Chapters (92)
- Cover
- Maps
- Epigraph
- Prologue
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- Chapter 38
- Chapter 39
- Chapter 40
- Chapter 41
- Chapter 42
- Chapter 43
- Chapter 44
- Chapter 45
- Chapter 46
- Chapter 47
- Chapter 48
- Chapter 49
- Chapter 50
- Chapter 51
- Chapter 52
- Chapter 53
- Chapter 54
- Chapter 55
- Chapter 56
- Chapter 57
- Chapter 58
- Chapter 59
- Chapter 60
- Chapter 61
- Chapter 62
- Chapter 63
- Chapter 64
- Chapter 65
- Chapter 66
- Chapter 67
- Chapter 68
- Chapter 69
- Chapter 70
- Chapter 71
- Chapter 72
- Chapter 73
- Chapter 74
- Chapter 75
- Chapter 76
- Chapter 77
- Chapter 78
- Chapter 79
- Chapter 80
- Chapter 81
- Chapter 82
- Chapter 83
- Chapter 84
- Chapter 85
- Chapter 86
- Epilogue
- About the Author
Karen looks around and spots a few barstools next to a counter with a view of the pumps. There are CCTV cameras in two corners of the room, and a TV playing on mute in a third. She glances up at a commercial for one of the countless online betting firms, pulls off her hat and scarf and is putting her handbag on the counter when the microwave dings. Just then, the advertisement ends and the news comes on.
‘Your pizza’s ready. Would you like salad with it?’
‘No thanks, but could you turn the TV up?’
‘Sorry, someone nicked the remote,’ the guy replies glumly.
The second she takes the plate from him, he puts on headphones. Then he sits down on a chair behind the counter and turns his attention to his phone.
Another glance at the TV shows Karen an unflattering picture of the police press officer, Johan Stolt, alongside a map of Noorö with the two crime scenes marked with red crosses. Then they show a video from several days ago, of the Groth’s driveway. Karen heaves a sigh of relief.
So far, Stolt has handled all press queries and, according to him, media interest has been unexpectedly low the past two days. That is because, as the TV now confirms, their attention has been on a plane crash off the coast of the Philippines that claimed the lives of 232 people, of which five were Doggerian citizens. Speculation about whether the pilot deliberately crashed into the sea, whether it might have been a terrorist attack, or whether it was simply a technical failure, fills front pages and news broadcasts. But Karen knows the tragedy only buys them a short reprieve. Once the media catch wind of Björn Groth’s arrest, interest in the investigation will be rekindled and this time, the journalists are unlikely to give up so easily.
Karen turns her attention to the cheese that has stretched into a two-foot string from the pizza to her front teeth. She severs it with two fingers, wipes her hand on her napkin and stares vacantly out the window while she chews. She remembers Björn Groth’s deflated form in the back seat of the police car half an hour before. His surprise when Karen read him his rights and explained what the next few days had in store for him had seemed genuine.