‘Start wondering? I’ve been wondering that for years,’ Molander said as he helped to lift out the cylindrical drum and place it on a blanket. ‘I suggest you cut this, and then it should be fairly straightforward to break it into two halves. Okay?’ His assistants nodded and Molander turned back to Klippan and Lilja. ‘This is going to be loud, so if you have anything else to say, you’d better spit it out now.’

‘Have you found anything of interest?’

‘Not really. A few specks of blood, probably from the boy. And fingerprints from at least fifty people, some in peculiar locations if all you’re doing here is laundry.’

‘Two uniformed officers from the local station are going door to door, collecting prints from the residents,’ Lilja said. ‘We’ll have to wait and see if there’s a match.’

‘So you suspect one of the residents,’ Klippan said.

Lilja shrugged. ‘I just figure it would be easier for someone who knows the common spaces, knows there’s a washing machine of that size here and has a key to get around.’

‘He might just as easily have used the victim’s key,’ Molander said. ‘It would be more interesting if we found fingerprints that didn’t match any of the residents’.’

‘And that swastika.’ Klippan pointed to the wall behind Lilja. ‘It’s several years old.’

‘That doesn’t necessarily mean the motive has changed,’ Lilja said.

‘Well, maybe we should refrain from rushing to conclusions.’ Klippan looked around.

‘True, and we should keep all investigative avenues open and blah blah blah. But forcing a little boy who has fled from Syria into a washing machine, what is that about if not racism and—’

The sharp sound drowned out everything else as the angle grinder cut through the metal of the washing machine drum in a shower of sparks; the only thing Lilja and the others could do was cover their ears and wait until the assistants had finished and were carefully prising the drum open.

Having been unable to make herself look at all, Lilja was now unable to tear her eyes away from the boy. Judging from the face alone, it almost looked like nothing had happened to him. The closed eyes visible behind his matted black hair made it look more like he was asleep.

But Moonif wasn’t asleep.

Like an oversized foetus, he was curved from the neck down, his spine describing an almost perfect circle. His legs were bent too, but the wrong way, stretching out on either side of his head, down past his shoulders where his feet were pressed against his body.

The sight cut through every layer of experience and made everyone in the room pause. Even Molander seemed taken aback. No one said anything. Klippan, who up until now had stayed calm, stood gaping, making it look like the heart-rending scream was coming from him.