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I’m afraid we lost a bit of our connection when I moved out. Dad had died suddenly the previous year and Henke was sixteen by then, so it felt fairly safe to leave him with Mum. It’s true she was also fairly ill by then and spent most of her time in bed. But I’d met a boy and we moved in together. First love and all that.’

      She shrugged her shoulders in an effort to appear nonchalant.

      ‘I suppose I’d been managing the household pretty much alone, and looking after Mum as well, so I thought it was Henke’s turn to take more responsibility now that Dad was out of the picture … My boyfriend and I sorted out a flat for them on Södermalm, near Mariatorget. Less space and closer to the hospital. And visits from home-help to make things easier. I was in love and I was in a hurry to get away, let go of the responsibility once and for all. I let myself get caught up in my relationship with Dag instead, and Henke probably felt a bit left out. Like I’d abandoned him. After all, he was used to having me there, the two of us against the world. And he didn’t exactly get on with my boyfriend, so …’

      She stopped herself. This was dangerous territory, best not to get tangled up in a load of unnecessary lies.

      ‘In any case, it only lasted a couple of years, then Mum died of cancer. Henke’s still living in the flat, but our relationship never really recovered … You could say that we’re working on it …’ she concluded with a settled expression.

      Most of what she’d said was actually true. From a purely technical point of view, she hadn’t lied, just withheld certain details. The question was whether the story held up?

      Anderberg nodded in empathy, evidently happy with the confidences he had managed to elicit.

      ‘So you still see each other, you and Henrik?’

      ‘Of course,’ she replied, with a smile of relief. ‘In fact, I’m going to see him once we’re done here.’

      … and I’m going to wring his bloody neck! she added silently to herself.

      Whoever was ringing on his doorbell was a stubborn bastard. He’d tried pulling the pillow over his head, pretending he wasn’t home so the fucker would go away. But oh no. The idiot out there was worse that any Jehovah’s Witness. He or she was pressing the bell at painful, almost tortuous intervals, and had been doing so for at least ten minutes already. HP had had plenty of time to keep track.

      First ten seconds of insistent ringing, rrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnggggggg!

      Then ten seconds’ pause.

      Then once more, rrrrrrriiiiiiiinnnnnnnngggggggg!

      It was driving him mad. In the end he had no choice but to go and open up.

      Red-faced and wearing just a pair of jogging pants that he fished up from a chair on the way, he angrily opened the door to give the bastard a piece of his mind. And a moment later, without him quite understanding what had happened, he was lying flat on his back on the hall rug.

      Anderberg had bought her new defensive tactic, hook, line and sinker … There was nothing that worked better with shrinks than a bit of tragic childhood. The psychiatrist had been overjoyed at the unexpected turn the conversation had taken. He had praised her honesty, called her a strong person and agreed to let her return to duty the following week. A few days of rest would suit her fine, it would give her time to get a few little things sorted out …

      It took her almost ten minutes to get him out of bed. It had been enough to open the letterbox slightly and listen to the sounds in the flat to know that he was at home. Even if the bedroom was at the far end of the flat, the distance wasn’t far enough for anyone to mistake the sound of snoring.

      She’d used the tried and tested police tactic with the doorbell: ten seconds ringing, ten silence, then more ringing.

      No-one could put up with that for long.

      She heard him come padding out into the hall and moved to the side to escape the peephole. As she had guessed, he was planning to throw the door open, and seeing as she was already holding the handle on the outside it didn’t take much to let him start to open it, then give it a serious tug from her side and bring him lurching into the stairwell. Then, while he was still shocked and trying to regain his balance, all she had to do was shove him gently in the chest to send him flying back onto the hall rug.

      A quick stride in and she could pull the door closed behind her.

      Basic police tactics, exercise 1A.

      ‘What the fuck are you doing, Becca?’ he whined when he had got to his feet and worked out who the intruder was.

      ‘I could ask you the same thing,’ she said curtly and gestured towards the kitchen.

      ‘Have you got any coffee in the flat, or do you spend all your money on other plant products?’

      She’d already picked up the sweet smell of hash from the flat through the letterbox.

      He didn’t answer, just walked into the kitchen ahead of her and started rattling about in the sink.

      ‘Will Nescafe do?’ he muttered, waving a brown glass jar.

      ‘Not really, but okay,’ she replied, shoving a pile of old Metros off one of the kitchen chairs.

      She saw that the flat was a complete mess. Clothes and all sorts of other stuff piled up in heaps. Old newspapers, full ashtrays and dirty glasses practically everywhere she looked. The walls and ceiling were yellow with cigarette smoke, and the greasy, overflowing plastic washing-up bowl in the sink told her it was a long time since any washing-up had been done. This was a couple of degrees worse, even, than Mum’s final days. It looked like a junkie’s squat, with the possible exception of the flatscreen television and the computer she had glimpsed in the living room.

      How the hell could he live in this sort of filth?

      ‘So … how are you, sis?’ he asked a few minutes later, feebly and less grouchily as he served them instant coffee in mismatched mugs.

      ‘Depends what you mean,’ she replied abruptly. ‘Life in general or my current state of health?’

      ‘Er … you know,’ he nodded towards the plasters on her head. ‘After the crash, I mean.’

      She sighed.

      ‘Oh, I’m okay, thanks for asking. A bit of a headache, some minor bruising and a few days off sick, but that’s pretty much it.’

      ‘And your partner?’

      Her eyes narrowed but she couldn’t miss the embarrassed tone of his question. He certainly seemed concerned, almost for real.

      ‘A bit better, thanks, I called this morning and he’s making progress. Looks like he’s going to make it.’

      ‘Thank God!’

      Both his body language and tone of voice told her he really meant it.

      The question was: who was he most relieved for? She was pretty sure it wasn’t Kruse.

      ‘Okay, now we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way, maybe you’d like to explain to me what the hell happened yesterday? I called three different custody units for your sake and pretty much got laughed at each time.’

      He looked down at once.

      ‘Nothing,’ he muttered.

      ‘Nothing?’ she repeated as sharply as she could.

      ‘Just a drunken prank, I’d had a few beers at Kvarnen and then had a smoke round at a friend’s. I saw it all on the news and heard it was you. When the others found out my sister was a cop they got me to call you and say I was the one who threw the stone and all that … They probably didn’t think I’d actually do it. And I shouldn’t have done.

      ‘Sorry!’ he added, looking up with a silly smile. ‘It was really stupid and immature, I know.’

      He threw

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