‘No, the cleaver comes later, when the victim is on the floor. The wounds are so deep the perpetrator must have used both hands. At that point, he used this.’ Flätan pointed to the knife still buried in the victim’s chest. ‘And this time, he doesn’t make the mistake of leaving it in. Instead, he keeps a firm grip on it and stabs him again and again, five times, until he manages to get it in between the ribs and sever the aorta. Only then does the victim stop resisting and collapse, at which point the perpetrator can switch to the cleaver.’

‘And the meat fork?’ Molander nodded to the twin-pronged fork in the victim’s face.

‘The cherry on top, I guess. How should I know?’ Flätan shrugged. ‘At that point, it was already over.’

‘Already, that’s one way of putting it. I would say—’

‘Fabian?’ Klippan exclaimed with his eyes on the swing door through which Fabian was entering. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Tuvesson called.’

‘What? What do you mean, Tuvesson? She’s in rehab and seclusion. And you? Aren’t you on sabbatical?’

‘Apparently not any more. Because there’s been another murder.’

‘We know. We’re kind of up to our ankles in it,’ Molander said.

‘Her name was Molly Wessman,’ Fabian continued, ignoring Molander. ‘Her neighbour, who happens to be good friends with Tuvesson, found her about an hour ago.’

PART II

17–24 June 2012

‘Everything you know is wrong.’

G. PARLDYNSKI

40

Kim Sleizner turned over in bed. He could feel the sheet had come off the mattress and was bunched up underneath him. As if that wasn’t bad enough, light was persistently seeping in through the gap between his bespoke blackout blinds.

A glance at his phone informed him it was only twenty-three minutes past five in the morning. He had hoped it would at least be gone half six, considering the eternity he’d already spent twisting and turning, increasingly sweaty and entangled in the damn sheets that had cost him a fortune and which, according to the salesperson, would breathe and give him a wonderfully restful sleep.

Restful. The word felt like being spat at in the face. He hadn’t slept all night. In fact, he’d barely shut his eyes since Friday afternoon.

And once again, it was all Dunja Hougaard’s fault.

Ever since she leaked a story to the media about him entertaining a whore in the back seat of his car, it’s been his own little mission to crush her.

That little cunt was worse than a fucking cockroach. It didn’t matter how much he stomped, gassed and put out traps. One way or another, she always managed to scuttle away.