In the bathroom, she washed her face and applied moisturizer and a discreet amount of makeup. As she put on lipstick, she suddenly felt nervous for her dinner with Per. It was both safe and scary to see him one-on-one again. Safe because she knew him. But scary because there was so much he didn’t know. So much he didn’t need to know. So much that hiding it all was difficult.

She thought about their last dinner.

It was more than eight months ago. She remembered his inquisitive face, his endless anxiety-inducing questions about what was wrong. It felt like he wanted to crawl right under her skin. She couldn’t do it, felt suffocated and in the end had just gotten up and left without an explanation. He seemed to respect that. He hadn’t followed her, called or anything; he had simply let her be. She hadn’t needed to explain anything, but then again, she shouldn’t have to, either. She shouldn’t have to do anything for him.

Now she looked at the clock. One hour left before dinner, which gave her plenty of time to pay Robin Stenberg a visit. She picked up her phone, searched the web with lightning-fast fingers for his address and found it quickly.

She lifted her purse and opened it. Hidden under a false bottom was the knife. She didn’t need to touch it, just confirm that it was still there.

Thirty seconds later, she left her apartment, started her BMW and drove out of the garage. She could hear her own breath as she approached Stenberg’s address.

She parked and took the knife out of her purse, placing it against the small of her back before she got out of the car, then crossed Spelmansgatan 62 in spite of the “Don’t walk” sign.

* * *

The seat belt caught in the car door. Mia Bolander opened the door again and pulled the belt over her lap.

“Who are we talking to next?” Henrik asked, turning the heater to high and holding his frozen hands up to meet the warm air flowing from the vents.

Mia picked up the two folders that lay on the dashboard, opened the one on top and looked at the picture. “What the hell? It’s...”

“What? Who?” Henrik asked.

“No one.”

“Do you know him?”

Clearly not, she thought, glancing through the file. She felt her cheeks flush and sincerely hoped that Henrik hadn’t noticed it. She saw possession and sale of a controlled substance, just like the others. He’d been caught and served two years in jail when he was twenty-one. Still, she couldn’t believe it. Toe-sucker Martin was a junkie.

A fucking, goddamn junkie.

“Just drive,” she said, irritated, entering the address into the navigation system as if she didn’t already know the way. It was a pointless game; she had already revealed herself. Yet she continued playing.