“Come on,” Henrik said. “Give me names now.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Just answer the questions. Who murdered Robin Stenberg and why? Who told you not to document his report?”

Axel swallowed, wringing his hands.

Henrik listened to the chair creaking from Axel’s nervous movements.

“Answer me now,” Henrik demanded.

Axel met his eyes and mumbled, “Okay, I can give you a name.”

“Say it.”

“You can look into...”

“Say it.”

“You can look up Danilo Peña.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MIA BOLANDER DIDN’T understand any of it. She stood with Stig Ottling in the storage space at Garvaregatan 6. Or the old cotton factory or whatever it was he wanted to call it.

Someone had stolen Jenny Bengtsson’s identity and signed a year-long rental contract. Why? Why this particular building?

She swept her gaze over the closets, walls, floor and wooden bench, then took out her phone and photographed the space from different perspectives. She examined the door, the ceiling. “This wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for,” she said to Stig on their way back to the car. “An empty storage space, I mean. Can you come with me down to the station and we’ll write up a proper report? This is a document forgery, after all.”

“Yes, of course,” he said.

They got into the car, and while Mia backed out from the parking spot, her thoughts wavered back and forth. Why would a person rent a storage space under a false name? To hide something?

But it was empty. Not one single box, no glass showcases or porcelain figurines, no fake Christmas tree or bicycle. None of the usual stuff people kept in storage spaces. There wasn’t anything there at all.

On the other hand, the renter didn’t seem to be the normal type. Had he or she just not had the chance to use it yet? What was the intended purpose? Stolen goods, maybe?

The only lead was those two idiots who claimed they’d been beaten up by a woman—who would want to admit to that?

But maybe they were telling the truth, despite both being partly disabled and significantly under the influence?

Maybe there was, in spite of everything, an elegant woman out there who knew how to handle a knife.

* * *

Anneli Lindgren turned her head when she heard the outside door slam.

Anders Wester came in wearing a brown sport coat, white shirt and steel-toed shoes. He stood behind her, arms crossed, and thoughtfully observed her movements as she placed stack after stack of kronors in white plastic bags.

“Look what I found,” she said without looking at him. “This is a sick amount of money.”

“Congratulations,” Anders said. “Have you counted it?”

The way Anders was watching her made her skin crawl.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Someone has to protect you.”

“That’s why I have colleagues outside the door.”