and then sat down at the table.

‘It must be nice to eat for two, at any rate,’ he said with a grin as she stuffed the third biscuit in her mouth.

‘That’s one benefit I’m enjoying to the hilt,’ Johanna laughed, reaching for another. ‘Although it looks like you’ve adopted the same philosophy, without having pregnancy as an excuse,’ she teased, pointing at Mellberg’s sizable paunch.

‘I’ll be dancing this off in no time.’ He patted his stomach.

‘I’d like to come over and watch you sometime,’ said Johanna, giving him a friendly smile.

For a moment Mellberg was amazed that someone actually seemed to appreciate his company – he wasn’t used to that. But then he realized to his great surprise that he was enjoying spending time with Rita’s daughter-in-law. After taking a deep breath he dared to ask the question that had been nagging at him ever since their lunch, when all the pieces had fallen into place.

‘What about… the father? Who…?’ He could hear that this might not be the most articulate moment in his life, but Johanna seemed to have no trouble understanding what he meant. She gave him a sharp look and for several seconds considered how to answer him. Finally her expression softened as she seemed to decide that it was only curiosity that had prompted his question.

‘A clinic. In Denmark. We’ve never met the father. So I didn’t pick up some guy in a pub, if that’s what you were thinking.’

‘Er, no… I wasn’t thinking that,’ said Mellberg, but he had to admit to himself that the thought had definitely occurred to him.