‘Coward. But that’s not why I’m calling. The Fredrik Stuub results are back from the lab. You’ll have the report in your inbox soon, but if you want I can go over the salient parts while it’s still fresh in my memory.’

‘Great. So, what did you find?’

‘Starting with the crime scene, we managed to secure a set of partial footprints that don’t belong to Byle or any of the emergency services guys. They’re Timberland boots, size nine, and the right is unevenly worn. We have tyre tracks galore from the turning area at the end of the road, so don’t get your hopes up about that. There was nothing on Fredrik Stuub’s body. Not so much as a hair that didn’t belong to him or the dog. In his house, on the other hand . . . what the fuck! Fucking idiot!’

Karen gives a start and moves the phone away from her ear while Sören Larsen continues to curse. Then she hears the sound of a car door closing, quick footsteps and angry voices. Apparently, Larsen is still holding his phone because Karen can make out words and phrases like ‘watch where you’re going’, ‘supposed to yield’, ‘insurance company’, ‘bloody lucky’ and ‘police’. Then a few more searing oaths from Larsen, angry footsteps, and a car door opening and closing again.

‘What’s going on?’ she says after a while.

‘Nothing. Where were we?’

Karen bites back the sarcasm. It’s common knowledge Sören Larsen thinks he’s an outstanding driver even though everyone else considers him a menace. Rumour has it the cost of his insurance policy has steadily gone up over the years, reaching astronomical levels. I’m probably making myself an accessory to reckless endangerment just by talking to him while he’s driving, she muses.

‘Fredrik Stuub’s house,’ she says, pushing the thought away. ‘Tell me you at least found something useful there.’

‘I’m not sure about useful, but we do have two sets of fresh prints that don’t belong to Fredrik Stuub or his sister. One set I can help you out with right now: they belong to Gabriel Stuub.’

Karen sighs quietly. She’s aware Gabriel Stuub had a criminal record. Two counts of minor assault and several speeding tickets, according to Thorstein Byle. Finding his prints at his grandfather’s house might, but only might, have been of interest. If it weren’t for the annoying little detail that Gabriel himself is dead now.

‘What about the other set?’ she asks.

‘No match in the database, but if you come across an interesting candidate, I suggest you get out your ink pad.’

‘Is that it?’

‘I’m not finished. Watch out, will you!’

A sharp honk on the other end has Karen snatching the phone away from her ear again.

‘Bloody hell, Sören,’ she says. ‘There are courses you can take . . .’