He didn’t understand what they were referring to, what Ross was getting at. He was absolutely convinced that Ross had written them, but why, for fuck’s sake? It was Ross – not Alex – who’d had knowledge of the cases that had led to the murders the police were now investigating. It was Ross and no one else who could have done something for Beata Benke in London, done something to ensure that Lovisa Wahlberg was prosecuted.

So how can all this be my fault?

Maybe he was misinterpreting the messages? Maybe they were nothing to do with those specific cases, but rather a more wide-ranging condemnation of Alex’s competence as a police officer? That made more sense; he and Ross had clashed on more than one occasion.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Fredrika said when she’d finished her call.

‘The messages.’

‘I’ve been wondering about them too. They don’t seem to fit with what we think has happened.’

‘I want to know more about this daughter who’s supposed to have died,’ Alex said.

‘But she doesn’t exist. She never has.’ Fredrika was tense and stressed, almost distracted, which irritated Alex.

‘Maybe she exists for Ross,’ he said. ‘Or existed.’

Fredrika shook her head. ‘No doubt he’s suffered some kind of trauma. We need to find out what it was. I’m not buying this business with the daughter.’

The computer in the corner clicked and hummed, as if to protest that nobody was taking any notice of it.

‘Turn the damned thing off, it’s getting on my nerves,’ Alex snapped.

‘I’m just going to look up one more thing,’ Fredrika said. Her fingers flew over the keys with her customary efficiency. She waited.

The colour drained from her face. ‘Shit,’ she whispered.

‘Now what?’

‘Henry Lindgren. You asked me to check him out.’

Alex held his breath.

Fredrika turned to face him.

‘I know who he is. And so do you.’

Chapter 16

Once upon a time Henry Lindgren had been the train attendant on an X2000 express between Gothenburg and Stockholm. A young woman, Sara Sebastiansson, had got off the train when it stopped for a while in Flemingsberg. Fredrika couldn’t recall whether she’d wanted to have a cigarette or make a phone call, but anyway she’d left her little girl, Lilian, in her seat because she was fast asleep. The train moved off, leaving Sara behind on the platform, distracted by a woman pretending to need help with her dog. Henry Lindgren took it upon himself to keep an eye on Lilian until they arrived in Stockholm, and yet the unthinkable happened. When the train reached its destination, the child was gone. She was found a few days later, murdered by a lethal injection of insulin into the back of her neck.

Just like Henry Lindgren.

Fredrika was more shaken than she was prepared to admit.

Insanity. This is insanity in its purest form.