‘Oh yes?’ said Patrik, wondering where this was leading. ‘Yes, that’s why I hadn’t seen the query you sent out. Until now.’

‘I see,’ said Patrik with much greater interest. He felt his fingers starting to tingle from anticipation at what might come next.

‘Yes, my younger colleagues here are relatively new to the region, so they didn’t know anything about it. But I recognize the case. Without a doubt. I was the one who investigated it eight years ago.’

‘What case?’ said Patrik, his breathing turning short and shallow. He pressed the receiver hard against his ear, afraid of missing a single word.

‘We had a man here eight years ago who . . . well, I thought there was something strange about the whole thing. But he had a history of alcohol abuse, and . . .’ Runberg paused with embarrassment, apparently reluctant to admit the mistake he’d made. ‘Well, we all just thought that he’d had a relapse and then drank himself to death. But the injuries you mention, I have to admit in hindsight that I wondered about them.’ The line went silent and Patrik understood how much it was costing the superintendent to have this conversation.

‘What was the man’s name?’ said Patrik to break the silence.

‘Jan-Olov Persson,’ said Superintendent Runberg. ‘He was forty-two years old, worked as a cabinetmaker. Widower.’

‘And he was an alcoholic?’

‘Yes, he had a big problem for a while. When his wife died, then, well, he went to pieces. It all turned into a very sad story. One evening he got into his car drunk and ran into a young couple who were out walking. The man died, and Jan-Olov spent some time in jail. But after he got out he never touched alcohol again. Behaved himself, did his job, took care of his daughter.’

‘And then he was suddenly found dead of alcohol poisoning?’

‘Yes,’ Runberg sighed. ‘As I said, we thought he’d had a relapse and things got out of control. His ten-year-old daughter found him. She claimed that she had met a stranger, a man, in the doorway, but we didn’t really believe her. Thought it must have been the shock, or that she wanted to protect her pappa . . .’ His voice died out and the shame hung heavy in his silence.

‘Was there a book page next to him? From a children’s book?’

‘I tried to remember when I read your query. But I can’t recall anything like that,’ Runberg said. ‘At least if there was a book page we didn’t give it any thought. We probably assumed it belonged to the girl.’

‘So there’s nothing like that left?’ Patrik could hear how disappointed he sounded.

‘No, we don’t have much left from the investigation. As I said, we thought the guy had drunk himself to death. But I can send you what we do have.’

‘Do you have a fax? Could you fax it over? It would be good to have it ASAP.’

‘Of course,’ said Runberg. Then he added, ‘Poor girl. What a life. First her mamma died when she was little and her pappa went to prison. Then he dies and leaves her all alone. And now I read in the papers that the girl was murdered over in your town. I think she was in some reality show. I never would have recognized her from the photos. Lillemor didn’t look at all like herself. As a ten-year-old she was small, dark, and thin, and now . . . well, a lot has happened over the years.’

Patrik could feel the walls whirling around him. At first he couldn’t process the information. Then he suddenly realized what Vilgot Runberg was saying. Lillemor, Barbie, was the daughter of the second victim. And eight years earlier she had seen the killer.

When Mellberg walked into the bank he felt happier and more secure than he had felt in many, many years. He who hated to spend money was now going to spend two hundred thousand – and he felt not the slightest hesitation. He was buying himself a future, a future with Rose-Marie. Whenever he closed his eyes, which actually occurred rather often during working hours, he could smell the scent of hibiscus, of sunshine, of salt water, and of Rose-Marie. He could hardly fathom what luck he’d had and how much his life had changed in only a few weeks. In June they would fly down to see the condo for the first time, and then stay there for four weeks. He was already counting the days.

‘I’d like to transfer two hundred thousand kronor,’ he said, sliding the note with his account number across the counter to the teller. He felt rather proud. There weren’t many people who could save up so much on a policeman’s salary, but every öre helped, and by now he had a sizable nest egg. Rose-Marie was putting in the same amount and they could borrow the rest, she said. But when she rang yesterday she’d said that it was important that they close the deal quickly, because another couple had also expressed interest in the apartment.

He savoured the words. ‘Another couple.’ Imagine that he had gone and become a ‘couple’ at his advanced age. He chuckled at himself. Yes, and he and Rose-Marie could give the young people a run for their money in the sack as well. She was simply wonderful. In every respect.

He was just about to turn and leave after finishing his business, when he suddenly had a brilliant idea. ‘How much do I have left in the account?’ he asked the teller eagerly.

‘Sixteen thousand four hundred,’ she said. Mellberg hesitated for a millisecond before he made his decision.

‘I’d like to withdraw all of it. In cash.’

‘Cash?’ said the cashier, and he nodded. A plan was taking shape in his mind, and it felt more right the longer he thought about it. He carefully stuffed the money into his wallet and went back to the station. To think that it could feel so good to spend money. He never would have imagined it.

‘Martin.’ Patrik sounded out of breath when he rushed into his colleague’s office, and Martin wondered what was up.

‘Martin,’ Patrik repeated, but then sat down to catch his breath.

‘Too much exercise just running down the hall?’ said Martin with a smile. ‘You should probably see about getting in shape.’

Patrik waved his hand dismissively and for once didn’t jump at the chance to exchange friendly banter.

‘They’re related,’ he said, leaning forward.

‘Who are related?’ Martin asked, wondering what had got into Patrik.

‘Our investigations,’ said Patrik in triumph.

Martin felt even more confused. ‘Well, yes,’ he said, puzzled. ‘We already confirmed that DWI is the common denominator.’ He frowned and tried to understand what Patrik was raving about.

‘No, not those investigations. Our separate investigations. The murder of Lillemor – it’s connected to the others. It’s the same perp.’

Now Martin was sure that Patrik must have flipped out. He wondered whether it was stress-related. All that work lately, combined with the stress leading up to the wedding. Even the calmest person might . . .

Patrik seemed to know what he was thinking and cut him off, sounding annoyed. ‘They belong together, I tell you. Listen here.’

He briefly told him what Runberg had said, and as he talked Martin’s astonishment grew. He could hardly believe it. It sounded wildly improbable. He looked at Patrik and tried to grasp all the facts.

‘So what you’re saying is that victim number two is one Jan-Olov Persson, who was Lillemor Persson’s father. And Lillemor saw the murderer when she was ten years old.’

‘Yes,’ said Patrik, relieved that Martin finally seemed to get it. ‘And it’s true! Think about what she wrote in her diary. That she recognized somebody but couldn’t quite place him. A brief meeting eight years ago, when she was just ten years old; that couldn’t have been a very clear memory, given the circumstances.’

‘But the murderer knew who she was, and he was afraid that she would connect him to what had happened.’

‘And so he had to kill her before she identified him, thereby linking him to the murder of Marit.’

‘And by extension, to the other murders,’ Martin filled in, excited now.