Fabian stepped through the small wooden gate and suddenly thought of Molander’s wife, Gertrud, who had stumbled right into his meeting with Reidar Dahlberg. She had reacted, that much was undeniable. But whether it was to the fact that the investigation had been reopened or that she hadn’t known about it was far from clear.

If the latter, there was a considerable risk she might already have called her husband to ask why he hadn’t mentioned it to her. If the former, she would likely hold off on bringing it up until he came home from work.

If they even talked about things like that. It was conceivable that Molander, much like himself, avoided discussing his work at the dinner table. The question was if that would discourage Gudrun from bringing it up. It was impossible to know.

What was certain was that if she did tell him, he would have to let Tuvesson in on his secret investigation as quickly as possible so they could prepare an arrest order, praying they had enough evidence to secure a conviction.

He rang the doorbell, but couldn’t tell if it was working. After a few attempts, he gave up and tried to walk around to the back instead, but a tall wall blocked his way, so he crossed over to the driveway on the other side of the house.

The garage was locked, as expected, and beyond that he was cut off by the neighbours’ overgrown hedge. There really wasn’t enough space, but with some effort he was able to push in between the hard, spiky branches and the garage wall.

A big back garden opened up on the other side. It was completely private and the trees were hung with hundreds of tiny disco balls that sent specks of light dancing across the lawn, which also housed, among other things, a tall wooden totem pole. A familiar electronic ambient groove was pulsing out of the surround speakers at a pleasant volume.

Trentemøller’s The Last Resort. He had the album in his collection, and even though he hadn’t listened to it in a long time, he rated it as one of the best albums ever to come out of neighbouring Denmark. That Flätan had even heard of it was impressive.

He walked on past some shrubs and spotted Flätan in a large hot tub full of steaming water, meditating with his eyes closed while a bronzed Adonis at least twenty years his junior massaged his shoulders, sitting right behind him in the tub.

The notion that he should probably sneak back out the way he’d come and heed Tuvesson’s advice to wait until Monday occurred to him too late; the young man had already noticed him and stopped his massaging, which made Flätan open his eyes and give Fabian a tired look.