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was protecting you, Tove, but I wasn’t: I was only trying to stop you making the same mistakes as me. Bloody hell, I was twenty when I got pregnant with you, Tove. I couldn’t bear to see you enter the same confused place as me, the same sick, dual feeling of love and of being backed into a corner. So I didn’t trust you, thinking of myself, and you hid your first love from me.
    What do you call that?
    Failed motherhood. Nothing more, nothing less.
    ‘Didn’t they speak to her on the phone while they were in Paris?’
    Zeke sounds tired again, sluggish hoarseness audible in his voice.
    They must be regretting their trip, Malin thinks.
    ‘Apparently not,’ Sven says. ‘The girl didn’t answer her mobile, and she didn’t answer the landline at home, but they didn’t think that was particularly odd.’
    ‘No?’
    ‘A bit stroppy, evidently. Often lost her mobile.’
    ‘And how long were they in Paris?’ Zeke asks.
    ‘They set off six days ago.’
    ‘So she could have been missing almost a week now?’
    ‘And the parents don’t have any idea where she could be?’
    ‘Not when I spoke to them.’
    Sven Sjöman adjusts his shirt before going on.
    ‘We’ll prioritise the girl in the park, but you’d still better start by going out to Sturefors. Talk to the parents, calm them down, refer to the statistics, tell them she’s likely to turn up soon.’
    Sven gives them the address.
    Only a block away from the house in which Malin grew up.
    The same district.
    The same early 1970s dream. Pools in some gardens. Generously proportioned houses with wood and brick façades, mature fruit trees in neat, precious lawns.
    She hasn’t been out there since her parents sold the house and bought the flat by the old Infection Park. They’re still in Tenerife, even though they usually come home for the summer. But, as her father explained over the phone: ‘This year we’re staying on. Your mum’s just started playing golf and is going on a course this summer. It’s cheaper to do it then than in high-season in the winter.’
    ‘I’ll water the plants, Dad. They’re in safe hands.’
    In actual fact there were very few plants still alive in her parents’ flat now, and it was far from certain that even those would survive the summer. But what could they expect? It’s been a year since they were last home. What are they really keeping the flat on for? Suddenly Malin wants to be there, longing for the chill she always feels there. It would actually be quite pleasant right now.
    ‘And the media,’ Malin says. ‘What are we going to do about them? We can probably expect them to leap on the cases of Theresa and Josefin like bloodthirsty gnats.’
    ‘No doubt,’ Sven says. ‘But we’ll lie low. So far we don’t know that a rape has been committed, and it could be a while before they find out about the report of the missing girl, couldn’t it? Maybe we’ll get twenty-four hours’ grace. And we might actually need the help of the public, maybe with both cases. We’ll have to see how things develop. Refer any inquiries to me. I’ll take care of the jackals while Karim is away.’
    ‘He’s bound to come in,’ Zeke says. ‘If things really heat up.’
    ‘No question,’ Malin says, then her phone rings.
    Her mobile is in front of her on the grey tabletop, and the signal coming from it is angry, intrusive, as if it wants to remind them that their conversation is nothing but theories, that it is time for a bit of harsh reality.
    Malin looks at the number on the display.
    Answers.
    Listens.
    ‘You’ll have to take that up with Sven Sjöman. He’s looking after press inquiries over the summer.’
    She passes the phone to Sven, raising her eyebrows with a sardonic smile.
    ‘It’s Daniel . . . Daniel Högfeldt from the
Correspondent
,’ she says. ‘He wants to know about the girl who was raped in the park and the missing girl from Sturefors, and if we suspect any connection.’

6
     
    A connection?
    One girl is