CHAPTER EIGHT

      IT SMELLED STRONGLY of bleach in the corridor of the National Laboratory of Forensic Science in Linköping.

      Pathologist Björn Ahlmann looked up as Henrik Levin and Mia Bolander walked into the room. Björn stood at his stainless steel autopsy table with a serious look on his face. His eyes flashed a silvery blue.

      The fluorescent lights cast their harsh light on the tiled walls, the double troughs and channels for drainage.

      Henrik stood a bit from the table and observed the woman lying there. He thought how small and thin she looked. Above her breasts, her sternum was clearly outlined and her ribs stuck out under her smooth skin.

      Her complexion was pale and her long black hair lay over her forehead and shoulders. It looked like she was gazing out into the room with a mixed expression of amazement and sorrow.

      But there was no gleam in her small, narrow eyes.

      “I saw the announcement in the paper. It was tiny, as if death doesn’t interest anyone anymore,” Björn said with a sigh.

      “Everyone is probably too preoccupied with their own worries,” Henrik said.

      “How did she die?” Mia asked. “Do we know now?”

      “You didn’t have to come here to find out.”

      Björn passed the autopsy report to Henrik, who glanced expertly through the main points.

      “As you see,” he said, “the cause of death is asphyxia, a complete blockage of oxygen to the brain.”

      “So she suffocated?” Henrik asked.

      “Yes. The result of an overdose,” Björn said. “Heroin. She had fifty capsules in her stomach.”

      “Fifty?” Mia asked, whistling.

      “Yes, you heard right. Fifty,” Björn said.

      “And the capsules?” Henrik asked.

      “They’ve been analyzed,” said Björn, pushing his glasses up his nose. He nodded toward the report. “Everything’s in there.”

      Henrik contemplated the lifeless body. The nails on her fingers and toes were painted pink. He took a deep breath and felt depressed, as he always did when victims were young.

      “Anything else you can give us?”

      “No, there’s nothing that sticks out. Besides that she was a teenager, fifteen years old.”

      “Fifteen? On her passport it said she was eighteen.”

      “I can only say what I know,” said Björn, giving him a serious look. His glasses flashed as he turned toward the body again.

      “Christ,” said Mia. “Someone’s using young women to smuggle. That’s just shitty, plain and simple.”

      “She wasn’t a young woman,” said Henrik. “She was just a child.”

      * * *

      It was hard to stretch out her legs enough as she ran up the steps, yet she increased her speed. Running the last bit quickly and easily, she slowed down toward the top, stopping and panting for a moment on the landing.

      In her apartment, she did one hundred sit-ups. The back of her neck itched from sweat. Jana Berzelius pushed her hair to the side and stroked her fingers across the inscribed letters.

      After a quick shower, she put on a discreet amount of makeup, though she had to do extra touching up in those places where her skin was still discolored. She looked at herself, turning first to the right and then to the left, checking to see if the bruises showed through the layers of makeup. She reluctantly dabbed on a little extra blush and decided that would have to do.

      With her briefcase in one hand and her overcoat in the other, she went down to the basement. Her high heels drummed rhythmically as she walked quickly over the concrete in the garage. She unlocked her black BMW X6 from thirty feet away and placed her briefcase on the black leather passenger seat.

      A shiver went down her back. She felt ready to work, again checking her face in the mirror, repeating to herself that no one would suspect anything through the makeup.

      But she was still nervous. She hesitated a moment before pushing the start button and driving out of the garage.

      * * *

      Anneli Lindgren sat on the edge of the bed, her hair loose and not yet brushed. She opened her nightstand drawer and took out a pair of heart-shaped diamond earrings, weighing them in her hand. She carefully fastened them to her ears and stood, remaining there for a moment in her nightgown, gazing out the window. The wind rustled the frosty leaves on the trees. A rabbit bounded away, and she followed it with her eyes until it disappeared into a yard.

      She lifted her hand to her ear, twisting one of the earrings and thinking about when she had received them. It was a long time ago now, during a period when everything had been different, free. She still remembered that time in his apartment, how she had looked at him with red, warm cheeks. He had opened a dresser drawer, taken out a plastic fastener and a soft whip, forcing her arms up over her head. She’d lain on the bed protesting, keeping her legs together, twisting away when he pulled her panties down. He’d hovered over her, kneeling, watching her attempts to get free. He had smiled when he began to caress her from her knees up to her upper thighs, smiled even wider when she had stopped protesting, spread her legs and let him enter her.

      He had carried the package in his sport coat, then placed it on her naked stomach and said something that sounded like love. But she hadn’t been looking for love—she had only wanted to quench her desire. For once, at least, she had been able to give herself up to the desire she felt for him.

      For Anders.

      “The meeting starts in ten minutes.”

      The door to the bedroom squeaked when Gunnar came in with a towel around his hips.

      “Yep...” she said absentmindedly.

      Gunnar laid his hand on her shoulder, and she felt the warmth from his damp skin. He gently caressed her neck, under her hair, over her right shoulder. She felt the shoulder strap of her nightgown slip off. When he then tried to caress her breast, she carefully pushed his hand away.

      “What’s wrong? What were you thinking about?” he asked.

      “About you. And us,” she said, leaving the window. “We have to get going. We can’t be late to this meeting.”

      She opened the closet and grabbed the first shirt she touched. She just wanted to get out of the bedroom without him seeing the blush on her cheeks.

      The blush of shame.

      * * *

      Jana Berzelius entered the conference room on the third floor of the police station in Norrköping. She sat at the oval table and glanced furtively at the team that was already seated there. Anneli Lindgren was taking down important details about the dead woman from the train; Mia Bolander was drawing ten pointy flowers in the margin of her notes. Ola Söderström was adjusting the screen of his laptop. Gunnar Öhrn was sitting with his hands folded on the table.

      “Ah, so you also had to show up?” Mia said without raising her eyes.

      “Yes,” Jana said, her head held high and her back straight. Her jacket was black, her skirt was knee-length and her hair was stick straight.

      “But don’t you prosecutors usually wait until we’ve done the heavy lifting? Or at least until we have a suspect?”

      “Not all do,” Jana said.

      Henrik