‘Could you mark the locations on the map?’ said Gösta, pointing at the map of Sweden that was mounted at the end of the room.
‘Of course, that’s a good idea,’ said Patrik, taking out some coloured pins from a box in his desk drawer. He carefully stuck the four pins into the map: one in Tanumshede, one in Borås, one in Lund and one in Nyköping.
‘The murderer is at least staying in the southern half of Sweden. That limits the search area somewhat,’ said Gösta sourly.
‘Yes, be grateful for small favours,’ said Mellberg with a chuckle, but retreated again when no one else seemed to find his remark funny.
‘So, we have a lot to do now,’ said Patrik seriously. ‘And we can’t lose focus on the Persson investigation either. Gösta, did you get anywhere with the list of dog owners?’
‘It’s ready. I was able to locate one hundred and sixty owners. There are most likely some that aren’t included on any official lists. But that’s as close as we could get.’
‘Keep going with those you have, correlate them with the list of addresses, and see if any can be connected to this region.’
‘Certainly,’ said Gösta.
‘I thought I’d see whether it’s possible to get any more information from the book pages,’ said Patrik. ‘Martin and Hanna, could you talk to Ola and Kerstin again and see if they recognize either Börje’s or Elsa’s name? And have a word with Eva, Rasmus Olsson’s mother. But do it by phone, because I need you here.’
Gösta hesitantly raised his hand. ‘Shouldn’t I drive over and talk to Ola Kaspersen again? Hanna and I paid him a visit last Friday, and I got the feeling he wasn’t telling us everything.’
Hanna looked at Gösta. ‘I didn’t notice that,’ she said, her tone implying that Gösta was imagining things.
‘But you must have noticed when …’ Gösta turned to Hanna to argue, but Patrik interrupted him.
‘Both of you go over to Fjällbacka and see Ola; Annika can take care of the list of dog owners. I’d like to see that list, so put it on my desk when it’s ready.’
Annika nodded and made a note.
‘Martin, you check through the videotape from the night Barbie died. We may have missed something there, so go through the footage frame by frame.’
‘Will do,’ said Martin.
‘So, let’s get moving,’ said Patrik, putting his hands on his hips. They all got up and trooped out. Alone in the room, Patrik took down the four torn-out book pages from the wall and felt his brain go completely blank. How was he going to get any additional information out of these pages?
An idea occurred to him. Patrik put on his jacket, carefully put the pages in a folder and hurried out of the station.
Martin propped his feet up on the table with the remote in his hand. He was starting to feel sick and tired of the whole business. It had been too intense, too demanding, too much tension in the past weeks. Above all there had been too little rest and too little time with Pia and ‘the tiny soul’, which was the name of the work in progress.
He pressed ‘play’ and let the tape begin to roll in slow motion. He had seen the video before and questioned the usefulness of looking at it again. How did they know that the murderer or any lead had been caught on tape? Apparently Lillemor had met her death after she ran off from the community centre. But Martin was used to doing as he was told and wasn’t prepared to argue with Patrik.
He could feel himself getting sleepy from leaning back and watching the TV screen. The slow tempo added to his fatigue, and he had to force his eyelids to stay open. Nothing new appeared on the screen. First came the argument between Uffe and Lillemor. He switched to normal speed so he could hear the sound as Uffe accused Lillemor of talking shit about him, of telling the others he was stupid, dull, a Neanderthal. And Lillemor defended herself with tears, claiming she hadn’t said any such thing to anyone, that it was all a lie, that somebody was screwing with her. Uffe seemed not to believe her, and the altercation became more physical. Then Martin saw himself and Hanna enter the picture and break up the fight. The camera occasionally zoomed in on their faces, and he could see that they looked just as determined as they had felt at the time.
Then came almost forty-five minutes of tape time when nothing happened. Martin tried to pay attention as best he could, tried to spot things he had missed, maybe something that was said, something about other people. But there was nothing new. And sleep constantly threatened to force his eyes shut. He pressed ‘pause’ and went to pour himself a cup of coffee. He needed all the help he could get to stay awake. After pressing ‘play’ again he sat up straight and continued watching the tape. A quarrel began brewing between Tina, Calle, Jonna, Mehmet and Lillemor. He heard the same accusations from them that he’d heard from Uffe. They were screaming at Lillemor, shoving her and saying what the fuck was the big idea of her talking shit about them. He saw Jonna launch a violent attack against her. Lillemor again defended herself while crying so hard that the mascara ran down her cheeks in dark rivulets. Martin couldn’t help being moved by how small, helpless and young she suddenly looked underneath all that hair, makeup and silicone. She was just a little girl. He took a gulp of coffee and then saw on the screen how he and Hanna stepped in to break up the fight. The camera sometimes followed Hanna, who led Lillemor off to the side, sometimes him. With an angry look on his face, he told off the other participants. Then the camera turned back to the car park and he saw Lillemor run off towards town. The camera zoomed in on her back as she moved away, then it showed Hanna talking on her mobile, and then Martin, who still looked angry as he watched Lillemor flee.
After another hour he had seen nothing more than drunken youths and cast members partying on. By three a.m. the last of them had left and the cameras stopped filming. Martin sat there staring unseeing at the black screen while the tape rewound. He couldn’t say that he had discovered anything new that would lead them further. But something was gnawing at his subconscious; it felt like a tiny piece of dust in his eye. He looked at the black screen. Then he pressed ‘play’ again.
‘I only have an hour for lunch,’ said Ola peevishly when he opened the door. ‘So make it short.’ Gösta and Hanna stepped inside and took off their shoes. They hadn’t seen Ola’s home before, but they weren’t surprised to see how neat and orderly it looked. They’d seen his office, after all.
‘I’ll eat while we talk,’ Ola said, pointing at a plate of rice, chicken, and peas. No gravy, Gösta noted, who would never think of eating a meal without gravy. On the other hand, he was blessed with a metabolism that kept the weight off. He hadn’t yet acquired a paunch, despite his high-calorie diet. Maybe Ola wasn’t as fortunate.
‘So what do you want now?’ said Ola, carefully spearing some peas with his fork. Gösta observed in fascination how Ola seemed to have an aversion to mixing different kinds of food in the same bite; he meticulously ate the peas, the rice, and the chicken separately.
‘We’ve acquired some new information since last time,’ Gösta said dryly. ‘Do the names Börje Knudsen or Elsa Forsell sound familiar?’
Ola frowned and turned round when he heard a sound behind him. Sofie came into the room and looked quizzically at Gösta and Hanna.
‘What are you doing at home?’ said Ola angrily, glaring at his daughter.
‘I … I don’t feel well,’ she said. She did look a bit peaky.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ said Ola, not convinced.
‘I