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with them, and as soon as the tax arrears assessment was out of the way, they were going to start preparing the legal transfer of the small company to the younger members of the family. Besides which, they liked her.
    “Do whatever you think is appropriate,” she answered with an almost imperceptible shrug, and allowed her eyes to wander along the fringes of the Persian rug. “You can reach me via my e-mail address if anything comes up.”
    Måns Wenngren felt the urge to go up to her, grab hold of her hair, yank her head backwards and force her to look him in the eye. Or just give her a slap.
    She turned to leave the room.
    “So how are you getting up there?” he asked before she got through the door. “Do they have flights all the way up to Kiruna, or will you have to catch the reindeer caravan in Umeå?”
    “There are flights,” she replied neutrally.
    Just as if she had taken his question completely seriously.

I nspector Anna-Maria Mella leaned back in her office chair and looked listlessly at the documents spread out in front of her. Stale and old. Investigations that had ground to a halt. Unsolved cases: robberies from shops, stolen cars—all several years old. She picked up the folder nearest to her. Domestic violence, a nasty one, but the woman had later withdrawn the charge and insisted that she’d fallen down the stairs.
    That was a bloody awful case, thought Anna-Maria, remembering the unpleasant photographs taken at the hospital.
    She picked up another file. Stolen tires from a firm down on the industrial estate. A witness had seen someone cutting the wire fence and loading the tires onto his Toyota Hilux, but during a later interview the witness was suddenly unable to remember a single thing. It was as clear as daylight that he’d been threatened.
    Anna-Maria sighed. There was no money for witness protection or anything else when it came to a few poxy tires being nicked. She typed “Toyota Hilux” into the computer and made a note of the owner’s name. Petty criminals, little tyrants who take whatever they want. It was more than likely that she would come across him in some other context in the future. She ran a multiple query on the owner. Convictions for assault and illegal possession of a firearm. He was also listed as a suspect several times.
    Pull yourself together, she told herself. Don’t just sit here opening and closing files and surfing databases.
    She put the tire theft to one side. They weren’t going to get anywhere with that one. The prosecutor might as well drop it. From the coffee machine outside her door she could hear the sound of a plastic cup dropping down and the loud whine as it was filled with that wretched instant machine coffee. For a while she hoped it might be Sven-Erik, and that he might come in with some news about Viktor Strandgård. But then she heard the steps disappearing down the corridor; it must be somebody else.
    “Don’t even think about it,” she said half out loud, and reached for another folder from the pile.
    Her gaze immediately strayed away from the text and wandered aimlessly over the desk. She looked sadly at the mug of cold tea. The very thought of coffee almost made her throw up at the moment. But she’d never been a tea drinker either. It just stood there and went cold, every time. And Coke made her stomach too gassy.
    When the phone rang she snatched up the receiver. She thought it would be Sven-Erik, but it was Lars Pohjanen, the medical examiner.
    “I’ve finished the initial autopsy report,” he said in his rasping coffee percolator voice. “Do you want to come down?”
    “Well, Sven-Erik’s in charge of this one,” she said hesitantly. “And von Post.”
    Pohjanen’s voice became irritated.
    “I’ve no intention of hunting all over town for Sven-Erik, and his lordship the prosecutor can read the report. I’ll pack up and get back to Luleå, then.”
    “No, damn it. I’ll come,” said Anna-Maria, just as she heard the