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the whole thing. I just can’t believe that anyone would stand around and watch something like that without intervening.’
    ‘It’s strange all right. But it’s hard to predict how you yourself would react in a similar situation. That’s another aspect of the whole thing. And something else that I think people forget, both in general discussions and with regard to youth violence, is the role of the parents. Where are the parents? What are they doing? What do they think? How do they feel? How much responsibility do they have for the fact that things have gone so far? What are they doing to stop the violence? As in the case of Alexander, for instance. No parents have made any sort of statement to the media – neither the parents of the victim nor of the perpetrators. There were five boys involved, according to the police. You’d think that someone would say something.’
    ‘I don’t think it’s strange at all. They’re obviously ashamed about what happened. Just think what it’s like here on this little island, where everyone knows everyone else, more or less. Or at least knows someone who knows someone. It’s not that easy to make a public statement, saying that your son is a brutal bully. Especially if he might be charged as an accessory to murder, if things go badly. They’ve been detained, haven’t they?’
    ‘Three of them have. The other two were released pending trial because they’re so young. Only fifteen.’
    They were interrupted by the phone ringing. The editor in Stockholm was calling to say that they could go home. The evening news programmes already had more than enough material.
    But they were told to keep their mobile phones switched on, just in case.

EVERYTHING WAS CALM outside the conference centre when Knutas arrived. A couple of police vehicles had been parked haphazardly in front of the main entrance; otherwise there was no sign of activity. Inside he found crime-scene technician Erik Sohlman, who had also just arrived. One of the uniformed officers showed them to the area where the body had been discovered. Several members of the cleaning staff, looking upset, stood next to their carts as they talked to police. A woman with Asian features sat on a sofa, sobbing loudly.
    Knutas had a strangely surreal feeling as he passed through the foyer. This was the same place where less than twenty-four hours ago he had been drinking champagne toasts and mingling with hundreds of other festively clad guests. Now the scene was completely different. They walked through the deserted and littered salon on the ground floor until they came to a smaller lounge furnished with a few sofas and a bar. This part of the centre had been closed off during the Saturday-night celebration.
    Tucked away in a far corner of the room was a small lift used by employees. Inside on the floor lay the body, with the legs partially sticking out of the lift door. The dead man was wearing a silk shirt and black trousers. His hair was dark and combed back. On his feet he wore shiny black shoes with soles that looked almost untouched.
    ‘Do you see who that is?’ asked Knutas tensely.
    ‘No, I don’t recognize him,’ said Sohlman.
    ‘Viktor Algård. The man in charge of organizing the whole celebration yesterday.’
    Images of the previous evening flashed through his mind. The event planner had been elegantly dressed, as always. Brimming with enthusiasm, he had greeted all the guests and then dashed about, talking to people right and left, attending to everything. Making sure that everything ran smoothly. Now here he lay, dead as a doornail. It was an alarming sight, and Knutas felt sick to his stomach.
    ‘Look at his complexion. How strange,’ murmured Sohlman. He squatted down to inspect the body.
    The colour of the dead man’s face surprised Knutas too. He couldn’t recall ever seeing anything like it. The skin was a bright pink, almost the hue of a newborn piglet. The same was true of the skin on his hands and