It was an unsettling picture in more ways than one. Not because of all the blood that had spread out across the dishwasher and the floor, or the point of the knife sticking out through the victim’s checked shirt like a tiny silver shark fin. No, the truly frightening thing was just how little it took to end everything. As though it were enough for chance to suddenly decide to mess with you, just for a laugh.

One of the other pictures was taken from the ground up and from that angle was in some ways even more disconcerting, even though the victim had been removed. It showed the bloody knife sticking straight up out of the cutlery basket. It hurt just to look at it, as though he himself, Sonja and, above all, the children had really just been lucky every time they’d placed a knife exactly like that and not ended up dead.

But Elvin had had questions about this, too. He had marked the length of the blade with a question mark. It was not clear why. Instead, the red felt-tip symbol looked more like something had occurred to him and then he had simply moved on. Maybe he had followed up at a later date. Maybe the thought had been forgotten.

A search for Einar Stenson informed Fabian that he had spent most of his professional life working as a sports photographer for several newspapers. One of his most famous images was of a young Zlatan Ibrahimović in a header duel during one of his first years of playing for Malmö FF. In 1952, Stenson had married his wife, Flora, and soon after they’d had two daughters, a few years apart, Ulla and Gertrud Stenson.

Gertrud…

Fabian read the name again to make sure he’d got it right.

Yes, it did say Gertrud. But could that really be her or was it just chance having him on?

He typed in her personal identity number and as soon as her information appeared on the screen, he understood why Elvin had been so interested.

Gertrud Stenson had been born in 1956 at Ystad Hospital. At twenty-two, she had changed her surname when she got married in Hörby Church and since then, she had gone by the name Gertrud Molander.

That made Einar Stenson Ingvar Molander’s father-in-law.

There was no way that was a coincidence.

20

Early summer mornings, there really was nothing more beautiful, Lilja mused as she got the go signal over the radio and climbed out of the car, crossed the road and stepped into Landertz’s garden. Wisps of mist swirled a few feet above the ground like whipped cream, obscuring all the ugly cars, garden furniture and trampolines.