‘It just came to me, you might say. But first I have to make two calls to confirm things, so I don’t want to say anything before the meeting. So far I’ve only told Mellberg.’

‘Okay, then I’ll see you in an hour,’ said Hanna, getting up to leave.

Patrik still couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was wrong. But she would probably tell him soon enough.

He picked up the receiver and punched in the first number.

‘We’ve found the connection we’ve been looking for.’ Patrik looked around, enjoying the effect of his announcement. His gaze paused for a moment on Annika, and he noticed she looked a bit red round the eyes. That was highly unusual. Annika was always happy and positive in all situations, and he made a mental note to talk with her after the meeting to hear how she was doing.

‘The crucial piece of the puzzle was brought in by Sofie Kaspersen today. She found an old newspaper article among her mother’s things and decided to bring it to us. Gösta and Hanna visited her and her father last week, and apparently they made a good impression on her, which led to her decision to contact us. Well done!’ he said, nodding his approval in their direction.

‘The article . . .’ he couldn’t resist pausing for effect as he felt the tension mounting in the room, ‘the article deals with the fact that twenty years ago Marit was involved in an auto accident that resulted in a fatality. She crashed into a car driven by an elderly lady, who died. When the police arrived at the scene it turned out that Marit had a high alcohol count in her blood. She was sentenced to prison for eleven months.’

‘Why haven’t we heard about this earlier?’ asked Martin. ‘Was this before she moved here?’

‘No, she and Ola were twenty years old and had lived here for a year when it happened. But it was a long time ago; people forget, and there was probably some sympathy for Marit as well. Her blood alcohol was just over the legal limit. She had got into the car after having dinner at a friend’s house and drinking a few glasses of wine. I know this because I found the documents about the accident. We had them down in the archives.’

‘So we had a file on this the whole time?’ said Gösta incredulously.

Patrik nodded. ‘Yes, I know, but it’s not so strange that we didn’t find it. It happened so long ago that it wasn’t entered into any database, and there was no reason to go through the documents down there willy-nilly. And definitely no reason to go through all the archived boxes of DWI convictions.’

‘And yet . . .’ Gösta muttered, looking subdued.

‘I’ve checked with Lund, Nyköping and Borås. Rasmus Olsson became disabled when he wrapped his car around a tree, and his passenger, a friend the same age, died. Rasmus was drunk when the accident occurred. Börje Knudsen has a rap sheet as long as my arm. One of the items is the report of an accident fifteen years ago, when he caused a head-on crash in which a five-year-old girl died. So this is the common denominator in three cases out of the four; they all drove drunk and killed someone because of it.’

‘And Elsa Forsell?’ asked Hanna, staring at Patrik. He threw out his hands.

‘That’s the only case I couldn’t get any confirmation about yet. There are no records of a conviction against her in Nyköping, but the priest of her congregation talked a lot about Elsa’s “guilt”. I think there’s something there, but we haven’t found it yet. I’m going to ring Father Silvio after our meeting and see if I can get anything more out of him.’

‘Good work, Hedström,’ said Mellberg from his seat at the kitchen table. Everyone turned their gaze to him.

‘Thanks,’ said Patrik in astonishment. A compliment from Mellberg was like . . . no, he couldn’t even think of anything to compare it with. One simply didn’t get compliments from Mellberg. Ever. Slightly bewildered by this comment out of the blue, Patrik went on, ‘What we have to do now is to start working from this new assumption. Find out as much as you can about the accidents. Gösta, you take Marit; Martin, you can have Borås; Hanna, you take Lund, and I’ll try to find out more about Elsa Forsell in Nyköping. Any questions?’

Nobody said anything, so Patrik adjourned the meeting. Then he went to ring Nyköping. There was a sort of frenzy, a tense energy, filling the air at the station. It was so palpable that Patrik felt as if he could reach out and touch it. He stopped in the corridor, took a deep breath and then went to make his calls.

Whenever Father Silvio took a trip home to visit his family and friends in Italy, he often got the same question. How could he stand it up in the cold North? Weren’t the Swedes odd? From what they had heard, Swedes most often stayed at home and hardly talked to each other. And they couldn’t handle alcohol at all. They drank like sponges and always overdid it. Why would he want to live there?

Silvio usually sipped on a glass of good red wine, looked out over his brother’s olive groves, and replied, ‘The Swedes need me.’ And that was how he felt. It had seemed like an adventure when he first went to Sweden almost thirty years earlier. An offer of a temporary position in the Catholic congregation in Stockholm had presented the opportunity he’d always wanted, a chance to move to the country which had always seemed so mythical and strange. Maybe it wasn’t all that strange. And he almost froze to death that first winter until he learned that three layers of clothing were a must if he wanted to go outdoors in January. But it was still love at first sight. He loved the light, the food, the Swedes’ cold exterior but glowing interior. He had learned to appreciate and understand the small gestures, the discreet comments, the muted friendliness he found with the fair-haired northerners. And that was another stereotype that had turned out to be false. He had been amazed when he landed on Swedish soil and saw that not all Swedes were blond and blue-eyed.

In any case, he had stayed. After ten years assisting with the congregation in Stockholm, he took an opportunity to lead his own church in Nyköping. Over the years a certain Sörmland accent had crept into his Italian-Swedish, and he enjoyed the merriment that this odd mixture sometimes aroused. If there was anything that Swedes did far too seldom, it was laugh. People in general might not associate Catholicism with joy and laughter, but for him the religion was precisely that. If love for God was not something bright and enjoyable, what else would be?

It had surprised Elsa at first. She had come to him, perhaps in the hope of finding a scourge and a hair shirt. Instead she found a warm handshake and a friendly gaze. They had spoken so much about this. Her feeling of guilt, her need to be punished. Over the years he had gently guided her through all the different concepts of guilt and forgiveness. The most important part of forgiveness was remorse. True remorse. And that was something Elsa had in abundance. For over thirty-five years she had felt remorse every second of every day. It was a long time to bear such a burden. He was glad that he’d been able to lighten her load a bit, so that she could breathe more freely, at least for a few years. Up until she died.

Father Silvio frowned. He had thought a lot about Elsa’s life – and her death – ever since the police had come to call. He had thought a lot about it before as well. But their questions had let loose a flood of emotions and memories. Yet the sacrament of confession was holy. The trust between a priest and a parishioner must not be broken. Still, the thoughts whirled round in his head, making him long to break a promise that God had bound him to. But he knew it was impossible.

When the telephone rang on his desk, he knew instinctively what it was about. He answered half in anticipation, half in dread: ‘Father Silvio Mancini.’

He smiled when he heard the officer from Tanumshede introduce himself. He listened a long while to what Patrik Hedström had to say and then shook his head.