“And secondly, the police station is the only place I can’t go. Because the organization threatening me has contacts that reach deep inside that station. They’re working with someone. So now, Detective, we meet for another reason. Now we exchange our roles again. It’s your goddamn turn this time. This time you will help me, Grens. You’re going to infiltrate on my behalf.”

Chapter 20

Ewert Grens poured coffee into two porcelain cups and sat them down, steaming, on the kitchen table. One black. One with a splash of milk. He found a single roll of Marie biscuits in his pantry, and it fit nicely on the table between the finger prostheses and his gun.

“I baked them myself.”

Grens smiled. Much more warmly now.

“And the coffee was brewed by a master. Not many people have been served in my kitchen. Anni, of course, when she lived here. Ågestam, the prosecutor, late one night. And now you, Hoffmann. Sven Sundkvist was here once, but it wasn’t a very nice evening, so he got nothing. Three guests in over thirty years, not exactly what you’d call a crowd.”

Piet Hoffmann took a sip of coffee that was the strongest he’d ever tasted. It ripped into his chest. And washed his mind clear.

“You’ve got the world’s easiest mission as an infiltrator—you have to infiltrate your own colleagues, Grens. Immerse yourself in the institution you already belong to, and no one will question you for it.”

“And I should do this . . . because?”

“Because the organization that’s threatening to kill me, kill my family, started out by working with someone inside that station, and then he gave two of these to my son.”

Hoffmann had brought something with him. Grens only saw it now as Hoffmann pulled out his chair and showed him a small bag. He plucked out a toy.

“The first one was left in our mailbox. This one was placed in Rasmus’s red backpack while twenty-four grade-school students practiced their letters.”

Hoffmann put the toy next to Grens’s coffee mug. It was approximately the same height and breadth.

“Do you see what it is?”

“You know I don’t have any children. I don’t know anything about toys. Now and then I catch a commercial on the television, or pass by the window of a toy store, but not often. Not a particular interest of mine.”

Hoffmann pulled off the toy’s two plastic arms. And plastic legs. And plastic nose. And plastic eyes. And plastic mouth. Until it was no longer a toy. Until it had changed shape.

“But you understand this, Grens.”

The detective jumped out of his chair and took a step back.

“What the hell are you up to? A hand grenade—in my kitchen?”

“Sit down.”

“With the fuse plugged in! Are you threatening me, Hoffmann?”

“Grens—please listen. One more time.”