‘Imagine, though, how good it would feel if we could have some closure,’ she said and lowered a new fork with only chicken on it into the pot. ‘What that would mean for Reidar. Such an awful business. Yes, I know he has a new woman and all, but still. Just to know who it was and let justice run its course. Not to mention you and your colleagues. You worked so incredibly hard back then. Didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but you’re forgetting something very important.’ Ingvar put a mushroom in his mouth.

‘And what would that be?’

‘That we solved it.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not following. What do you mean, solved it?’

‘The case. Maybe you’ve forgotten, but we actually did identify the killer and we arrested him. His name was Benny Willumsen, he was from Denmark but lived in Malmö – on Konsultgatan 29, if memory serves. He’s passed away since, sadly.’

‘But? So you mean the man you had to—’

‘Release. Exactly.’ Ingvar downed the last of his wine and topped himself up. ‘The problem was that he had an alibi the court considered strong enough.’ He shook his head and had another sip of wine. ‘So unfortunately, Reidar’s never going to get justice.’

‘But it couldn’t have been him, then. If he had an alibi, I mean.’

Molander laughed. ‘Well, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. On the other hand, being able to present an alibi is hardly the same thing as being innocent.’

‘Hold on a minute. If you have an—’

‘Sweetheart, listen to me.’ Ingvar leaned forward over the table. ‘If you’re well prepared and know how to go about it, fabricating an alibi’s not that difficult. I would almost claim it’s in fact rather easy.’

‘But Ingvar, you don’t mean to say that—’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean to say,’ he broke in and topped up her glass as well. ‘You’d be surprised to learn how little it takes for a court of law to swallow a fake alibi. Believe me. I know what I’m talking about.’

He raised his glass, and she followed his lead, toasted and drank, terrified he would be able to tell from looking at her that she was finally, after all these years, starting to come to grips with what had really happened that weekend in Berlin.

61

After covering his hair with a stocking, he pulled on the grey curly wig and adjusted it in front of the mirror until it was perfect. He immediately looked completely different. It was strange to think, really, how much of a person’s personality was in their hair. Just a few strands, which when they fell out could rob most men of their confidence.

He was already wearing tights, fake breasts and his belted pale blue dress. He’d even put on base make-up: a light face cream and even lighter powder.