‘No point? And what gave you the authority to make that decision?’

‘Authority?’ Isaksson says, drawing each syllable out. ‘I don’t know about authority, it was just regular common sense, I suppose. The guy’s in a wheelchair.’

*

When she takes a seat at the table in the main conference room just over an hour later, she feels decidedly dejected. Since her meeting with Isaksson and Lange, she has gone through virtually every emotion in her repertoire. From embarrassment at the tone she used, to disappointment at the answer she was given, to simmering nausea, and a mounting irritation that Gundar Freske’s disability was not noted in the report. Idiots!

After forcing down a cheese sandwich and the contents of a carton of orange juice she got from the vending machine in the lunchroom and soon thereafter throwing up in the bathroom, she has also added fear that someone might have heard her retching to the list of the morning’s emotional spectrum. The hopelessness washing over her now feels relatively restful in comparison.

‘Are you really feeling better already?’ Karl Björken asks and studies her suspiciously from under a furrowed brow. ‘When they get that shit at the nursery, the kids have to stay home for days. It’s apparently contagious as hell.’

Astrid Nielsen has just entered the room. She gives Karen a nod and chooses a chair at the other end of the table.

‘Haven’t thrown up since yesterday,’ Karen replies curtly and notes Astrid’s incredulous look.

Had she heard what Björken said? Or had she overheard the retching in the ladies’ room?

Fuck.

‘Anyway, I have good news,’ Karl Björken announces and then pauses impatiently while the room fills up. ‘Or both good and bad, I should say.’

Karen closes her ears to the scraping and clattering of chairs being pulled out as Cornelis Loots, Evald Johannisen, and Sara Inguldsen take their seats. She’s surprised to see that Coroner Kneought Brodal, Head of Forensics Sören Larsen, and prosecutor Dineke Vegen have joined them, as well. Several of them with anticipation written all over their faces. They clearly know something she doesn’t.

‘As several of you already know, last night – or really in the early hours of this morning – we received information indicating that another attack had taken place.’

‘I thought you said you had good news,’ Karen mutters.

Karl ignores her grumbling.

‘The woman in question, a Filippa Lekkman, managed to escape unharmed, presumably because the attack was interrupted by her neighbours.’

Just like that, the dejection evaporates, and Karen leans forward. And Karl tells them that twenty-seven-year-old Filippa Lekkman left her flat on Junkergate just after 5.30 in the morning for a short walk around the block, as part of housebreaking her new puppy. When they got back, the puppy’s lead had become entangled in the bushes outside the front door, so Filippa had squatted down to sort it out.