The fluorescent lights cast their harsh light on the tiled walls, the double troughs and channels for drainage.

Henrik stood a bit from the table and observed the woman lying there. He thought how small and thin she looked. Above her breasts, her sternum was clearly outlined and her ribs stuck out under her smooth skin.

Her complexion was pale and her long black hair lay over her forehead and shoulders. It looked like she was gazing out into the room with a mixed expression of amazement and sorrow.

But there was no gleam in her small, narrow eyes.

“I saw the announcement in the paper. It was tiny, as if death doesn’t interest anyone anymore,” Björn said with a sigh.

“Everyone is probably too preoccupied with their own worries,” Henrik said.

“How did she die?” Mia asked. “Do we know now?”

“You didn’t have to come here to find out.”

Björn passed the autopsy report to Henrik, who glanced expertly through the main points.

“As you see,” he said, “the cause of death is asphyxia, a complete blockage of oxygen to the brain.”

“So she suffocated?” Henrik asked.

“Yes. The result of an overdose,” Björn said. “Heroin. She had fifty capsules in her stomach.”

“Fifty?” Mia asked, whistling.

“Yes, you heard right. Fifty,” Björn said.

“And the capsules?” Henrik asked.

“They’ve been analyzed,” said Björn, pushing his glasses up his nose. He nodded toward the report. “Everything’s in there.”

Henrik contemplated the lifeless body. The nails on her fingers and toes were painted pink. He took a deep breath and felt depressed, as he always did when victims were young.

“Anything else you can give us?”

“No, there’s nothing that sticks out. Besides that she was a teenager, fifteen years old.”

“Fifteen? On her passport it said she was eighteen.”

“I can only say what I know,” said Björn, giving him a serious look. His glasses flashed as he turned toward the body again.

“Christ,” said Mia. “Someone’s using young women to smuggle. That’s just shitty, plain and simple.”

“She wasn’t a young woman,” said Henrik. “She was just a child.”

* * *

It was hard to stretch out her legs enough as she ran up the steps, yet she increased her speed. Running the last bit quickly and easily, she slowed down toward the top, stopping and panting for a moment on the landing.

In her apartment, she did one hundred sit-ups. The back of her neck itched from sweat. Jana Berzelius pushed her hair to the side and stroked her fingers across the inscribed letters.