‘We live our lives through our phones. It was perfectly simple to answer questions from the few people who got in touch. As for the phone call, I was lucky. I was in The Sanctuary at the time, and I forced Dan to speak. Once again, Australia was a very welcome bonus.’

Fredrika hesitated, but she had to ask.

‘What did you intend to happen in that house?’

Ross responded without hesitation, but his voice was far from steady.

‘The same thing that happened to my daughter. To Maria and her family.’

Fredrika felt sick.

Berlin’s mouth was no more than a thin line as she listened. She was angry, which wasn’t good. Her anger was a sign that she was taking this personally, and that kind of conflict was inappropriate. Fredrika, meanwhile, was beside herself with anxiety. Alex had behaved so oddly since Berlin called him while they were at the Solomon Community, and Berlin herself was definitely hiding something. Ross was clearly the perpetrator they’d been looking for – Ross and no one else.

Not the man who’d bought five copies of Morgan Sander’s book I Am Putting Everything Right in the antiquarian bookshop in the Söder district.

And not Spencer.

Two men who could each be linked to the fateful words that had haunted the police throughout this case. But where was the link between Ross and those words?

Berlin had identified the same logistical gap, and tried to fill it.

‘Why Morgan Sander’s book?’

Ross was taken aback by the change of subject.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘The book we found a copy of in Malcolm Benke’s and Lovisa Wahlberg’s homes.’

‘You’re out of your minds, both of you. Absolutely fucking crazy.’

You can talk, Fredrika thought wearily.

Berlin sighed.

‘It’s not that we don’t sympathise with what you’ve been through – the daughter you knew about, but weren’t allowed to contact. I get it, believe me. But . . .’

She shuffled the papers in front of her.

‘. . . I can’t even pretend that makes it okay to murder people one after the other.’

Ross didn’t answer at first. His white shirt made him look even more ashen; he was almost swallowed up by the pale walls.

‘I didn’t do any of that. You can’t lay any of those deaths at my door.’

‘Apart from Dan Johansson’s, you mean?’ Fredrika said.

‘It wasn’t me who killed Dan Johansson. It was his wife.’

Berlin slammed her fist down on the desk.

‘Enough!’ she yelled.

‘It’s true! He was already dead when I arrived. There was blood everywhere – I nearly slipped and fell.’

Slowly Fredrika realised that he was telling the truth. He hadn’t murdered Dan.

Jesus, what kind of life had they been forced to live in that house?