There could be no doubt Landertz had orchestrated the firebombing of his own office. But even though they had proof his car had been involved, that was not, according to Högsell, enough to press charges. And since the son denied everything as obstinately as his father, anyone could arguably have used the car because, if their information was to be believed, they routinely left the key in the ignition.

Hardly surprisingly, Högsell had advocated releasing them on their own recognizance. Lilja had agreed to let the son go, but not Landertz, not under any circumstances. In his case, she had referred to chapter 24 of the Code of Judicial Proceedings, which allowed them to hold him for up to three days if he was considered instrumental to the investigation.

So he was staying behind bars until twelve o’clock on Monday. That alone helped cheer her up a little. And it didn’t hurt that the newspapers had already sniffed out the fact that he was under arrest.

She still had a few minutes before her interview with the rental car driver, Pontus Holmwik, so she gave her mouse a prod to wake up her computer screen, which was displaying the names of all the Sweden Democrats on her filtered list. For some reason, they were sorted in reverse alphabetical order with surnames like Östlund and Zachrisson at the top.

She was scrolling down through the list when her phone started ringing. Of course it was Klippan. Now he wanted to talk. But she was busy; he would have to wait. She declined the call and returned to the names on her screen.

Her first thought was that she’d seen it wrong.

Her second was that it was someone else with the same name.

The third, she was unable to follow through to the end.

Wallsson was not an uncommon name per se.

But there was only one Hampus Zacharias Wallsson.

Her Hampus was a member of the Sweden Democrats. Fuck. She wanted to throw up all over the screen.

‘Hi, hello. Are you Irene Lilja?’

She looked up and in the doorway saw a man, dressed in a tight black leather jacket and equally black jeans, loosening the checked scarf tied around his neck. ‘Yes, I am.’ She got up to shake hands. ‘And you must be Pontus Holmwik. Come in and take a seat. Can I get you anything to drink?’ She couldn’t tell whether she was shocked, angry or sad. She was probably all those things at once. According to the information on her screen, he had joined two years ago, in conjunction with the parliamentary election of 2010. And he hadn’t breathed a word about it. Not one goddamn word.