All the women seemed to be alive. Some had their eyes closed, true, and some looked worried or even scared. But nowhere did he see anyone who seemed drugged or generally out of it. On the contrary, most of the eyes he zoomed in on were glazed with desire, lust and unadulterated horniness.

One picture united them all. A close-up of the women’s exposed pubic mounds, which had just been shaved and tattooed with a line penetrated by an arrow and a number.

He scrolled down the list to folder number 28. As expected, it was Molly Wessman. She was lying on a rough wooden table with both arms and legs tied, being whipped. But in none of the pictures did he see anything fundamentally different from the others that might explain why she had to be poisoned and killed.

He closed the window and opened the folder marked DATE. It contained only a programme called Opera, which turned out to be a browser. Fabian used Internet Explorer, even though he’d heard there were several others that were much better.

He couldn’t find any bookmarks, but the search history showed a number of different dating sites.

He chose Badoo, where a number of women’s profile pictures had been selected as favourites. They were all better-looking than average, though some of them had enlarged their breasts and lips a bit too much.

Ingela Kjellson had, among other things, listed sex as one of her main interests. Another was role play and a third threesomes. The same was true of Tina Frej, Hanna Idun and Sofia Öhman. Apart from films, romantic dinners and music, all the women Jacobsén had selected listed different forms of sex among their interests.

It didn’t look like he’d been in contact with them at all. He did, however, keep extensive notes about each of them. Among other things, he’d found out their home addresses, whether they rented or owned, who their landlords were or who was on the board of their housing cooperatives, and finally, what kind of internet service they had.

So this is where Jacobsén trawled for victims.

He went back to the original folder Santa María and opened one of the other subfolders, which was labelled TOR. The Onion Router, it said at the top of the browser-like window. He’d never visited before, but he instantly knew it was the dark net.

Of course this was where Jacobsén hung out. Anonymous and impossible to trace among the illegal weapons dealers, people traffickers, paedophiles and so-called Red Rooms, which featured live executions.

One of the bookmarks was marked Live; when he clicked it, both screens went dark. But then, as the transfer speed caught up, the pixels came back to life and a grid of five-by-five squares appeared on either screen. What he was looking at was live feeds from around fifty different bed- and bathrooms.