“Is that . . . for fuck’s sake, is that why you took me in on this bullshit charge? Because you think I’m running around and knocking off my unfortunate brothers?”

Ewert Grens beheld an expression that could mean many things.

I could be sitting in a detention cell with a triple murderer, who has turned one of my colleagues and is in control of classified documents.

Or the man stretching out on that bunk was the next one in line and should be grateful we’re keeping him here for a while.

Or he has nothing to do with this at all, not as a victim or a perp.

Doesn’t matter, let him sit there.

“We believe that an organization is trying to take over the Swedish arms trade. And that you murdered your potential competitors. On behalf of someone who is currently in Albania.”

“Seriously—what the hell are you talking about?”

“We both know you were mixed up in that line of work many years ago. You might even have been in that apartment, employed by the man who likes to call himself King Zoltan. And now there are ten thousand weapons out there worth a billion kronor that Zoltan, or someone who’s using you as a hired gun, thinks it’s fine to kill people for.”

That laugh again. It was real.

“For fuck’s sake—you know as well as I do that’s as imaginary as the charges you’re holding me on. And even if it were true, why the hell would I tell you? Look at my hands. I have nails, okay? Do you know how long it takes them to grow out again? I’ve broken interrogators you can’t even touch.”

Then he turned around again. The back of his white tuxedo toward Grens and his silent face against the cell wall. The detective superintendent nodded to Hermansson, who was waiting by the cell door—their first interrogation was over.

They’d reached the cell closest to the entrance—which was the liveliest as usual, with yapping inmates and a fan on high and jail guards shouting to each other—when Hermansson began to speak.

“You put on a good show.”

“A show?”

“You really made it sound like you suspect him of something. When all you want is to keep him locked up as long as the law will allow.”

“He could be involved. If he is, I’ll know once we find our dirty cop.”

He looked at her. Searchingly.

“And that—the dirty cop—still isn’t a problem for you?”

She didn’t answer this time either.

“Because we’re gonna find our colleague who has switched sides, and we’re gonna find whoever is shooting people twice in the head. I’ll soon have a man in place in Albania who will figure out who’s in charge, and who’s doing their grunt work.”

“A man in place?”