LITMIR.BIZ

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Then she briefly informed him that she did not like small talk. He had simply grinned at her, in a dreadfully stupid way, and from that day on their friendly relationship developed.

      The restaurant was fully booked. The dining room felt rather squashed with all the winter coats, and the brown checkered floor was wet from the snow tracked in on the guests’ shoes. The buzz of voices was loud and the clinking of glasses quiet. There were a few lamps and a lot of candles.

      Jana’s eyes left the window and were again drawn to the bar, past Per and on to the mirror shelf behind the barman. She looked at the selection on offer and recognized the labels like Glenmorangie, Laphroaig and Ardberg. She knew they were among the classics and were all distilled in Scotland. Her father was keenly interested in whisky and insisted on sipping a smoky sort at every family dinner. Jana’s interest was limited, but she had been brought up not to say no to a glass when it was offered. She preferred a glass of white, from a well-chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc.

      Per came back and Jana looked suspiciously at the large measures in the glasses he put down on the table.

      “How strong?” she said.

      “A single.”

      Jana glared at her dining companion.

      “Okay, okay, a double then. Sorry.”

      Jana accepted his apology. She sipped her drink and made a face at the dry taste.

      Somewhat later, when they had emptied the contents of the glasses, and Per had insisted on ordering two more, the conversation had turned into collegial bickering about morality and ethics in the world of law. After having discussed various stories about much-publicized cases and lawyers of doubtful reputation, the conversation turned to the problem of tired lay magistrates.

      “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the lay-magistrate system should be radically changed. Instead of political nominees they should appoint people who are interested in law and justice,” said Per.

      “I agree,” said Jana.

      “You want people who are dedicated. After all, their votes on the magistrates’ bench are decisive.”

      “Absolutely.”

      “Now two adolescents in Stockholm have lodged an appeal on the grounds that one of the lay magistrates had a snooze during the court proceedings.”

      “Yes, I heard about that.”

      “It’s simply not acceptable that we have to incur the expense of a retrial just because a lay magistrate dozed off during the court hearing. He should be docked his pay. Unbelievable,” said Per.

      He took a gulp of his drink, then leaned across the table and gave Jana a serious look. Jana met his eyes. Serious too.

      “What?” she asked.

      “How are you getting on with the Hans Juhlén murder?”

      “You know I can’t say anything about that.”

      “I know. But how’s it going?”

      “It’s not going at all.”

      “What’s happening?”

      “You heard what I said.”

      “Can’t you tell me a little? Off the record?”

      “Drop it.”

      “Is there some dirt there?”

      Per smirked at Jana and his eyebrows went up and down.

      “Bit of a dirty story there, right? There’s usually some dirt when it’s about bosses.”

      She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

      “I interpret your silence as a yes.”

      “But you can’t do that.”

      “Can’t I? Cheers, by the way!”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      Wednesday, April 18

      JOHN HERMANSSON FOUND THE BOY.

      Seventy-eight years old and a widower for five years, John lived at Viddviken, a little village by the coast, five kilometers from Arkösund. The house was really too large for the single man and needed far too many hours of maintenance. But what kept him there was his love of the natural surroundings. Since his wife had died, he had trouble sleeping. He usually woke up very early in the morning and instead of lying in bed he would get up, regardless of the weather, and go for a long walk. Even on a chilly morning like this. He had stepped into his Wellingtons, pulled on his anorak and gone out. The sun had just started to rise and was spreading on the frosty grass in the garden. The air felt damp.

      John passed the gate and decided for once to skip the forest and walk down to the sea instead. It was only a couple of hundred meters to the shore and the rocks facing Bråviken Bay. He walked down the narrow gravel lane to the water. The gravel crunched under his feet.

      He followed the narrow lane that turned off to the right and after the two big pine trees he reached the sea. The water was like a mirror in front of him. That was unusual. There were usually high waves in the bay. John took a deep breath and could see it as he exhaled. Just as he was about to go back, he caught sight of something strange by the shore. Something silvery that glistened. He went closer to the ditch and bent down to look. It was a gun and it had blood on it.

      John scratched his head. A bit farther away, the grass was red. But his eyes fastened on what lay next to that, under a fir tree. A boy. He lay with his face down with wide-open eyes. His left arm was bent at an unnatural angle and his head was covered in blood.

      The nausea came quickly and John breathed heavily. His legs failed him and he had to sit down on a rock. He was unable to get up again, just sat there with his hand over his mouth and stared at the dead boy.

      In his heart he knew that this horrific scene would be etched in his memory.

      Forever.

      * * *

      The alarm reached the Norrköping Police at 05:02.

      Thirty minutes later two patrol cars turned down the gravel lane at Viddviken. Another five minutes later the ambulance came for John Hermansson who was still sitting on the rock by the sea. A man who was delivering newspapers had noticed the old guy and asked him if everything was okay. He had pointed at the dead boy and then rocked back and forth and made a strange mumbling noise.

      Just after 06:00 yet another police car turned down the lane.

      Gunnar Öhrn had hurried across to the ditch closely followed by Henrik Levin and Mia Bolander. Anneli Lindgren came directly after them with a bag containing the tools necessary for a technical investigation of the finding place.

      “Shot,” Anneli noted and put on her latex gloves.

      The boy’s lifeless eyes stared at her; his lips were dry and cracked. His hooded sweater was dirty and discolored by the coagulated blood. Without a word she pulled out her mobile and phoned the medical examiner, Björn Ahlmann.

      He answered after the second ring.

      “Yes?”

      “There’s a job for you.”

      * * *

      It couldn’t be prevented. The news flash from the TT national wire service about a young boy having been found murdered near Norrköping spread at an incredible speed to all the media in Sweden, and the Norrköping police press officer had calls from a dozen journalists who wanted more details. Since it involved a minor shot to death, the entire nation was engaged, and on the morning TV shows various criminological experts expressed their views. They had found a weapon near the body. Many people assumed that the boy was from criminal circles, which sparked discussions about the level of violence among today’s youth and its consequences.

      When

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