‘Hi, it’s Grönwall. We’ve identified the body – I thought you’d want to know right away.’

‘Absolutely. How?’ She grabs a piece of paper and a pen.

‘A match on the fingerprints, just as we thought.’

‘So, what’s his name?’

‘Kent Joakim Rylander, date of birth 16.06.1960. He has a whole lot of aliases, and his record is as long as your arm – drugs, theft, burglary, a series of driving offences. The latest entries involve petty fraud and the misappropriation of funds.’

‘Address?’

‘He’s registered at the same address as the scrapyard that owns the Saab, so I think we can assume that the car is his. We’ve just finished going through it for fingerprints and DNA. I’m waiting for the results, but it’s really a formality.’

‘Good.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘Still no phone or wallet?’

‘No. Rylander doesn’t have a driving licence, so he might not even possess a wallet. There were a couple of crumpled hundred-kronor notes in one of his pockets.’

‘OK.’ She suppresses a yawn. ‘We need to search his home address; do you have anyone who can come along?’

‘Not until tomorrow. My team worked late last night, and I need to send them home as soon as they’ve finished with the car. And myself, come to think of it.’

Anna looks at the clock: almost two thirty. She can hear Milo barking agitatedly; he’s been out in the drizzle for almost an hour and a half, and must be cold and wet.

‘Of course,’ she says to Grönwall. ‘I’ll see you at the station at eight in the morning and we’ll travel together.’

She ends the call and goes to open the door for Milo, who is still barking. Mats Andersson is crouched on the top step, playing with the dog.

‘H-hi,’ she says, taken aback.

The big man glances up and frowns, keeping Milo at arm’s length to stop him clambering up.

‘Is Agnes home?’

‘No, she’s at school.’

‘Oh.’ Mats looks disappointed. Milo slips past his defences and tries to bury his nose in the scruffy leather backpack on the ground behind Mats.

‘Anything I can help you with?’

‘No.’ He shakes his head, shoos Milo away and stands up. ‘I brought something for her. A present.’

‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ She knows why she’s asking; there is something about Mats that makes her curious. The fact that he is Marie Sordi née Andersson’s brother and only a year or so younger than Simon Vidje is probably part of the explanation. She steps aside, gestures invitingly towards the kitchen.

Mats’s face lights up, but then he hesitates, as if the appealing thought of coffee is wrestling with something else.