‘Is the air con working?’ Fredrika asked.

‘I think that’s why we’re in here instead of the Lions’ Den,’ Alex said.

Needless to say it was Margareta Bloody Berlin who’d decreed that the Lions’ Den couldn’t be used as long as the room temperature remained so low. Alex couldn’t see the problem. If it was too cold, people could put on a jumper. But if it was too warm – which he thought it was in the smaller room – it was hard to do anything about it, since most people didn’t find collective nudity particularly appealing.

‘Sit down,’ Fredrika said, pulling out the chair beside her. ‘We’ve got food and we’ve got time to talk, which isn’t always the case.’

She winked, and for a moment she was her old self. The relief made Alex take a seat and help himself to the lunch she’d picked up from the Thai place across the street. Chicken curry and rice – the best!

‘The mask,’ Fredrika said.

‘The cocaine,’ Alex countered.

‘Was Malcolm Benke using?’ Fredrika wondered. ‘Or dealing?’

‘I realise you’re trying to find a link between the two murders, but I’m afraid it’s not going to be that easy.’

Fredrika put down her knife and fork.

‘Alex, we’re going to have a ridiculous amount to do.’

‘I know. Berlin suggested letting someone else investigate Lovisa Wahlberg’s murder. We can keep each other informed, then bring both inquiries together when we see where the points of contact are. I think that might work very well.’

Unless Berlin snatched the case off him before then. She’d gone crazy when she heard about the new message. It had been on the tennis-club noticeboard for all to see. This wasn’t a major problem, because hardly anyone understood the cryptic note, but there was no doubt about who it was addressed to. The name ‘Alex’ was written at the top of the page, and everyone assumed it had to be Alex Recht.

‘Can you handle this?’ Berlin had said. ‘Seriously – can you keep your balance in a case that for some inexplicable reason seems to be targeting you?’

And Alex had done what he always did: he’d lied. Said that of course he could handle it perfectly well. Perfectly well. He’d been a police officer for most of his life, he knew how to keep a cool head.

The truth, of course, was that he didn’t have a clue what he was capable of, for the simple reason that, like everyone else, he had no idea what lay behind the messages. Berlin had asked him to write down the names of everyone he’d met professionally or in his personal life who might possibly be responsible for them.

So far there wasn’t a single name on the list.

I don’t have that kind of enemy.