Jana Berzelius opened the app on her phone and clicked to a digital map of Bråviken and the Arkösund archipelago. The crack in the screen made it difficult to see. She guessed that the cell coverage along the coast wouldn’t be the best, either, and knew she needed a paper map. There had to be one somewhere in the house.

She spent twenty minutes searching through cupboards, desk drawers and bookshelves. She looked through the secretary desk in the drawing room. No map.

She stood in the kitchen and drank a large glass of water. She dried the glass and returned it to the shelf before resuming her search on the second floor.

She entered the library. The room was more than four hundred square feet. One long wall was dominated by a built-in bookshelf from floor to ceiling, with a mix of fiction, biographies, nonfiction and about fifty binders with documents spanning her father’s entire professional life, like souvenirs from his fantastic career.

The opposite wall was occupied by a sofa and armchairs and a large desk that was placed so that anyone sitting there would be facing the rest of the room. The floor creaked as Jana walked toward the desk, which was tidy, with a few papers stacked in a pile and some pens standing in a mug. She flipped through the papers absentmindedly, looked around and shook her head resignedly.

Then the binders, sorted by year, caught her eye. The first was from 1989. Her search for a map momentarily forgotten, she was overcome by curiosity and pulled out one of the binders and laid it on the desk. She opened it and began flipping through the legal proceedings it contained. She was about to close it and put it back when she noticed that her father had made private notes in the margins. The cursive penmanship was tiny and difficult to make out.

* * *

Mia Bolander stretched unconsciously in the seat, turned toward Henrik and hoped that he would meet her questioning gaze. Why should they accept that Anneli was keeping information from them? Now, when even Henrik had begun keeping quiet about things, she felt like she was being left out in the cold.

“But we can’t fucking work like this!” she blurted out suddenly.

“What are you talking about?” Henrik said.

“I thought we were supposed to be working together. But if people aren’t saying what they’ve found, how are we supposed to know if we’re all going in the same direction?”

“Let it go,” Henrik said firmly.

They fell silent.

“So we have a drowned girl?” she said instead, just to have something to say and to break the awkward silence. She was no longer sure of her relationship with Henrik.

“Yes,” he said. “Probably the girl Pim was with. She was found by two fishermen.”

“Her name was Isra, right?”

Henrik nodded.

“When was she found?”

“Seven o’clock this morning.”