"Of course you can," Ottosson said. "Things here will go on as usual."

"Maybe you'll meet a handsome flamenco dude," Sammy said, testing the limits. He could tell he'd overstepped his bounds by her furious expression.

Beatrice laid a hand on her arm.

"Go to Mlaga," she said in a low voice. "It's probably thirty degrees there. You need it. They're just jealous."

"I can't," Lindell said.

That morning she had decided that she would contact the ob-gyn center to get some expert advice and perhaps simply discuss her pregnancy with someone. Every day that went by felt a little less like a catastrophe. She was swelling more and more, she thought, though when she examined her body in the evenings she could honestly not see that there was anything there.

The indecision pained her. She had to take ahold of the issue as swiftly and effectively as she did with her investigations. Traveling to Spain would waste even more time.

Perhaps I can take a couple of days and have an abortion in Mlaga, she thought. Then no one would notice anything. But as she thought this, she became so angry with herself that her cheeks turned bright pink. The image of the elk cow and her calf floated up in front of her eyes.

"I suggest that we send someone else," she said, but there was no conviction in her voice. This was interpreted by the others as meaning that she in fact wanted to go but wanted to appear suitably resistant.

"I've talked to the boss and he agrees," Ottosson said.

Sammy grinned. He had a new joke in mind but kept his mouth shut after one look from Ottosson.

"To continue," Ottosson said, "Ystad has been in touch. The cousin has been located. His name is apparently Lennart and his last name must be Mark. He was hiking in Italy but fell and broke his leg and landed in the hospital. When he called one of his siblings, they told him about Gabriella's death. They are going to arrange a telephone number to the hospital in Bolzano."

"Gypsum is an Italian specialty," Sammy said.

They broke up and went off to their own offices. Lindell lingered a little, as she often did to get a moment with Ottosson. He was shuffling his papers; he looked at her and noticed her anxious expression.

"Go home and pack," he said kindly. "I asked Anki to check the flights. You can probably leave as early as tomorrow. All we have to do is give the Spaniards some advance notice."

"I really can't go," Lindell said. "For personal reasons."

"Is it your friend from Roslagen?" Ottosson asked.

Lindell shook her head.

"Or your parents?"

"No, not them either."

Ottosson's imagination could apparently stretch no further than that. He stood silent and watched her. She was about to tell him what it was when he got there first.

"Are you pregnant?"

"Can you tell?"

"No, and no one has suggested anything like that, but I've seen that you're more than worried about something."

He stuffed his papers into his bag and avoided her gaze.

"And..."

"Well, then I draw the conclusion that when a woman is as worried as you have been, then she is pregnant, most likely against her wishes."

He spoke quietly. Lindell stared at him without being able to think of anything to say.

"Have I said too much now?"

"No, I'm just at a loss for words."

In a way she was touched by Ottosson's words. Perhaps it was because it was the first time that she could talk about her condition. Perhaps it was the simpleness of his words that meant they went straight to her heart.

"You don't know what to do?"

"No. You're so sweet."

"So go to Mlaga, talk to our colleagues there, check up on MedForsk's Spanish partner, and have yourself a think. Maybe you can take a couple of extra days and rest, get some sun and live it up."

"If I go, I want some company."

"We're sending Bosse Wanning from Financials, that much is decided. They have uncovered some interesting information but need to follow up on location. Maybe we can get some help from the Spaniards. I think there are EU funds in the picture, some kind of development money."

"I meant someone from our division," Lindell said.

"I see," Ottosson said, but he looked uncertain. "You know how the budget is."

If it had been up to him, he would have sent the entire team to Spain for a week or two.

"We're always two when we're out on a.s.signments," Lindell said.

"And you will be two."

"But Wanning will be poring over the accounts. What good does that do me?"

"Okay, I'll see what I can do," Ottosson said.

Lindell went straight to her office. She hadn't asked Ottosson to keep quiet about her condition, but she knew she didn't need to ask. In a way it felt funny that a man was the one who had found her out, but then what did she know? Perhaps Beatrice and a few others had already guessed how things were.

Mlaga was listed in the international weather reports-that was all she knew about the city. Southern Spain. It was probably forty degrees Celsius.

Ottosson had promised to handle all of the practical arrangements-that is to say, he would talk to Anki. Would Ola want to go? She had tossed out his name. He was the one she found the easiest to work with. Sammy could be a little too sharp sometimes, a little too macho as well. Ola was softer, though no softie. He could seem tireless when he was pursuing a lead. He drove forward like a hunting dog, not barking but tenacious. It was because of him that they had found Gabriella-admittedly too late, but still. No, not too late-she was the one who had botched the possibility of meeting with the living Gabriella.

She called Haver, who immediately stopped by.

"Spain," Lindell said as soon as he stepped into the room.

"What?"

"Both of us can go," Lindell said. "You can pack tonight. Sounds like it'll be warm."

Ola Haver looked bewildered, swallowed, and looked as if he was formulating an objection, but Lindell got there first.

"We need to be two. It's not a done deal yet, but I recommended you."

"I don't know. It could be complicated on the home front."

"It will be a couple of days. Come on. I'm not going alone."

"To be honest, I don't think Rebecka would be happy about it."

"I'm sure she wouldn't begrudge you a couple of days in the sun."

Haver stood up. He was visibly uncomfortable.

"That's not what she would mind," he said and walked over to the window. "It's the fact that it would be the two of us."

"What?"

"Rebecka is a little jealous."

"Of me?"

"Of everyone," Haver said, trying to make less of it when he saw Lindell's look of alarm.

"Do you mean..."

"I mean that you and I work well together, and the hours add up. You look all right and Rebecka knows that, so..."

"Thank you, Ola, but we haven't ever..."

"No, but she doesn't know that."

"Does she complain?"

"Not complain, exactly, but she makes these comments."

"Talk to her first," Lindell said, and Haver went back to his office.

Lindell felt a bit dazed after Haver's confession of his marital life and the effect she was having. She had never had a thought of Ola as a lover, not even as a flirt. He was good-looking and was nice, but there had never been anything more.

She smiled to herself. "You look all right" he had said, and it was probably the most extravagant compliment one could get at the division. Ottosson often praised her and made comments about her being fresh as a lily, but that was Ottosson.

She decided to call Edvard. Now she had a good excuse. She could blame her trip to Spain if he wanted to meet her. But when she dialed his number, his line was busy.

She wrote down her notes from the visit to Holger Johansson. It was as if the Mlaga a.s.signment had brought her back to life. Suddenly she felt full of strength and inspiration. She recognized the symptoms and knew she should take advantage of it.

She searched for the number to the owner of the landscaping equipment who had rented the digger to Mortensen. He picked up right away. The din in the background made it hard to understand what he was saying, so finally he turned off some of the equipment.

"I'll have to check the calendar in my car. The days run together. Why do you want to know?"

"Routine procedure," Lindell said.

"Sure thing," he said. "He was a unique type, that one. His mother too. She talked about how dangerous it was and didn't want her son to do the digging himself. Finally I told her to shut her mouth. I had to get to another job and didn't have time to stand there shooting the breeze. I could tell that Mortensen was blown away when I did that."

"What did the mother say?"

"She left without a word."

"Thank you for this information," Lindell said in a friendly voice. "One other thing: When did you come back for the machine?"

"Six-thirty the next morning. He wasn't very good at digging, but I guess he isn't used to it."

"Thank you," she repeated and hung up.

Twenty-three.

Lindell peered out the airplane window. No forest, was her first thought. Agricultural land was divided into sections, all with a red-pink tinge. Some fields were dotted, green little dots in ramrod-straight lines. Lindell thought they were bushes, maybe small trees.

All countries are beautiful from above, she thought as the plane swept over houses and office buildings and factories from a low alt.i.tude. She did not fly very often, so it was with some nervous antic.i.p.ation that she had taken her seat on the plane. Haver was sitting next to her, and on the other side of the aisle there was Bosse Wanning from Financials as well as a Spanish-speaking data expert that Wanning's team had located at short notice.

When they picked up their bags and walked toward the exit, after first pa.s.sing by an almost nonexistent checkpoint, the first thing they saw was a young man carrying a sign with her name.

"Welcome to Mlaga," he said in English. He was dressed in civilian clothes and the car that they got into was also unmarked.

"I'm taking you to meet the commissioner for the Bureau of Criminal Investigations," the driver said.

"That sounds fancy," Haver said.

Mlaga received them with tolerable warmth, some twenty-five degrees Celsius. The traffic into town was intense. Everyone sat quietly, observing the array of people.

For Lindell, this was only the second time that she had visited Spain. Many years ago she had spent a week in Mallorca with Rolf, the man before Edvard. She knew this would be something completely different.

She had never traveled internationally on a.s.signment before and was curious how the collaboration with the Spanish colleagues would work. She had been forewarned about their bureaucracy and Berglund had made a comment about black shirts. She had asked him what he meant and he had avoided her question, simply muttering something about old prejudices.

The criminal police headquarters were located at the Plaza Manuel Azaa, which was not really a square as much as an intersection.

They were expected. The chief of the Criminal Division and the chief of Public Relations were waiting for them in the foyer. Lindell looked around. It was an airy s.p.a.ce with a reception counter surrounded by a throng of people. The noise level was deafening. It seemed as if the visitors moved freely in and out, in contrast to the headquarters in Uppsala, where the public was greeted by a relatively dreary setup of locked doors.

Antonio Fernndez Moya was about forty-five, short and starting to show a middle-aged heaviness. He was surprisingly pale, with intense brown eyes. It seemed to her that his eyes went up and down her body before he grabbed her hand and shook it forcefully.