‘So you’re not going to ask if I found anything out of the ordinary?’

Fabian stopped and turned to Flätan, who was smiling and pouring himself another cup of tea. ‘Such as?’

‘I don’t know. Anything.’ Flätan shrugged. ‘Isn’t that your go-to question when you’re flying blind with no idea of where to go next?’

‘So what did you find?’ Fabian walked back to the sofas.

‘A small tattoo. And yes, I know exactly what you’re thinking. Doesn’t everyone have a tattoo these days? And you’re right. In my profession, it’s rare to come across a body completely free of ghastly butterflies, pathetic skulls and tribal patterns.’ Flätan fell silent and leisurely sipped his tea. ‘But this one stood out.’ He put his cup down and handed over another close-up.

It was instantly clear to Fabian why Flätan had reacted. The tattoo looked like nothing he’d ever seen. No brightly coloured flowers, Asian characters or sage quotes here. In a way, it was bland and boring. And yet he struggled to tear his eyes away.

It was a classic shade of blueish-grey and consisted of two parts. The upper one was some kind of symbol, with a line penetrated by a downward-pointing arrow. The lower consisted of two numbers: 28. Nothing was straight or centred, and the whole thing gave an amateurish, unplanned impression.

‘Where on her body was it?’

‘Smack dab in the middle of her pubic mound, hidden underneath her, if I may say so, well-groomed pubic hair. I actually didn’t notice it until I shaved her.’

47

When Lilja slowed down and turned off towards Perstorp, she had covered the distance from southern Helsingborg in just over twenty-two minutes. It wasn’t just a personal best for her and the Ducati. It was also so far above the speed limit no police badge in the world would have saved her if she’d been caught.

But the call from Hampus had been ominous, to say the least. He’d worked hard to hide it, but there had been no doubt he was genuinely afraid. Normally, he’d prattle on like a machine gun, but this time he hadn’t wanted to tell her what was wrong or why it was so important for her to hurry home.

On her way out of the city, she’d had her suspicions, but she’d tried to dismiss them as exaggerated and hysterical and to think about other things instead.

But she was getting increasingly worried about what she would find when she got home, and she wasn’t able to relax until she turned down Jeans Väg and looked up at the house behind the juniper bushes.

Both the house and the garage looked the same as ever. The red brick and whitewash were as blandly boring as when she’d left.