He looked at the alarm clock that stood on his rickety coffee table next to his sofa. Quarter past five. Too early. He waited. For fifteen minutes. Then he called the number he’d found online for one Charlotte M. Andersen who lived on Gamla Skol Street in Söderköping. No answer. He waited five minutes, tried again. Waited five more, called again.

Finally, at 5:55 AM, she answered.

“Seriously? Eight times before six o’clock? Who are you? What do you want?”

Her voice was tired. Angry.

“My name is Ewert Grens. I’m a detective superintendent in Stockholm. I need your help.”

“And you need it—this early?”

“I can call in five minutes if that suits you better. Or five minutes after that. And so on . . .”

The woman who, according to Grens’s contact at the Tax Agency, was now retired still sounded tired and angry. Now after a long sigh she added defeat.

“Very well . . . what’s this about?”

“Zana Lilaj.”

Silence. A long one.

“A little girl. You gave her a new name. A new life.”

Quiet for so long that Ewert Grens thought the woman might have hung up.

“Hello, are you . . .”

“I’m here.”

“And?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sitting here with the document you signed. I’m pretty sure this wasn’t the kind of decision you made every day, or even every year. You surely remember it. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Who I’m talking about.”

Silence—again. And it occurred to Grens that this former department head was acting professionally. Because if she admitted she’d made the decision, even if she didn’t reveal a name, she’d have given this unfamiliar voice somewhere to start looking.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Ewert Grens.”

“And you’re a superintendent at . . . ?”

“City Police, Stockholm.”

“Hang up. And wait. I’ll call you back.”

Seven minutes. Until the switchboard connected them again.

“Well, at least I know you’re a police officer. But . . .”

“Her name? Currently?”

“. . . it doesn’t matter. You won’t get anything from me. You’ll just have to . . .”

“I’m investigating a murder.”

“. . . look elsewhere.”

“Her life could be in danger.”

A final long silence. And when the former department head spoke again it was in a voice that was neither angry, tired, nor defeated. Cold—that’s how she sounded.

“You can call me and say whatever you want. My mission then—helping a five-year-old girl—wasn’t just about finding a new name or social security number or home. It included a promise to never, ever under any circumstances reveal her new identity. Retirement hasn’t changed that—I consider this promise permanent. Have a very nice morning, Detective, as I intend to do.”

She hung up. So Ewert Grens called again. And again. And again. But their conversation had reached a dead end.

That was his assessment.