‘An email account provided by the broadband company. I’ve only had time to skim it, but it mostly looks like correspondence from authorities, from what I could see. Well, and then there’s the browser history, obviously, a few different gaming sites, the sports sections of a couple of newspapers, a handful of obscure gossip forums, porn . . . The usual, in other words. I’ve just sent you a link to all of it. Enjoy!’

Karen closes the top desk drawer and turns to Karl to see if he has found anything of interest.

‘Nothing,’ he replies with a shake of his head. ‘Do you want to move on so we can get out of here sometime today?’

The living room looks the same as the last time she was in it, relatively tidy, a giant flatscreen TV, sofas and armchairs.

She walks over to the bookcase. Four photographs on the top shelf show the children, Loke and Lava, dressed up in their Sunday best and sitting next to each other on a sofa to be immortalised in some photo studio, a picture of a young Gabriel straddling a moped, a graduation picture of a blonde girl, presumably Katja, and a wedding picture with the two of them smiling happily at each other. As always when she looks at photographs in a victim’s home, Karen is overcome with unease. The young man in the picture with his suit and poorly tied tie and wide smile may have been guilty of God knows what, but he didn’t deserve to end his days sitting in the snow with his throat slit.

On a sudden impulse, she scans the shelves and spots what she’s after. A photo album. Every photograph is neatly tucked into a plastic sleeve, making her once again suspect the involvement of Katja Stuub. The order is chronological and Karen only has to flip to the third page to have her suspicions confirmed.

The photograph must have been taken thirty-five years ago. A young, emaciated woman with dark circles under her eyes stares listlessly at the camera, looking as if she’s about to collapse under the weight of the infant she’s cradling in one arm. Ulrika Stuub looks uncomfortable with the situation. Standing next to her is a Fredrik Stuub in his forties, with one arm around his daughter’s frail shoulders and the other raised to shield his eyes from the sun. The old man with lanky grey hair Karen remembers from the autopsy table is still years away. The sunlight sets Fredrik’s hair ablaze. It’s as flamingly red as Odd’s.

‘Have you found anything or can we get out of here?’ Karl asks from the kitchen.

‘Nothing. We’re done.’

Cursing under her breath, she puts the photo album back.

Chapter 62

62