I don’t believe in coincidences either. I didn’t believe in them this morning when I left a stairwell on Brännkyrka Street 56 for a herringbone floor at Oden Street 88 and saw two identical murders. And I don’t believe in them now when the deaths of arms traffickers are happening at almost the same time that Piet Hoffmann is being blackmailed by an international arms dealer looking to establish themselves in the Swedish market.

He closed his eyes, the feeling of falling ceased.

A few deep breaths of summer night.

Then he went back to Hoffmann, who was sitting at the kitchen table on the chair that was actually Grens’s spot, but which his guest had claimed as his own.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. I’ll infiltrate the police station, my own workplace, for your sake. And yes—I’ll try to discover who sold you out. Who is threatening children that I’m fond of in order to get their share in a market that is costing this country lives every day. But I have my conditions.”

Piet Hoffmann opened his arms wide.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard right.”

“And here I was starting to smile a little. Conditions, Grens?”

The detective ripped open the roll of biscuits; they were dry and crumbly and stuck to the top of the mouth and tongue and had to be washed down with coffee. Half a cup.

“I’m investigating two murders that I’m convinced are part of this very power struggle, making money off young Swedes shooting each other. And I think they’re connected to what you’ve landed in the middle of. So here’s what we’re going to do, Hoffmann. You’ll be my handler as I infiltrate the police station for you. And I’ll be your handler while you infiltrate these weapons dealers for me.”

Chapter 21

Summer nights in Stockholm were vibrant, effervescent, and full of laughter. But to Ewert Grens, who was driving through it all, not even close to participating or wanting to, it seemed more like an endless stream of faceless bodies on their way somewhere. They didn’t make any impression, meant nothing, drew no attention from him.

Five and a half minutes. From the parking lot near his apartment on Svea Road to the northern entrance of the police station on Kungsholms Street. That is if he drove a little too fast and didn’t slow for the high-spirited people loping across the various streets of the city.

“Hermansson? Are you there?”

He’d called her while stepping out of his car, and she picked up on the first ring.

“Yes.”

Her voice sounded faint, confused.

“Hey—are you awake, Hermansson?”

“Now I am. Again.”

Grens greeted the guard on duty who nodded back in recognition and opened the door without asking for a badge.

“In that case—I need all the information we’ve got on Pejović and Stojanović.”

“Now? In the middle of the night?”