He realized that Hedström was waiting for some other type of response from him and hastily added, 'You mean someone murdered a child? Well, that pervert isn't going to get away with it.' Mellberg clenched his fist to stress the gravity of his words, but that only managed to induce a worried expression in Patrik's eyes.

'Don't you want to know the cause of death?' Hedström asked, as if wanting to lend him a helping hand. Mellberg found his tone of voice extremely irritating.

'Of course, I was just getting to that. So, what did the M.E. say about the case?'

'She drowned, but not in the sea. They found only fresh water in her lungs, and since they also found residue of soap and such things, Pedersen assumed it was probably bathwater. So the girl, Sara, was drowned indoors in a bathtub and then carried down to the sea and thrown in. It was an attempt to make it look like an accident.'

The image that Hedström's account conjured up in Mellberg's mind made the chief shiver, and for a moment he forgot all about his own chances of promotion. He assumed he'd seen just about everything during his years on the force. He was proud of being able to maintain a sense of objectivity, but there was something about the murder of children that made it impossible to remain unmoved. It crossed the boundaries of all decency to attack a little girl. The feeling of indignation that the murder awoke inside him was unfamiliar but, he actually had to admit, quite pleasant.

'No obvious perpetrator?' he asked.

Hedström shook his head. 'No, we don't know of any problems in the family, and there have been no other reported attacks on children in Fjällbacka. Nothing like this. So we should probably start by interviewing the family don't you agree?' asked Patrik tentatively.

Mellberg understood at once what he was getting at. He had no objections. It had worked fine in the past to let Hedström do the legwork, and then he could step into the spotlight when the case was resolved. Not that it was anything to be ashamed of. After all, knowing how to delegate responsibilities was the key to successful leadership.

'It sounds as though you'd like to head up this investigation.'

'Well, I'm actually already on the case. Martin and I responded to the call when it came in, and we've met with the girl's family.'

'Well, that sounds like a good idea, then,' Mellberg said, nodding In agreement. 'Just see that you keep me informed.'

'All right,' said Hedström with a nod, 'then Martin and I will get going on it.'

'Martin?' said Mellberg in an ominous tone. He was still irritated at the lack of respect in Patrik's voice and now saw a chance to put him in his place. Sometimes Hedström acted as if he was the chief of this station. This would be an excellent opportunity to show him who made the decisions around here.

'No, I don't think I can spare Martin at the moment. I assigned him to investigate a series of car thefts yesterday, possibly a Baltic gang operating in the area, so he's got plenty to do. But…' he paused for dramatic effect, enjoying the distressed look on Hedström's face. 'Ernst doesn't have that much work right now, so it would probably be good if you two worked on this case together.'

Now Patrik had started squirming as if in agony, and Mellberg knew that he'd figuratively put his thumb on the most vulnerable spot, right in the middle of the officer's eye. He decided to assuage Hedström's agony a bit. 'But I'm putting you in charge of the investigation, so Lundgren will report directly to you.'

Even though Ernst Lundgren was a more pleasant colleague to deal with than Hedström, Mellberg was smart enough to realize that the guy had certain limitations. It would be stupid to shoot himself in the foot…

As soon as the door closed behind Hedström, Mellberg took out the letter again and read it for at least the tenth time.

Morgan did a few stretching exercises with his fingers and shoulders before he sat down in front of the computer. He knew that sometimes he could disappear so deeply into the world before him that he would sit in the same position for hours. He checked carefully that he had everything he needed in front of him so that he wouldn't have to get up unless it was absolutely necessary. Yes, everything was there. A large bottle of Coke, a big Heath bar and a King-size Snickers. That would keep him going for a while.

The binder he'd received from Fredrik felt heavy lying on his lap. It contained everything he needed to know. The whole fantasy world he himself was unable to create was gathered there inside the binder's stiff covers and would soon be converted into ones and zeros. That was something he had mastered. While emotions, imagination, dreams and fairy tales had, by a caprice of nature, never found space in his brain, he was a wizard at the logical, the elegantly predictable in ones and zeros, the tiny electrical impulses in the computer that were converted into something legible on the screen.

Sometimes he wondered how it would feel to do what Fredrik was able to do. Plucking other worlds out of his brain, summoning up other people's feelings and entering into their lives. Most often these speculations led Morgan to shrug his shoulders and dismiss them as unimportant. But during the periods of deep depression that sometimes struck him he occasionally felt the full weight of his handicap and despaired that he had been made so different from everyone else.

At the same time it was a consolation to know that he was not alone. He often visited the websites of people who were like him, and he had exchanged emails with some of the others. On one occasion he had even gone to meet one of them in Göteborg, but he wouldn't be doing that again. The fact that they were so essentially different from other people made it hard for them to relate even to each other, and the meeting had been a failure from beginning to end.

But it had still been great to find out that there were others. That knowledge was enough. He actually felt no longing for the sense of community that seemed to be so important for ordinary people. He did best when he was all alone in the little cabin with only his computers to keep him company. Sometimes he tolerated his parents' company, but they were the only ones. It was safe to spend time with them. He'd had many years to learn to read them, to interpret all the complex non-verbal communications In the form of facial expressions and body language and thousands of other tiny signals that his brain simply didn't seem designed to handle. They had also learned to adapt themselves to him, to speak In a way that he could understand, at least adequately.

The screen before him was blank and waiting. This was the moment he liked best. Ordinary people might say that they 'loved' such a moment, but he wasn't really sure what 'loving' involved. Hut maybe it was what he felt right now. That inner feeling of satisfaction, of belonging, of being normal.

Morgan began to type, making his fingers race over the keyboard. Once in a while he glanced down at the binder on his lap, but most often his gaze was fixed on the screen. He never ceased to be amazed that the problems he had co-ordinating the movements of his body and his fingers miraculously disappeared whenever he was working. Suddenly he was just as dextrous as he always should have been. They called it 'deficient motor skills', the problems he had with getting his fingers to move as they should when he had to tie his shoes or button his shirt. He knew that was part of the diagnosis. He understood precisely what made him different from the others, but he couldn't do anything to change the situation. For that matter, he thought it was wrong to call the others 'normal' while people like him were dubbed 'abnormal'. Actually it was only societal preconceptions that landed him in the wrong group. He was simply different. His thought processes simply moved in other directions. They weren't necessarily worse, just not the same.