‘The woman in question is Billy’s biological mother,’ Karl cuts him off. ‘Lena Johanson, better known as Luna Johns.’

The silence that follows is absolute. The only sound is the ticking of the tall grandfather clock.

Without waiting for their reactions, Karl presses on.

‘Everything points to Billy, in his despair at having been given up by his biological mother and then rejected by the two of you—’

‘By God.’

His voice is like the crack of a whip.

‘We have given William every opportunity, despite his unfortunate start in life. We did everything in our power to put him on the right path, but he chose not to accept our help. It should go without saying that we can take no responsibility for whatever he may ha—’

‘We’re not here to discuss your religious convictions,’ Karl breaks in. ‘We’re here to try to figure out where Billy might have taken Luna.’

Yngve Formby shrugs, still without uncrossing his arms.

‘And what would make you think we know? We’ve had no contact with him in . . . well, it must be coming up on ten years now, or . . . ?’

He turns to his wife.

‘Yes, ten years this autumn,’ she replies quietly.

‘We would like you to have a look at a few pictures,’ Karl says, his voice still calm. ‘Please, take your time and see if you recognise anything. Anything at all that might give us a clue as to where they were taken.’

Karen has pulled a plastic folder of printouts from her bag. Now, she takes out eight enlarged pictures, leans forward, and places them on the coffee table in front of Idun Formby.

She notes with satisfaction the flash of anger in Yngve’s eyes as he grudgingly uncrosses his arms and leans a little bit closer to his wife so he can see.

Then he picks up the stack, quickly flips through it, and puts the pictures back on the table, face down, before pushing them back. Towards Karl.

Prick.

‘No idea,’ he says curtly. ‘We’ve never seen that place before.’

‘Are you sure?’ Karl coaxes. ‘Maybe it’s a place you visited when Billy was little? A summer house or something?’

Yngve Formby lets out a snort of derision.

‘We don’t own a summer house. Never did.’

‘I would like your wife to have a look, too,’ Karl says and pushes the pictures back towards her. ‘Have a look, Idun, see if there’s anything you recognise.’

Yngve Formby’s voice is cold as ice when he reaches out and puts his hand on the photographs.

‘I don’t know where you get off. I’ve already told you we don—’

That’s the last straw for Karen. Karl barely has time to raise his hand in another attempt to stop her.

‘Please stop talking!’ she snaps. ‘Let Idun have a look,’ she adds, fixing Yngve Formby levelly.

He inhales sharply.