Fredrika was still staring at Berlin as if she’d just said something utterly incomprehensible. She took a sip of water, then put down her glass with a bang.

‘We have at least four murder victims. Malcolm Benke, Lovisa Wahlberg, Henry Lindgren and Noah Johansson. Dan Johansson and his family might also be dead, we don’t know. But we do know that we have little or no forensic evidence. We don’t have a single fingerprint from any of the crime scenes, or a trace of DNA, or a single witness. And yet we think the perpetrator is so fucking clumsy that he’s left his prints on a letter that’s essentially a confession? Really?’

Her outburst took Alex by surprise.

‘We know all that, but surely we have to look into the letter before we can eliminate it?’

Fredrika swallowed.

‘Of course. I just mean we shouldn’t waste time on the letter as a way of linking Noah’s death to the others. We already have a connection through his brother.’

Alex didn’t take his eyes off her.

‘It can hardly do any harm to check out the wills.’

‘Maybe not.’

There was no time for guessing games, no time for mutiny. Alex didn’t know what was upsetting Fredrika, but if she wasn’t prepared to talk, then she would be overruled.

‘Let’s move on,’ he said.

Ivan reappeared.

‘So the prosecutor’s agreed that we can open the wills,’ Alex told him.

But Ivan wasn’t listening. His cheeks were pink with pleasure.

He looks like a child.

‘Good news?’ Berlin asked.

‘I’m going to meet a man who owns an antiquarian bookshop. I rang around several second-hand and antiquarian shops, asked if they were familiar with Sander’s book, and if they’d sold any copies recently. This guy sold five copies a few weeks ago.’

Alex could have cheered.

‘How come he had five copies?’ Fredrika asked dubiously.

‘He’s the author’s grandson.’

Alex slammed his fist down on the table in sheer euphoria. Something was happening at last!

‘Well done, Ivan. Show him a picture of Ross – if we can secure a positive ID, we’ve got him.’

In his peripheral vision he could see that the colour had drained from Fredrika’s face for the second time in minutes.

‘Do you realise what this means?’ she said.

Berlin sighed. ‘That we’re even closer to our perpetrator.’

Our perpetrator, Alex thought. Not Ross. Berlin still had her doubts.

Still.

‘Not just that,’ Fredrika said. ‘Five books. Five. We’ve found only two.’

Everyone froze.

‘There must be one in Henry Lindgren’s apartment.’ Alex’s voice was suddenly hoarse.

‘There was a delivery note,’ Ivan recalled. ‘The postman had tried to deliver a thick package, but it wouldn’t go through the letterbox, so he took it back to the sorting office.’