The interview room at Nedanås police station is considerably more pleasant than the one in the Internal Affairs department in Stockholm. There is a window opposite the door through which you can see a tree, bearing fewer and fewer leaves. On the other walls a series of blue-and-white posters from the Crime Prevention Agency are displayed. There are no cameras or hidden microphones, just a good old tape recorder on the table in the middle of the room. Anna has had the whole of Thursday evening to mull over the situation. She regrets speaking to Jens yesterday afternoon. She knows she acted in haste, but she also knows why. She has come to appreciate Jens more and more, and she wants him back on her side. She needed to show him how good she is, which of course with hindsight was a ridiculous thing to do. She hardly slept last night, and had more or less expected Jens to call in sick in order to avoid the task she’d set him, and any further involvement in her inquiry. Or even worse – he might have called Henry Morell and warned him about what was going to happen. However, when she arrived at work shortly after seven, Jens’s car was already there, and one of the patrol cars was gone. At seven forty-five he called and informed her that he had picked up Alex Morell and was on his way back to the station, which was a relief. Jens Friberg remains a mystery to her, but right now she has other things to focus on.

She inserts a new tape in the machine and checks the sound. She’s sat in rooms like this hundreds of times, questioned every possible kind of suspect. This is her home turf, her territory, and yet she can feel the tension rising.

There is a knock on the door, and Jens Friberg appears with Alexander Morell in tow.

‘Sit down.’ Jens points to the chair opposite Anna, waits until Alex is seated then turns to leave.

‘I’d like you to stay, Jens.’

He stops, looks surprised for a second, then sits down beside her.

‘So, what’s this about?’ Alex Morell begins. ‘Doesn’t my alibi hold?’

The crooked smile can’t hide his nervousness. She can almost smell it through the building dust and sweat that pervade his clothes. She switches on the tape recorder.

‘Interview with Alexander Morell, date of birth 17-01-1971, in the matter of . . .’ She pauses, decides to keep that information to herself. She remains silent, studying the man opposite her. Alex is still smiling, but his Adam’s apple is bobbing up and down beneath the stubble on his throat. One heel is jiggling. He might be the son of a former chief of police, but he’s certainly not comfortable in a police station. She glances sideways at Friberg, but he is giving nothing away.