“Then, I have the feeling that the dead woman on the train, or rather, her passport, was fake. Björn Ahlmann said she was fifteen years old, but according to her passport, she was eighteen. And the train attendant thought her name was Noi, not Siriporn.”

“But Noi isn’t a given name, it’s a nickname. It’s common in Thailand, especially because first names can be so long.”

“How do you know that?”

“My cousin married a Thai woman. They met in Phuket. Love at first sight. They just clicked.”

Ola snapped his fingers.

“Even if the passport is fake, we shouldn’t underestimate its importance,” he continued. “I’ve sent a request to all of the airlines. I haven’t heard anything yet, but we can still hope that her name is on the passenger list somewhere. It would be good to know where they came from.”

“Both of their names should be on some list,” Henrik said.

“If they flew on the same plane, that is. They may not have.”

Ola scratched with his hand up under his hat.

“It might help that they looked Asian,” he said. “I mean, more people would have noticed her, or them, on the train.”

“Right,” Henrik said. “If you don’t find anything from the license plate, we have one relatively poor description of the man who was driving the car. Check it out, see if you can get anything from that. The capsules we found in the woman’s stomach were supposed to be delivered to someone, after all, and I’m wondering who.”

“I know where to look,” Ola said.

“Great. So get to it.”

* * *

The sound of the doorbell made Jana Berzelius jump up from the chaise lounge. It was late in the afternoon, and she went suspiciously toward the door. She wasn’t expecting any visitors; she never had any.

She padded silently into the hallway and looked through the peephole. She clenched her jaw when she saw the face of her colleague, prosecutor Per Åström.

He rang one more time, then knocked, too.

Slowly, she turned the dead bolt, leaving the chain fastened.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“You haven’t been answering your phone.”

“I’m really busy.”

“With what? Why are you avoiding me?”

Per threw up his hands.

“Look,” he said. “We haven’t seen each other in eight months...”

“We see each other multiple times every week at work.”

“You know what I mean. I want to see you again. There. That’s what I came here to say.”

“Great,” Jana said, closing the door and resting her forehead against it, eyes closed.

The doorbell rang again. And again. Short, quick buzzes as if a child were standing outside and wanted to come in.

She hesitated before opening the door again.

His eyes—one blue and one brown, characteristic heterochromia—met hers.

“One more thing,” he said. “Would you have dinner with me tonight?”

“No.”