“I explained this to you on the phone. I keep my promises. That means I will never reveal her new identity. You can come in here talking about a murder investigation as much as you want. You can’t force me. Come back with a warrant—I’m not saying anything. Threaten to lock me up—go ahead, open the cell door, Superintendent.”

The envelope was in Ewert’s inner pocket. He emptied the contents onto the coffee table that separated them. Six photographs. Taken by forensic technicians at various crime scenes. Four of them he put on the left half of the table, the remaining two on the right.

“I want you take a close look at these four here. That picture there, closest to you—that’s Zana’s father. Killed with two gunshots. To the forehead and the temple. Do you see?”

The former department head was stronger than she seemed. Though obviously very affected by what she saw. Still, she never looked away.

“And this—this is Zana’s mother. This is her big sister, and this is her big brother. All shot in the same way. Back then.”

Grens pushed one photograph after another over to the department head. Let her study them for a long time. Until he pointed to the opposite side.

“But these two, lying here, are quite fresh. The latest as recent as this morning, so you’ll have to see that one in another format.”

He took out his mobile phone and swiped over to the picture he’d asked Hermansson to send, then put the phone on the table as well.

“Three men who were at the periphery of the investigation into the murders of the Lilaj family. Look carefully exactly at their temples and foreheads, and you’ll see the method of execution is very similar to the older pictures. That’s why I’m sitting here. Whoever killed her family is killing again. Zana Lilaj’s life is in danger.”

Charlotte M. Andersen stood up from her flowery green armchair and left the living room. Grens could hear the tap running in the kitchen. When she came back she was carrying a tray of four glasses of yellowish juice, handed the cadets two of them and put down one on each side of the photographs on the table.

“Elderberry. I pick them myself, and it tastes delicious. Try it.”

Then she drank, a whole glass at once.

“I think I understand what you’re trying to tell me, Superintendent. And the more I weigh it, the heavier the side where I depart from principles gets. This is an emergency, you said?”

“I’m not even sure if she’s still alive. Someone has made sure that the murderer or murderers have information that I don’t—what her name is and where she lives. But if it is too late, at least I want to know.”