LITMIR.BIZ

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first,’ Erik Eriksson says, adjusting his sparkling glasses.

      Tommy Kofoed removes the wrapper from a salmon sandwich, pulls out the sprig of dill, squeezes some lemon juice and unwraps the cutlery from the napkin they were rolled up in.

      Suddenly the door to the big conference room opens and Joona Linna walks in with his blond hair on end.

      ‘Syö tilli, pojat,’ he says in Finnish with a grin.

      ‘Exactly,’ Nathan Pollock chuckles. ‘Eat your dill, boys.’

      Nathan and Joona smile as their eyes meet. Tommy Kofoed’s cheeks turn red and he shakes his head with a smile.

      ‘Tilli,’ Nathan Pollock repeats, and bursts out laughing as Joona walks over and puts the sprig of dill back on Tommy Kofoed’s sandwich.

      ‘Perhaps we can continue the meeting?’ Petter says.

      Joona shakes Nathan Pollock’s hand, then walks over to a spare chair, hangs his dark jacket on the back of it and sits down.

      ‘Sorry,’ Joona says quietly.

      ‘Good to have you here,’ Carlos says.

      ‘Thanks.’

      ‘We were just about to discuss the issue of recruitment,’ Carlos explains.

      He pinches his bottom lip and Petter Näslund begins to squirm on his chair.

      ‘I think … I think I’ll let Nathan speak first,’ Carlos goes on.

      ‘By all means,’ Nathan Pollock says. ‘I’m not just speaking for myself, here … Look, we all agree on this, we’re hoping you might want to join us, Joona.’

      The room falls silent. Niklas Dent and Erik Eriksson nod. Petter Näslund is sharply silhouetted in the light from the window.

      ‘We’d like that very much,’ Tommy Kofoed says.

      ‘I appreciate the offer,’ Joona says, running his fingers through his thick hair. ‘You’re a very smart team, you’ve proved that, and I respect your work …’

      They smile.

      ‘But as for me … I can’t work to a specific framework,’ he explains.

      ‘We appreciate that,’ Kofoed says quickly. ‘It’s a little rigid, but it can actually be helpful, because of course it’s been proven that …’

      He tails off.

      ‘Well, we just wanted to extend the invitation,’ Nathan Pollock says.

      ‘I don’t think it would suit me,’ Joona replies.

      They look down, someone nods, and Joona apologises when his phone rings. He gets up from the table and leaves the room. A minute or so later he comes back in and takes his jacket from the chair.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’d have liked to stay for the meeting, but …’

      ‘Has something serious happened?’ Carlos asks.

      ‘That call was from John Bengtsson, one of our uniforms,’ Joona says. ‘He’s just found Carl Palmcrona.’

      ‘Found?’ Carlos says.

      ‘Hanged,’ Joona replies.

      His symmetrical face becomes serious and his eyes shimmer like grey glass.

      ‘Who’s Palmcrona?’ Nathan Pollock asks. ‘I can’t place the name.’

      ‘Director general of the Inspectorate for Strategic Products,’ Tommy Kofoed answers quickly. ‘He takes the decisions about Swedish arms exports.’

      ‘Isn’t the identity of anyone working for the ISP confidential?’ Carlos asks.

      ‘It is,’ Kofoed replies.

      ‘So presumably the Security Police will be dealing with this?’

      ‘I’ve already promised John Bengtsson that I’d take a look,’ Joona replies. ‘Apparently there was something that didn’t make sense.’

      ‘What?’ Carlos asks.

      ‘It was … No, I should probably take a look with my own eyes first.’

      ‘Sounds exciting,’ Tommy Kofoed says. ‘Can I tag along?’

      ‘If you like,’ Joona replies.

      ‘I’ll come too, then,’ Pollock says quickly.

      Carlos tries to say something about the meeting, but realises that it’s pointless. The three men leave the sun-drenched room and walk out into the cool corridor.

       6

       How death came

      Twenty minutes later Detective Superintendent Joona Linna parks his black Volvo on Strandvägen. A silver-grey Lincoln Town Car pulls up behind him. Joona gets out of the car and waits for his two colleagues from the National Homicide Commission. They walk round the corner together and in through the door of Grevgatan 2.

      In the creaking old lift up to the top floor Tommy Kofoed asks in his usual cheery voice what Joona has been told so far.

      ‘The ISP reported that Carl Palmcrona had gone missing,’ Joona says. ‘He doesn’t have any family and none of his colleagues know him privately. But when he didn’t show up for work one of our patrols was asked to take a look. John Bengtsson went to the flat and found Palmcrona hanged, and called me. He said he suspected criminal activity and wanted me to come over at once.’

      Nathan Pollock’s craggy face frowns.

      ‘What made him suspect criminal activity?’

      The lift stops and Joona opens the grille. John Bengtsson is standing outside the door to Palmcrona’s apartment. He tucks his notepad in his pocket and Joona shakes his hand.

      ‘This is Tommy Kofoed and Nathan Pollock from the National Homicide Commission,’ Joona says.

      They shake hands briefly.

      ‘The door was unlocked when I arrived,’ John says. ‘I could hear music, and found Palmcrona hanging in one of the big reception rooms. Over the years I’ve cut down a fair number of men, but this time, I mean … it can hardly be suicide, given Palmcrona’s standing in society, so …’

      ‘It’s good that you called,’ Joona says.

      ‘Have you examined the body?’ Tommy Kofoed says gloomily.

      ‘I haven’t even set foot inside the room,’ John replies.

      ‘Very good,’ Kofoed mutters, and starts to lay down protective mats with John Bengtsson.

      Shortly afterwards Joona and Nathan Pollock are able to enter the hall. John Bengtsson is waiting beside a blue sofa. He points towards the double doors leading to a brightly lit room. Joona walks over on the mats and pushes the doors wide open.

      Warm sunlight is streaming in through the row of high windows. Carl Palmcrona is hanging in the middle of the spacious room. He’s wearing a light suit, a summer overcoat and lightweight low-heeled shoes. There are flies crawling across his face, around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, laying tiny yellow eggs and buzzing around the pool of urine and smart briefcase on the floor. The thin washing-line has cut deep into Palmcrona’s neck, the groove is dark red and blood has seeped out and run beneath his shirt.

      ‘Execution,’ Tommy Kofoed declares, pulling on a pair of protective gloves.

      Every trace of moroseness suddenly

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