Peder ended the call, switched off his phone and left the motorway at the next exit. Then he headed south, back to the city.

Chapter 9

‘I’m sorry to bother you, but my name is Fredrika Bergman and I’m from the police. I wonder if we could have a little chat?’

Fredrika hadn’t wanted to lose any time, and had gone straight from the bookshop to Torbjörn Ross’s ex-wife. Standing outside the door of Mimmi Ross’s apartment, she couldn’t remember why she’d made the decision. What did lost time matter? They were running around in circles, chasing shadows, taking the wrong turn.

It must be Ross, so who the hell was the man who wanted five copies of Morgan Sander’s book for his wife?

Mimmi was a very composed person. She looked at Fredrika for quite a while before letting her into her two-room apartment in Arsta. Fredrika took off her shoes and followed Mimmi into the living room. A small sofa, two small armchairs, a small coffee table. A doll’s house for a grown woman.

She sat down in one of the armchairs, felt her body protest at having to keep still. Not constantly moving made her nervous, she needed to be on her way to somewhere else, a place where everything was just the way it used to be, where the letter she believed Spencer had written didn’t exist.

Why don’t I confront him? she thought for the thousandth time. And for the thousandth time she answered her own question: Because I don’t think I want to hear what he has to say.

She explained briefly why she’d come to see Mimmi. In the end she had to lie; the truth was too brutal.

We’ve got your ex-husband under surveillance, because we think he’s murdered several people. What was it like being married to him?

‘So Torbjörn’s under investigation,’ Mimmi said slowly.

‘Yes. Unfortunately I can’t give you any further details, but . . . I’m not quite sure how to put this, but there are a couple of points we think you might be able to help us with.’

Mimmi raised her eyebrows. She had just turned sixty-five, but Fredrika thought she looked older. She had retired about four years earlier, and Fredrika couldn’t for the life of her imagine how she passed her time in this tiny apartment.

‘How long were you and Torbjörn married?’

‘Two years.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes – we both realised it was a mistake. Then he met Sonja, and they’re still married of course.’

‘How old were you when you got married?’

‘I’d just turned twenty-seven.’

‘You didn’t have children?’

Fredrika already knew the answer, but had decided to ask anyway.

Because somewhere there was a young woman whom Ross referred to as his daughter.

‘No. No, we didn’t.’