"Nope," Sammy said, "even though the entire building has been on it."

"He's holed up somewhere," Beatrice said with a sharpness in her tone that was unusual.

Lindell left the station shortly after seven and decided to pa.s.s by Vaksala Square to pick up some groceries.

As so often happened after she had been working long and hard, she was struck by a feeling of unreality as she stepped into the completely ordinary surroundings. The canned goods, grains, and health food on the shelves in the ICA store seemed foreign, as did the other customers who pushed their carts around, discussed dinner plans, and disciplined their children.

Ann walked dispiritedly through the aisles and picked out a mismatched jumble of food. A vague feeling of hunger mixed with indifference made her walk in circles until she was able to decide what to buy.

She settled for some smoked salmon, a dessert cheese, some fresh pasta, four chocolate bars, a couple of cans of crushed tomatoes, and some instant coffee. Then her imagination and spirits failed her and she left the store with the unsettled feeling of not having bought anything sensible.

She was overwhelmed by a feeling of grief as she loaded the bag into the backseat. Is this how it was going to be? She sagged next to the car, with one hand on the sunwarmed roof and the other dangling limply by her side. An image of pa.s.sivity. She heard laughter and saw four teenagers huddled closely together outside the display window of a furniture store. They were talking about a bed on display but quickly moved on, disappearing around the corner.

Thirty years ago in this place two young men-brothers-had died in a terrible car accident. An older colleague-one of the first to arrive on the scene-had confirmed the details. It had been very early in the morning, and the only witness was a taxi driver standing next to his car at the taxi stand some fifty meters away.

The story had been etched into her memory, and every time she pa.s.sed this intersection she thought of the brothers and the third young man in the somersaulting car-the driver, who survived. Every place had its history and many times it involved both death and sorrow, but most people, ignorant of what had happened there, just unknowingly walked on by.

As a cop, you got to know too many sad locations. She had come to this conclusion as the years went by. Could no longer see normal life and people in the city without the images being darkened by violence, tragedy, and the strained faces of those chosen to remember and bear witness.

Ann stepped into the car and suddenly felt she had no choice but to call Edvard. No choice. There was no other way. Why leave the man she once loved and perhaps still did? How could she otherwise explain the strong feeling of agitation and also longing that she had felt when she heard Edvard's voice on the answering machine?

Her loneliness was eating into her, and although she wouldn't admit it to herself, she was afraid of ending up alone. She wasn't young anymore. If she wanted a child, this was the time. She had toyed with the idea of getting herself pregnant with Edvard, whether or not he wanted to, and then leaving him if he didn't want to become a father again.

Edvard had his moments, but he wasn't worse than anybody else. Quite the opposite. He had much of what Ann was looking for. She had to call him. Hear his voice, maybe meet up with him. Didn't he ever drive into the city? They could have a coffee together at the very least.

The first thing she did when she got home was to turn on the television. She half listened as she undressed. The weather report was promising more warm weather. She sniffed her underarms and immediately headed to the bathroom. The toilet had been leaking for a couple of weeks. She had removed the lid and stared into the tank, but that hadn't made her any the wiser. She decided to write an enormous reminder and put it on the refrigerator door. The property manager-if there was one-would be able to fix this in about five minutes, she was sure of it.

She showered for a long time, soaping every nook and cranny, allowing the warm water to spray across her body. She thought of Edvard. Could she perhaps spend a couple of her weeks of vacation at Graso?

She put on her robe with a strong conviction that her summer was going to be good. It was as if her repressed love for Edvard had been released by his message and the heat in the shower. Her face flushed, smiling at herself in the mirror, she brushed her hair with strong strokes. She tried to imagine what he was doing right now, how he would react if she called. It struck her that he might have gotten over his longing for her and was able to contact her now because he was sure of his feelings and wanted only to be friends. She didn't really believe this, but the thought was enough to make her lower the brush and stare at herself in the mirror. Then she resumed brushing. She knew him too well and was positive he would never call her to make small talk. It was his voice. He still loved her, she knew he did. I have to call him, she thought, and left the bathroom.

The bottle of red wine that she had opened the other day was still more than half full, so she poured herself a gla.s.s, busying herself in the kitchen by watering the flowers and wiping down the table before she took a first sip. Then another. The television was still making noise in the other room, so she walked out and turned it off. The evening sun shone through the blinds and created a striped pattern of dust across the floor. She vowed to vacuum the entire apartment, mop the kitchen floor, and clear off the balcony so that she would finally have time to set out her garden chair, if Edvard picked up and said he wanted to meet with her.

She went back to the kitchen, took a sip of wine, and picked up the phone. As she dialed the number, she realized she hadn't thought of Sven-Erik Cederen for at least a couple of hours.

He picked up on the second ring and Ann fumbled for her gla.s.s, but it was empty.

Eleven.

Jack Mortensen was basking in the strong afternoon sun. There was a strong smell of barbecue in Kbo. His nearest neighbor-who was not visible behind the ma.s.sive hedge-was having a party, which was growing louder as the day went on.

Mortensen leaned his head against the rough wall. The neighbor's party distracted him, but not so much that it prevented him from systematically reviewing the events of the past few days. The call from Mlaga was what worried him more than anything else. The purchase of the land in the Caribbean had been the last step and the Spaniards were losing their patience. That Cederen's family had been obliterated and that Cederen himself was missing did not seem to concern them very much. De Soto almost sounded relieved. On the other hand, he had never worked well with Cederen and he had never met Josefin, much less Emily.

But wait a minute, hadn't he met her? Three years ago right here in the garden, as they were successfully marketing Cabolem. It was the profit from that launch that was right now being sunk into the Parkinson's project.

Then they had celebrated. He had taken care not to overindulge, as he was the host, but the rest had drunk all the more. He recalled how De Soto and his lady-or however one should refer to her-had downed their drinks, fondled each other, and ended up together in the hammock. It is said that Swedes have trouble holding back, but these Spaniards had put them to shame. One of them, the light-haired fellow from the Basque country who talked about ETA, had jumped into the pool fully clothed, and another-the head of lab two-had been blind drunk only an hour into the event.

Mortensen had felt embarra.s.sed. If he felt irritated by his neighbor's noise level, what couldn't others have been able to reveal about that party? The following day he had b.u.mped into one of his neighbors, the one who was known as professor although he was only a lecturer, and he had mentioned something about the carryings-on that went on long into the night. Mortensen had apologized but since then had always felt ashamed when they b.u.mped into each other in the street.

Although the young police officer-Molin was his name-who had gone through the company papers had appeared young and awkward, Mortensen was convinced that he would discover the transaction from last December. This was not good. At first Mortensen himself had argued against it despite the financial and practical advantages, but had given his consent three days before Christmas. It was too late now, he realized. That operation would have been easy enough to conceal if only he had acted earlier.

The Spaniards were furious, but Mortensen had calmed them. The Swedish Financial Crimes division was overworked and lacked the necessary resources and knowledge, he claimed. It would take some time before the three million was unearthed, and a skilled business lawyer could punt it around as long as necessary. Perhaps it could be recast as an unfortunate misstep, intended only to strengthen the company's possibilities for expansion. They could blame their own amateurism and the fact that they had been so caught up in the medical research that they did not realize they had made themselves guilty of a financial crime.

More troubling than this was Uppsala-Nas, the purchase of the property, and Cederen's disappearance. The police would not give up easily. He thought of Lindell's visit. She had made a sharp impression, but also seemed strangely absent. Would she manage to uncover Gabriella? That depended entirely on Gabriella herself, if she could manage to stay calm. Mortensen had his doubts. She was weak. He had called, but no one had answered. That was not a good sign. Perhaps she was with Sven-Erik, but where were they?

On the other hand, Gabriella knew nothing that could tarnish MedForsk's reputation, unless Sven-Erik had talked to her. That was not inconceivable. Sven-Erik had grown increasingly soft in the fall, questioned the entire enterprise and his own role in it, slipped away to the golf course more frequently, lost his edge in the laboratory, and simply become unpleasant.

The argument that they had to succeed-and quickly at that-was one that he had waved away, snorted at. Which was hypocritical, in Mortensen's mind, because Cederen had been in on the plan from the beginning. Back then he had not protested-in fact quite the opposite. Mortensen remembered his enthusiastic introduction at the April conference two years ago, when the entire project was conceived.

Now he wants to discuss ethics, he thought bitterly. That's what they all do, come back after the fact, complaining when the problems start to pile up. If things go well, they grab all the glory. It had been the same thing at Pharmacia.

He felt deeply uneasy, could not escape the thought that the Spaniards were secretly pleased that Cederen had disappeared from the scene. And if the family had been wiped out-well, that was hardly something they could do anything about. De Soto's comments-about finally being able to work in peace and move forward-had appeared just as cynical as he felt their business ethics to be.

Mortensen gazed at his hand, the pulse under the skin in the fold between his thumb and forefinger. He made a fist so that his knuckles whitened. The neighbor must have gone inside because now the area was completely still.

Should he call his mother? She had already called him a couple of times that day, had been concerned and asked if he was managing. Mortensen smiled. That was just like her, he thought. Tomorrow she would most likely turn up in time for breakfast, with fresh-baked buns and fresh carrot juice.

He got up stiffly. How long had he been sitting against the wall? At least a couple of hours. Normally this was his primary mode of relaxation, these hours that he could steal to spend in the garden, but right now he felt no joy as he looked out over the profusion of flowers.

The telephone had been ringing off the hook since Cederen had dropped out of sight. The Spaniards aside, everyone at MedForsk wanted to talk to him about what had happened. Everyone had been upset and shaken, but a certain anxiety about the future of the company-and thereby their own-had also been evident.

Mortensen had calmed them all. We'll move forward regardless, he repeated.

If only he knew where Sven-Erik was hiding. Mortensen was convinced that Sven-Erik would eventually be in touch and had brought the cell phone with him into the garden, but the only caller was a reporter from the evening paper, Aftonbladet. A nosy type whom Mortensen had quickly brushed off, but in a polite and proper way. He did not want any trouble because he had been rude to a hack. There was enough bad press right now as it was.

Where on earth could he be if he wasn't shacking up with Gabriella? Mortensen had puzzled over this but had come up with no reasonable alternative. At one point he thought that Cederen might have gone out to Mortensen's cottage in Moja. Cederen was familiar with the place and knew where the key was hidden. Mortensen had called out there at least a dozen times, but there had been no answer. He had not mentioned this to Lindell. And why would Cederen want to hole up there? It was more likely that he had gone overseas. Had the police located his pa.s.sport? Lindell had not said anything about that.

If Cederen was alive, he would attempt to contact him sooner or later. He would want to talk. He could manage to keep himself hidden and isolated for a couple of days, but Mortensen knew him too well to think that he could hold out any longer than that.

And if he was dead? Mortensen didn't want to believe it. They had been friends since they were in their twenties, when they were both studying chemistry. They had been roommates for a time, had backpacked through Europe, had fallen in love with the same woman-Sven-Erik the one who had won the fair maiden, of course-and had fallen out of touch but had been reunited at Pharmacia. The fact was that Sven-Erik Cederen was the person he had been closest to, with the exception of his mother. The one who knew his strengths as well as his weaknesses but who never abused this, never taunted him for his inability to keep a woman more than a month of two, never said a harsh word about his mother.

Mortensen had always trusted Sven-Erik. He was a person you trusted. Not a slick, socially adept charmer, but loyal as a friend and unusually honest at work in a way.

They had built up MedForsk-a huge risk at first-into a successful company with positive headlines in the business weeklies and a good reputation among their compet.i.tors and research colleagues. Now they were facing the largest step since the beginning, the public offering. Three hundred million. Everything was ready. They had hired a PR consultant to prepare the way, and he had succeeded beyond their expectations. The firm's results spoke clearly. Last year's profits had been almost fifty million.

Now all of this was threatened and Mortensen was not sure how he would be able to contain the damage. The Spaniards were furious, his head of research was in all likelihood a murderer and also nowhere to be found, the police were examining everything and everyone, and the ma.s.s media were on the hunt.

Mortensen shivered. He took the phone and went inside. After he had shut the door and turned on the alarm, he got a feeling of looming catastrophe. He closed the metal blinds in the textile room. The pale pieces of fabric displayed in gla.s.s and silver frames gave him no joy. Lately he had started to wonder why he had put so much effort into creating one of the foremost private collections of textiles from South America and Southeast Asia in the country. To what end? he thought as he closed the door behind him, locked it, and switched on the alarm. No one ever sees the collection, except for the occasional guest, who is only moderately impressed and interested.

Should he call that attractive policewoman? He had put the card with her home phone number on his bulletin board above his desk. He walked into his home office, turned on his computer, and looked up at the card.

What should he say? Should he tell her about Gabriella? It was tempting. He wanted to have something to offer her to get her to return, but revealing Gabriella's ident.i.ty was too dangerous. The price could be too high. Ann Lindell's interest in him was probably only professional, and she would chew up Gabriella with relish and then it would be his turn.

He remained standing in front of his computer for a long time, wondering if he should put in a little work with the CAD program. He had decided to rip up a quarter of the garden, build another pond, connect it with the old, and also create a little woodland area for acidic-loving plants. The drawings on the computer were almost ready. Then all he needed was the listing of plants. Construction would begin in the fall.

He was just about to turn on the computer when the phone rang. He looked at the clock and picked up the receiver. Mlaga. He had time to say only that Cederen was still missing before De Soto interrupted him. Mortensen was quiet, pulling over his chair and sinking down in it.

De Soto's long monologue paralyzed him. He hung up without saying another word.

Twelve.

Ola Haver lingered in the doorway. The terbutaline had kicked in and Gina appeared to be breathing more comfortably. He walked up to the bed and tucked the blankets around her, setting her stuffed animal on the pillow. Her eyelids fluttered and she coughed.

From the bedroom, he could hear the baby whimper before she found her way back to the nipple. Rebecka Haver called softly for Ola and he left Gina's room, casting a final glance at his resting daughter. Let's hope she can sleep for a while, he thought, and gently pulled the door until it was almost but not completely closed.

"Please remember to go by the drugstore," Rebecka said.

Ola had to smile. She was hoa.r.s.e, had almost lost her voice-he could barely hear her-but she had not lost her ability to give him constant reminders.

"Of course. What a family. Happy almost Midsummer," Haver said and walked up to the bed.

Rebecka smiled and stretched out her hand to him. The baby snuffled contentedly at her mother's breast. Maybe she had fallen asleep.

Haver took her hand and squeezed it lightly. The bedroom lay in half darkness, with the blinds pulled down and only a single bedside lamp for illumination.

"Feel better soon," he said and bent down to kiss his daughter's neck. Her hair, which was still downy but dark and striking like her mother's, tickled his nose. He drew in her sweet scent and felt a vast joy.

He left Valsatra shortly after half past seven. He had an idea. Just as they had checked all of the restaurants that Cederen visited recently, they could methodically search out the gas stations he had been to.

On his way to the police station, he tried to imagine what Sven-Erik Cederen was like. The photos of him in the house had shown a man about his own age, not particularly handsome-at least according to Beatrice, but she was critical of most men. Short hair, tan, and in reasonably good shape. He reminded Haver of the real estate agent who had sold them their house. One of these thirty-five-year-olds lurching toward middle age who try to ward off physical deterioration with hair gel, gym visits twice a week, perhaps golf, and a confidence in their posture that did not always correspond to the state of their inner life.

Haver had been through all papers and doc.u.ments that concerned Cederen but had not been able to add anything of substance to their understanding of him. Cederen was too much of a nonent.i.ty, too flat, too focused on his work and research. Even in his vacation pictures, he had remained a cipher. Of course in some photos he had looked fairly relaxed, laughing and perhaps striking an unexpected pose, but nothing there yielded more for anyone who wanted to learn more about him. Haver missed the voices and gestures.

At the Edenhof golf course in Balinge, Haver had met with some of Cederen's acquaintances. All of them had maintained that Cederen was pleasant and easygoing but not particularly social. He was friendly but did not open up, rarely if ever talking about his personal affairs.

He played a decent game of golf, able to put in a concentrated effort without much trouble. If he ever missed a shot or a simple putt he never made much of it, other than perhaps an ironic smile. He played calmly and methodically. He was popular at the club, someone who could be relied upon, and he was a driving force in the tree-planting project as well as the youth recruitment initiative. Other club members said they would be happy to play a round with Cederen. He created a sense of order, as one member put it.

No one sensed any cracks in his facade other than the a.s.sumption that he was most likely cheating on his wife. How to explain this departure from his otherwise irreproachable behavior? Haver had fielded this question at the golf course, but everyone he spoke to had dismissed the idea of Cederen's having a lover as absurd. Most of them knew Josefin-admittedly not very well-and everyone had characterized the relationship as stable and even happy.

Haver drove past the Svandammen pond and cast a longing glance at the cafe Fgelsngen. He had spent a lot of time there in his youth but nowadays rarely had an occasion to stop by. Perhaps he should take Lindell out for a cup of coffee and a vanilla custard doughnut. She liked hanging out at cafes. No, not a doughnut, they were reserved for him and Rebecka. The vanilla game was their secret.

The list of Cederen's purchases at the Hydro gas stations was not particularly long. He probably also frequented other stations. Most of the purchases were marked "Klang's Alley" and that made sense. A handful of transactions were from Rbyvagen and next to the E4 motorway as well as half a dozen stops along regrundsvagen.

Haver studied the list and realized that he would perhaps not get that far. Most of the gas purchases were self-serve transactions at a machine. The chance of anyone's being able to recall Cederen and any company he may have had were very remote, but on the other hand, they didn't have much else to go on.

regrundsvagen was the only station that stood out. What errand had Cederen had in that part of town? Something for his work? Hardly. MedForsk had no presence along that road. Cederen had no summer house. Perhaps he was visiting someone he knew?

Haver pulled out his phone and dialed the number to MedForsk. Sofi Ronn answered. Haver asked her if she knew why Cederen might have traveled along regrundsvagen so often. She had no idea and did not know of anyone he might have known who lived in Rasbo, Alunda, or any other area to the northeast.

Haver thanked her and hung up. The transactions had occurred with relative regularity. That was most likely no accident. Haver pounced on the explanation: Cederen's lover must live in the vicinity.

He stood up and walked over to the map of Uppland on the wall. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Haver took the road only on rare occasions, but he tried to visualize it in his mind. He had a vague memory of an unmanned gas station, but wasn't there a small shop nearby?

He opened the telephone directory and searched grocery stores. Just as he thought, there was a small grocery store in Vallby, Rasbo Allkop. He wrote down the number and decided to head out there right away with a photo of Cederen.

He called Lindell and told her his plans.

"How are things at home?" she asked.

"Rebecka sounds like Darth Vader, and Gina hardly slept last night."

"If you need to get back to them, you should," Lindell told him.

In spite of clouds sweeping in from the southwest, it was still a beautiful day. Haver drove out along Vaksalagatan, thinking of his little one. What should they call her? Rebecka had suggested Sara, but Haver thought it sounded too biblical. What about my name? she had objected. Doesn't that sound biblical too? But Haver had stood his ground.

Haver rooted around in the glove compartment for his sungla.s.ses. He felt a great happiness that life had fallen into place. The anxiety during the pregnancy, his wife's constant spotting, the chaos and ma.s.ses of overtime at work, and his own sense of having ignored his family-all this hung over him like a shadow all winter and spring. Now the sun was finally shining. He drove far too fast.

He could not manage to get his conception of Cederen to coalesce. A successful researcher and business executive, a well-regarded golf player, a man with an apparently stable home life. But also someone who had carried out a deception and perhaps even a murder. Haver had read extracts from Josefin's diary and seen her and Emily lying slain at the side of the road. What made Cederen tick? Haver wanted to catch up to him to find that out.

At Jalla, dark clouds drew across the sky, and at the exit to Hovgrden, the rain arrived.

One of the store staff members was uncertain about recognizing Cederen, but two were able to identify him with a.s.surance.

"He often shops here," one of them said. She was a young woman in her twenties and had piercings in her tongue and her nose. This, along with her lanky hair and drooping shoulders, initially gave Haver the impression she might be of limited intelligence, but he quickly revised his a.s.sessment when she turned out to be swift and a.s.sured in her answers. Occasionally she had to ponder on her answer for a moment, but on the whole she was a perfect witness.

She knew that Cederen drove a BMW-"that would be something"-and that he drove by regularly. She had seen the car drive past but also stop at the gas station; he had shopped in the store on multiple occasions. Once last spring he had bought all of the tulips in the store. She thought there were something like seven ten-packs in the store at the time.

"You remember a customer who buys seventy tulips," she said. "It's so romantic."

Haver smiled at her.

"Sounds like you wouldn't have anything against getting seventy tulips."