‘They’ve been identified,’ Johannisen resumes his little performance. ‘Apparently they lay around for about twenty-four hours before their in-home carer found them and sounded the alarm. You didn’t make the connection?’

He turns to Karen.

‘That’s your case, Evald. I had no idea who the couple up in Ravenby were until you told me. As you know, I’ve had my hands full,’ she snaps.

Jounas Smeed holds his hands up.

‘Cut it out, both of you,’ he says. ‘I didn’t make the connection either since I didn’t know Luna’s parents’ names until just now. Besides, it’s not like Johanson’s an unusual surname in this country. There must be thousands. But I assume we’re all thinking the same thing, now that we know.’

‘That Billy killed them,’ Karl Björken says.

‘Well, I’ve seen weaker motives,’ Karen agrees. ‘And it makes sense timewise. He found out the horrifying truth about his father, went to mete out justice, and then drove himself into the side of a mountain. Intentionally or not. The question is if he killed Luna first.’

‘Or if he spared her after finding out she was a victim, too,’ Astrid Nielsen says with a hint of hope in her voice.

Karen shrugs.

‘It’s possible. Either way, we need to find her,’ she says. ‘And fucking quickly,’ she adds. ‘The glass of water was almost empty in that last picture.’

Chapter 54

54

It’s twenty to two in the morning when Karl Björken turns onto Förmansgate in the leafy suburb of Trovad outside Ravenby and leans forward over the steering wheel to look for the right house.

They drove halfway each, and Karl watched Karen struggle to stay awake, lulled by the soothing sound of the motorway. Saw her eyelids droop, saw her blink and blink to keep them from closing completely. He has seen it all before. At home. The mood swings, the tension between a physically limited body and a still-sharp mind. He has heard the retching in the bathroom.

And not once was it bloody gallstones.

She will tell me when she’s ready, he thinks; asking now would probably just make her roll up like a hedgehog.

‘Jesus, don’t they have house numbers here?’ he says aloud. ‘Can you see anything?’

Karen peers out the side window, trying to find the right address. After a while, she realises that for some unknown reason, the house numbers in this part of Ravenby are only posted on the letterboxes lining the pavement: 34, 36, 38 . . .

‘That must be it, the next one on our right,’ she says.