‘Really?’
‘I drew a big skull and hung that on the door, but I think she went in anyway, because sometimes there were clean sheets on the bed.’
The evening air is fresh when he steps outside. It feels like he’s hardly been breathing during the course of the lesson. His back is so tense that it hurts, and he still feels strangely embarrassed.
When he gets home he has a long, hot shower, then he calls the piano teacher.
‘Yes, this is Jackie.’
‘Hello, Erik Maria Bark here. Your new pupil, you know …’
‘Hello,’ she says, curious.
‘I’m calling to … to apologise. I wasted your whole evening and … well, I can see it’s hopeless, it’s too late for me to …’
‘You did some good work, like I said,’ Jackie says. ‘Do the exercises I gave you and I’ll see you again soon.’
He doesn’t know what to say.
‘Goodnight,’ she says, and ends the call.
Before he goes to bed he puts on Chopin’s opus 25, to hear what he’s aiming at. When he hears the pianist Maurizio Pollini’s bubbling notes, he can’t help laughing.
The sun is high above the trees, and the blue-and-white plastic tape is fluttering in the breeze. A transparent shadow of the tape dances on the tarmac.
The police officers posted at the cordon let through a black Lincoln Towncar, and it rolls slowly along Stenhammarsvägen as a reflection of the green gardens runs across the black paint like a forest at night.
Margot Silverman pulls over to the kerb and glides smoothly to a halt behind the command vehicle, and sits there for a while with her hand on the handbrake.
She’s thinking about how hard they worked to try to identify Susanna Kern before time ran out, then, once an hour had passed and they realised it was too late, carried on anyway.
Margot and Adam had gone down to see their exhausted IT experts, and had just been told that it wasn’t possible to trace the video clip when the call came in.
Shortly after two o’clock in the morning the forensics team were at the scene, and the entire area between Bromma kyrkväg and Lillängsgatan had been cordoned off.
Throughout the day the arduous task of examining the crime scene continued as further attempts were made to question the victim’s husband, with the help of psychiatrist Erik Maria Bark.
The police have carried out door-to-door inquiries in the neighbourhood, they’ve checked recordings from nearby traffic-surveillance cameras, and Margot has booked a meeting for herself and Adam to see a forensics expert called Erixon.
She takes a deep breath, picks up her McDonald’s bag, and gets out of the car.
Outside the cordon blocking off Stenhammarsvägen is a growing pile of flowers, and there are now three candles burning. A few shocked neighbours have gathered in the parish hall, but most of them have stuck to their plans for the weekend.
They have no suspects.
Susanna’s ex-husband was playing football at Kristineberg sports club with their son when the police caught up with him. They already knew that he had an alibi for the time of the murder, but took him to one side to tell him.
Margot has been told that after he was informed, he went back in goal and saved penalty after penalty from the boy.
This morning Margot drew up a plan for the initial stages of the investigation in the absence of any witnesses or forensic results.
Paying particular attention to people convicted of sex crimes who have either been released or given parole recently, they’re planning to track down anyone who’s been institutionalised or attended a clinic for obsessive disorder therapy in the past couple of years, and then work closely with the criminal profiling unit.
Margot crumples the paper bag in her hand while she’s still chewing, then hands it to a uniformed officer.
‘I’m eating for five,’ she says.
Wearily she lifts the crime-scene tape over her head, then walks heavily towards Adam, who is waiting outside the gate.
‘Just so you know, there’s no serial killer,’ she says sullenly.
‘So I heard,’ he replies, and lets her go through the gate ahead of him.
‘Bosses,’ she sighs. ‘What the hell are they thinking? The evening tabloids are going to speculate, it doesn’t matter what we say; the police are fair game to them, but we have to follow the rules. It’s like shooting a fucking barrel.’
‘Fish in a barrel,’ Adam corrects her.
‘We don’t know what effect the media are likely to have on the perpetrator,’ she goes on. ‘He might feel exposed and become more cautious, withdraw for a while … or all the attention could feed his vanity and make him overconfident.’
Bright floodlights are shining through the windows of the house, as if it were a film location or the setting for a fashion shoot.
Erixon the forensics expert opens a can of Coca-Cola and hurries to drink it, as though there were some magic power in the first bubbles. His face is shiny with sweat, his mask is tucked below his chin, and his protective white overalls are straining at the seams to accommodate his huge stomach.
‘I’m looking for Erixon,’ Margot says.
‘Try looking for a massive meringue that cries if you so much as mention the numbers 5 and 2,’ Erixon replies, holding out his hand.
While Margot and Adam pull on their thin protective overalls, Erixon tells them he’s managed to get a print of a rubber-soled boot, size 43, from the outside steps, but all the evidence inside the house has been ruined or contaminated thanks to the efforts of the victim’s husband to clean up.
‘Everything’s taking five times as long,’ he says, wiping the sweat from his cheeks with a white handkerchief. ‘We can’t attempt the usual reconstruction, but I’ve had a few ideas about the course of events that we can talk through.’
‘And the body?’
‘We’ll take a look at Susanna, but she’s been moved, and … well, you know.’
‘Put to bed,’ Margot says.
Erixon helps her with the zip of her overalls, as Adam rolls up the sleeves of his.
‘We could start a kids’ programme about three meringues,’ Margot says, placing both hands on her stomach.
They sign their names on the list of visitors to the crime scene, then follow Erixon to the front door.
‘Ready?’ Erixon asks with sudden solemnity. ‘An ordinary home, an ordinary woman, all those good years – then a visitor from hell for a few short minutes.’
They go inside, the protective plastic rustles, the door closes behind them, the hinges squealing like a trapped hare. The daylight vanishes, and the sudden shift from a late summer’s day to the gloom of the hallway is blinding.
They stand still as their eyes adjust.
The air is warm and there are bloody handprints on the door frame and around the lock and handle, fumbling in horror.
A vacuum cleaner with no nozzle is standing on a plastic sheet on the floor. There’s a trickle of dark blood from the hose.
Adam’s mask moves rapidly in front of his mouth and beads of sweat break out on his forehead.
They