“But they didn’t call us until 8:30?”

“There’s no cell coverage out there...”

“They didn’t have an emergency radio on board, a VHF radio?”

“Clearly not.”

It fell silent again.

They drove past Östra Husby and on to Vikbolandet where the fields lay hidden under deep, white snow. The narrow road became even narrower. Over a half hour later, a large parking lot appeared. They got out of the car and walked toward the pier. It smelled of fish and seawater.

It was the boat farthest away. The fishermen had placed a tarp over the dead body to protect her, or maybe so they wouldn’t have to look at her.

Anneli gave the camera to Mia and pulled thin gloves over her hands before crouching down. She took the camera back and photographed the boat. Mia and Henrik stood behind her. This was Anneli’s domain; they were simply observers. Anneli leaned forward, carefully turning back the tarp. The woman’s body lay reclined, her legs stretched out. Her clothes were torn and soaking wet. Her skin was as white as snow, but there were small sores on her hands, and around one wrist was a larger, wider wound. Her hair was dark and hung in wisps over her face.

Anneli photographed her from every conceivable angle.

“I need to photograph her face,” she said, looking at Henrik, who took a step forward. Her voice had been quiet, but the small nod she gave him said that it was an order. Mia watched him pull on gloves, step into the boat and carefully brush the girl’s hair aside.

“Look,” Henrik said, pointing to her forehead.

Mia leaned forward and peered at the girl’s forehead once, twice—there was no scar.

“This isn’t Isra,” she said.

* * *

Henrik Levin stood on the pier, his phone pressed to his ear, his eyes looking out over the sea. The wind tore at his jacket. He listened to Gunnar Öhrn’s irritated voice. Gunnar rarely lost his temper. He was known for his composure, but over the course of this investigation, he had been anything but calm.

“How can you be sure it’s not her?” he asked.

“Pim described Isra in quite a bit of detail. She said, among other things, that Isra had a scar on her forehead. The girl we found hasn’t the slightest hint of a scar. This is another girl.”

“But maybe Pim was wrong,” Gunnar said.

“I don’t think so,” Henrik said.

Gunnar sighed heavily.

“Why do I have the feeling that this drowned girl doesn’t exist?”

“What do you mean, doesn’t exist?”

“That we aren’t going to be able to identify her.”