He was still lying on the worn corduroy sofa when the door opened. She glanced at him, then strode purposefully over to the cassette player and its off button. Siw fell silent. The songs of a much simpler time.

Mariana Hermansson.

Perhaps the only person in the Kronoberg Police Station whom he couldn’t bend to his will, who always challenged him, and who had no clue how proud she made her boss when she did.

“Breaking and entering, Ewert.”

Her office was at the far end of this hall. She’d started as a temp one summer, and he made sure she got hired full-time despite the bureaucracy and the many applicants who seemed more qualified on paper. And he’d come to treasure her like the daughter he never had, how she’d put a steady hand on his arm when she spoke to him, how she demanded answers to questions he didn’t even want to hear, how she laughed at him, made him feel unsure of himself in the only context where he ever felt sure.

“I want you to take a look at it. Now.”

He sat up on the edge of the sofa, stretching a little, and pointed to his desk and its mountains of paperwork.

“I don’t work break-ins. Too many people dying in this town. And that, as you very well know, takes all of my time.”

She wouldn’t give up, he knew that.

“Dala Street 74.”

“Yes?”

“Third floor.”

“And?”

“Apartment 1301.”

She held out an envelope to him, and he stared at it but didn’t reach for it.

“Is your office this stuffy too, Hermansson? The AC doesn’t seem to be working.”

She settled down next to him on the sofa; it was so worn out that they both sank to the floor.

“A break-in, Ewert. But nothing was taken. So I put it aside. Since I too don’t have time.”

She nodded at his paperwork. He knew what her desk looked like. The piles even higher. And just as many on her floor.

“I did what I always do, glanced at it, then put it back on top of the pile. Then I did a quick search in RAR to see if any other crimes were reported at nearby addresses in the last few years.”

Ewert Grens stretched a second time, but with no yawn. He wasn’t completely aware of it, but ever since she’d stormed in here, turned off his music, and started speaking to him in that demanding way she had, he’d been smiling.

RAR. The localized crime report for a specific address or area. He was the one who’d taught her to start there.

“And?”

“Nothing unusual. Just some burglaries. More domestic abuse than those expensive addresses might like us to think. Drug busts. And a few manslaughters.”

She leaned forward, the envelope in her hand, poked it into his chest until he took it.