‘I don’t know, I stopped listening whenever he got worked up. He wasn’t stupid, though,’ Gabriel adds suddenly, ‘just old, OK? Let’s be bloody clear about that.’

Noting his tone and look, Karen feels her spirits sink. Could this man, likely candidate that he is, at least on paper, really have killed his grandfather? Well, maybe, but if so, he killed someone he liked more than he cares to admit, even to himself.

She decides to change the subject.

‘Your mother passed away early, I’ve been told?’

Gabriel lets out a bitter laugh.

‘Yep, liver cancer caused by Hepatitis C. Turns out dirty needles are kind of frowned upon as far as causes of death are concerned. More like, she got what she deserved, if you catch my drift.’

‘So your mother was a drug addict?’

A shrug of the shoulders to confirm and create distance.

‘Heroin, rehab, relapse and all that jazz. She was clean for a few years before she died, but it was too late.’

He trails off and stares at the rug. Karen watches him in silence and feels a pang of pity. Behind the muscles and arrogance, Gabriel is the son of a junkie, the grandson of a disappointed grandfather. Could that be the motive? In the heat of the moment, triggered by his grandfather’s indifference?

‘And your father . . . ?’

‘What about him?’

‘I meant to ask who he is.’

‘You’ve been listening to the local gossip and want to know if it’s Allan Jonshed.’

Karen waits and notes out of the corner of her eye that Byle is shifting uncomfortably.

‘Wouldn’t that be convenient?’ Gabriel says with a mirthless chuckle. ‘If there was a connection to the president of the OP. But I’m afraid you’re just not that lucky.’

Apparently not, Karen thinks to herself.

‘Then who is he? Your father, I mean,’ she says.

‘Well, according to Mum, it was either a drummer from Newcastle or some bloke she met on the ferry. I don’t fucking know. And I don’t care.’

Karen shoots Byle a quick look to see if he has any further questions. As expected, he shakes his head. Karen sighs. Thorstein Byle may be affable and accommodating, but he clearly isn’t equal to this challenge. I’m going to need someone else from the CID soon, she muses. Karl Björken, Cornelis Loots, Astrid Nielsen . . . Anybody, even that damn Johannisen would be better than nothing. Well, no, maybe not Johannisen.

‘All right,’ she says. ‘One last question. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt your grandfather? Anyone who stood to gain from his death?’

‘Other than me? No, no one.’

No surprises there, Karen notes. But shouldn’t he have assumed his grandfather’s death was an accident? As though he can read her mind, Gabriel suddenly adds, ‘Wait a minute, what do you mean? I thought the old man slipped?’

*