But as she grabbed the shelf to heave herself upright, it came loose from the wall, ramming into her shoulder as she hit the back of her head on the floor. She ignored the pain. It was nothing compared to what was happening in her stomach. The only thing she could bring herself to care about was that her phone really was in her coat pocket and that it had a thirty-three per cent charge.

She just about managed to dial 112 and turn on the speakerphone before she dropped the phone in yet another blood-filled coughing fit.

‘This is Emergency Services,’ a woman’s voice said on the other end.

‘You have to come here. I’m really poorly.’

‘I’m sorry, could you repeat? I can’t hear you very well.’

‘Come here. You have to come here.’

‘We can’t come until you tell us what happened and where you are.’

‘Blood… I’m vomiting blood and can’t take it for much longer—’

‘Have you been shot or injured in some other way?’

‘No…’

‘And you’ve not been in a car accident?’

‘No, I’m just poorly… Really, really poorly…’

‘Okay, then I would recommend that you call your doctor or go to the nearest A&E… Hello, are you still there? … Can you hear me? … Hello? …’

An annoyed sigh was followed by a click.

Then silence.

36

From the 144 developed pictures, Fabian had picked out sixteen and placed them in chronological order on his work table in the basement. They all belonged to the same series of events. Sixteen frozen moments in time that together outlined an occurrence, a rendezvous between a man and a woman.

Fabian studied the pictures one by one, first with the naked eye and then under the light with a loupe to make sure he hadn’t missed any details. They were all taken from a considerable distance with a powerful telephoto lens, and there was no doubt a professional photographer had been holding the camera. Even though the pictures had been taken late at night in difficult lighting conditions, most were razor sharp.

The black contour behind the wheel couldn’t be anyone but Ingvar Molander, and the first pictures had clearly been taken outside his house as he reversed out of his driveway in the grey Saab 9-3, which according to the Swedish Road Traffic Registry had been registered to him from 6 January 2003 to 21 September 2007.

Judging from the verdant greenery in the garden and Molander’s unbuttoned sports jacket, which hid parts of his checked shirt, it was sometime between June and August, and with the aid of the loupe he could make out the tax sticker in the middle of the licence plate.