She didn’t protest when he took her back to her room. The only thing she was thinking about was that if she ever had the chance to run away again, she would run in the opposite direction.

* * *

Henrik Levin studied the image of the man who pulled the numbered ticket from the dispenser and gripped it in his hand. He was wearing jeans and a shirt and had a brown leather jacket that was many sizes too big—that or it was very heavy, judging from how it hung from his shoulders. The man sat down, looking at the display that had just changed.

“Now serving number 918.”

The man’s lips moved, and it looked like he was counting how many other people were before him in line.

Henrik turned his gaze to the counter and received an affirmative look from the short-haired female receptionist when he came forward.

“What can I help you and your colleague with?” she asked.

“Were you working here last Friday?” Henrik began.

“Yes,” she said, taking off her headset.

“Do you know if a young man named Robin Stenberg was here then?”

“Yikes,” she said, her face becoming worried. “It’s impossible to remember the names of everyone who comes in here.”

“He was here in the morning,” Henrik said. “Around 10:30.”

“Okay...” she said hesitatingly, still looking worried.

Henrik surveyed the waiting room and was met with a number of questioning looks from stressed visitors wondering why the next number wasn’t appearing on the display. What was taking such a long time?

An older woman with purple hair had just gotten up and taken a few steps forward, as if she were ready to pounce as soon as the number changed. She was presumably next in line.

“Robin Stenberg had black hair and eight stars on his temple,” Henrik said. “Does that ring a bell?”

“Oh, then I think I know who you mean,” the receptionist said, smiling. “He came up and said that he had something to tell us about. I asked if he wanted to report something, but he answered that he just wanted to talk with someone. I asked if it was urgent, and he said no. So I suggested that he call the nonemergency police number, but then he got angry and said he really needed to talk to someone right away. At that point it became urgent, of course.”

“What did you do?”

“I took him into an interrogation room.”

“With whom?”

“Axel Lundin.”

“Is he here now?”

“He’s off today.”

“You don’t have his telephone number?”

“Wait,” she said, reaching for a list.

She quickly wrote the number down on a piece of paper and gave it to Henrik before putting on her headset again, saying, “I should probably take some customers again.”

“Thanks for the help,” Henrik said just as the display changed.

“Number 919,” called the receptionist, and Henrik heard the purple-haired woman clip-clop over the floor.

* * *