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mind.’
    ‘We don’t know who he is,’ Zeke says. ‘That would be a good start, finding out who he is.’
    ‘Maybe someone will call in. The pictures are in the paper already,’ Johan says, and Börje Svärd, who has been silent up to now, sighs.
    ‘Those pictures? You can’t see the face.’
    ‘How many people that overweight can there be round here? And before too long someone will wonder where that fat man has disappeared to.’
    ‘Don’t be so sure,’ Malin says. ‘This city’s full of people that no one would notice if they went missing.’
    ‘But he looks different, his body—’
    ‘If we’re lucky,’ Sven interrupts Johan, ‘someone will call in. To begin with we’ll have to wait for the results of the search of the scene and for the post-mortem. We can start knocking on doors in the area, find out if anyone saw or heard anything, if anyone knows anything we ought to know. We have, as you’re well aware, one question that has to be answered.’
    Sven Sjöman, Malin thinks. Four years left before he reaches sixty-five, four years left at risk of a heart attack, four years of overtime, four years of his wife’s tasty and lovingly prepared but dangerously fatty food. Four years of too little exercise. A widow-making stomach . But Sven is still the voice of reason in the room, the voice of experience, pushing no particular angle, stressing sensible, disinterested, mature methodology.
    ‘Malin, you and Zeke will be in charge of the preliminary investigation,’ Sven says. ‘I’ll see that you get the resources you need for the foot-work. And you two can help them as much as you have time for.’
    ‘I’d have been happy to take this on,’ Johan says.
    ‘Johan, we’ve got other things to do as well,’ Börje says. ‘We don’t have the luxury of concentrating on just one case.’
    ‘Is the meeting over?’ Zeke asks, pushing back his chair and standing up.
    The moment they have all got to their feet the door opens.
    ‘You can all sit down again.’
    Karim Akbar says these words with all the gravity his muscular, thirty-seven-year-old body can muster, then goes to stand beside Sven Sjöman and waits while the other four officers sink into their chairs again.
    ‘You appreciate how important it is,’ Karim says, and it strikes Malin that there isn’t a trace of an accent in his speech, despite the fact that he was already ten years old when he arrived in Sweden. He speaks clear, empty, standard Swedish.
    ‘How important it is,’ he repeats, ‘that we get this sorted out,’ and it sounds just like he’s talking about a dissertation that needs restructuring before a viva.
    Hard work and application.
    If you start on minus and want to get to double-plus, you can’t afford to leave anything to chance. Karim has written controversial opinion pieces in Svenska Dagbladet and Dagens Nyheter , perfectly chiselled to match the needs of the age. His opinions have upset a lot of people: immigrants must meet certain requirements; benefits need to be linked to linguistic ability in Swedish after just one year in the country. Exclusion can only become inclusion with a lot of effort.
    His face appears regularly on television discussion programmes. Make demands, liberate people’s innate potential. Look at me, it can be done. I am living proof.
    But what about the timid? Malin wonders. Those who were born diffident?
    ‘We know this is what our job is about. Solving crimes like this,’ Zeke says, and Malin sees Johan and Börje smiling furtively as Sven pulls a face that means: Calm down, Zeke, let him make his speech; just because you don’t make a fuss doesn’t mean that you’re nothing but a manual labourer for him. For God’s sake, haven’t you grown up, Martinsson?
    Karim gives Zeke a look that says: Show me respect, and don’t use that tone, but Zeke doesn’t look away. So Karim goes on instead: ‘The press, the media, will make a big deal out of this, and I’m going to have to answer