For a while they ate in silence. The food was good, but the odd quartet had a hard time finding a common topic for conversation. Suddenly the silence was broken by the shrill ring of a phone. Patrik fumbled in his pocket for his mobile and then got up and moved quickly towards the hall as he answered. He didn’t want to disturb the other patrons. After a few minutes he came back. Without sitting down he turned to Mellberg.

‘That was Pedersen. Lillemor Persson’s autopsy report is done. We may have something more to go on.’ His expression was sombre.

Hanna was enjoying the quiet in the house. She had decided to drive home and eat lunch; it took only a few minutes by car. After the past few hectic days at the station, it was lovely to be able to rest her ears for a while from all the ringing phones. Here at home she heard only the distant hiss of the traffic on the road outside.

She sat down at the kitchen table and blew on her food that she’d heated for a couple of minutes in the microwave. It was leftover sausage Stroganoff from yesterday’s dinner, a dish that she always thought tasted better the second day.

It was delightful to be at home alone. She loved Lars dearly. But when he was home there was always that tension, that unspoken worry in the air. She realized how exhausted that made her feel.

The problem was that she knew their relationship was being drained by something that they could never change. The past was like a wet, heavy blanket smothering everything in their lives. Sometimes she tried to get Lars to understand that they had to try and lift that blanket together, let in a little air, a little light. But he knew of no other way to live except in the dark and the damp. At least it was something familiar.

She often longed for something else. Something different from this miserable vicious circle they had ended up in. In recent years she had felt that a child might be able to erase their past. A child who could light up the darkness, relieve the weight and let them breathe again. But Lars refused. He wouldn’t even discuss the subject. He had his job, he said, and she had hers; that was enough. But she knew it wasn’t. Something was always missing. It never ended. A child would make it all stop. Discouraged, she put her fork down on her plate. She had lost her appetite.

‘How’s it going with you?’ Simon gave Mehmet a look of concern as he sat across the table from him in the corner of the bakery. They had been working hard and were allowing themselves a short break. But it meant that Uffe had to take care of the orders in the shop, so Simon kept glancing uneasily in that direction.

‘He can’t ruin anything in five minutes. I don’t think so, anyway,’ said Mehmet with a laugh.

Simon relaxed and laughed too. ‘Unfortunately I’ve lost all my illusions when it comes to that particular “addition” to my staff,’ he said. ‘I must have drawn the short straw when the cast assignments were made.’ He took a sip of coffee.

‘Could be. But you got me!’ said Mehmet with a big grin. ‘So if you combine Uffe and me you get one middling employee.’

‘Yes, there is that. I got you too!’ said Simon with a laugh. Then he turned serious and gave Mehmet a long look, but Mehmet chose not to respond. There were so many questions and unspoken words in that look, and he couldn’t deal with them at the moment. If ever.

‘You never answered my question. How’s it going with you?’ Simon insisted.

Mehmet felt nervous twitches in his hands. He tried to brush off the question. ‘Oh, I’m okay. I didn’t know her very well. But there’s been such an uproar around everything. At least the TV people are happy. The ratings are breaking all records.’

‘Yes, I see enough of you two in the shop every day, so I haven’t managed to watch a single episode yet.’ Simon had now toned down the intensity of his gaze. Mehmet allowed himself to relax. He took a big bite of a freshly baked bun, enjoying the taste and aroma of warm cinnamon.

‘How was it? Being questioned by the police?’ Simon also reached for a bun and swallowed nearly a third of it in one bite.

‘It wasn’t so bad.’ Mehmet wasn’t comfortable talking about this with Simon. Besides, he was lying. He didn’t want to tell the truth about how humiliating it had felt to sit there while the questions rained down on him, and how the answers he gave were never satisfactory. ‘They were polite. I don’t think they seriously suspect any of us.’ He avoided Simon’s eyes. Images flashed through his mind, but he dismissed them at once. He refused to accept what they wanted to remind him of.

‘That psychologist you all talk to, is he any good?’ Simon leaned forward and took another huge bite of the bun as he waited for Mehmet’s reply.

‘Lars is all right. It’s been good to be able to talk to him.’

‘How is Uffe taking it?’ Simon nodded towards the shop, where they could see Uffe dash past the doorway as he played air guitar with a baguette. Mehmet couldn’t help laughing. ‘What do you think? Uffe is . . . well, Uffe. But it could have been worse. Even he doesn’t dare bring up every subject with Lars. No, he’s fine.’

An elderly lady came into the bakery, and Mehmet saw her shrink back from Uffe’s wild dance. ‘I think it’s time to rescue the customers.’

Simon turned to see what Mehmet was looking at and got up at once. ‘Oh dear, Mrs Hjertén will probably have a heart attack if we don’t.’

When they stepped into the shop, Simon’s hand happened to brush Mehmet’s. Mehmet pulled his hand back as if he’d been burnt.

‘Erica, I have to go down to Göteborg this afternoon, so I’ll be home a bit late. Around eight, I think.’

As Patrik listened to Erica’s reply, he could hear Maja babbling in the background. All at once he felt an acute homesickness. He would give anything to say the hell with all this, go home, throw himself on the floor and play with his daughter. He’d also grown very close to Emma and Adrian in the past months, and he longed to spend time with them too. And he felt guilty that Erica had to take care of so much before the wedding, but as things looked now, he had no choice. The investigation was in its most intense stage and he had no time for any anything else.

It was lucky that Erica was so understanding, he thought as he got into the car. At first he’d considered asking Martin to come with him, but it wouldn’t take two of them to drive down and see Pedersen. Martin deserved a chance to go home early to Pia. He too had been working hard recently. Just as Patrik put the car in gear and was about to drive off, the phone rang again.

‘Hedström,’ he said, slightly irritated because he was expecting another barrage of questions from a reporter. When he heard who it was he regretted his impatient tone of voice.

‘Hi, Kerstin,’ he said, turning off the motor. The vague sense of guilt that he’d felt for over a week now struck him full force. He’d neglected the investigation of Marit’s death because he’d been working on Lillemor’s case. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but the media pressure in the wake of the girl’s murder had been too relentless to do otherwise. With a grimace he listened to what Kerstin had to say and then replied, ‘We . . . we haven’t found out much yet, I’m afraid.’

‘I understand, you must have been rather busy lately.’

‘Let me assure you that we haven’t lost our focus on investigating Marit’s death.’ He grimaced again, finding it distasteful that he had to lie. But all he could do now was try and make up for lost time. He sat for a moment in thought after he clicked off the call. Then he rang another number and spent the next five minutes talking with someone who sounded very confused by what he had to say. Relieved, Patrik then headed off towards Göteborg.

Two hours later he arrived at Forensic Medicine HQ. He quickly found his way to Pedersen’s office and knocked on the door. They usually communicated by fax or phone, but this time Pedersen had insisted on discussing the autopsy results in person. Patrik suspected that the media furore had made them even more cautious than usual.