‘The only thing we know for sure is that the cause of death was the wound caused by the shot to his chest. That’s not enough. I want more information about his contacts; we need to exclude the possibility of a threat that he was aware of. And I want feedback when the house-to-house is done.’

The ring. That damned ring.

‘We also need to speak to the ex-wife as soon as possible.’

He slammed the computer shut and turned to Fredrika.

‘You and I will go over there right now. We’ll all reconvene in the morning.’

Chairs scraped against the floor as everyone stood up and left the Lions’ Den. Fredrika was in front of Alex, head down, lost in thought.

‘Is everything okay?’ he asked.

She gave him a smile so fleeting it was hardly there.

‘Of course.’

He immediately regretted the question. She was lying, which made him uncomfortable. It wasn’t just that there was a problem – she wasn’t prepared to tell him what it was. He cleared his throat, tried to put into words what was bothering him on a professional level.

‘I can’t get my head around this case,’ he said.

Fredrika reacted with confusion.

‘Surely that’s nothing unusual at such an early stage?’

Alex ran a hand through his hair.

‘That’s not what I meant. It’s . . . there seems to be a kind of symbolism about this murder, and I find it disturbing.’

At that moment Torbjörn Ross walked past, a coffee cup in his hand, Wellington boots on his feet.

‘How’s it going?’ he said.

‘Fine,’ Alex replied, hoping his colleague would keep walking.

Which he did. Ross disappeared into the kitchen.

Torbjörn Ross had once been his friend. These days he was someone Alex preferred to avoid. The passing years had made Ross difficult, and his judgement was poor. Alex was aware that they were in the same department, but so were plenty of others. Ross kept himself to himself; Alex had no idea what he got up to, and he didn’t want to know.

Fredrika shook her head when he’d gone.

‘The ring,’ she said.

‘Exactly. Benke looked so calm, sitting there in his armchair – a grotesque contrast to what had happened to him.’

Fredrika agreed. ‘Grotesque is exactly the right word.’

But no more grotesque than two Jewish schoolboys shot in the back, Alex thought grimly, allowing his mind to take him back yet again to the nightmare in which he and Fredrika had found themselves a few years ago. It had been a bitterly cold winter, and an ice-cold killer had wandered the streets of Stockholm, closely followed by the legend of the evil Paper Boy.

And then.

The thought came out of nowhere, threatened to floor him.

‘The photograph,’ he said. ‘The photograph on the trolley.’

Fredrika immediately straightened up.

‘What about it?’