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that she had seen very little of Mella recently—for the last year or so, in fact. Time really did fly. It was obvious from Mella’s eyes that things were not fine at all. Just over a year ago, she and her colleague Sven-Erik Stålnacke had been involved in a gunfight; both of them had been forced to shoot to kill. Mella had been responsible for getting them into that situation. She hadn’t wanted to wait for backup.
    Of course Stålnacke’s angry, Martinsson thought. No doubt he feels bad, thinks it was all her fault.
    And he’s right, really, she reasoned. Mella had put both her own life and his at risk. There had been a wild horse in this mother of four. But now that horse’s spirit had been crushed.
    “I’m fine,” Martinsson replied to Mella’s question.
    Mella looked hard at Martinsson. She did seem to be in good shape. A hell of a lot better than she had been. Still thin, but not nearly so pale and wretched. She was doing a good job as district prosecutor. Had some kind of relationship with her old boss from Stockholm. Not that he was much to write home about. One of those well-heeled types who sail through life, getting by on charm and good looks. He drank too much, anybody could see that. But if he made Martinsson feel good, so be it.
    One of the forensic officers shouted to Mella. They were going to take the body away. Did Mella want to see it before they did? Shouting “I’m coming,” she turned back to Martinsson.
    “I want to have a look at her,” she said. “It will feel better, somehow, if I’ve seen her when I talk to her next of kin. They usually want to view the deceased, to reassure themselves that it really is their relative we’ve found. So it’s good to know what state the body is in. I can well imagine. She’s been in the water since last autumn.”
    Mella suddenly bit her tongue. For Christ’s sake, she should not be babbling on about dead bodies to Martinsson. Martinsson had killed in self-defense. Three men. Smashed the skull of one and shot the other two. She had been on sick leave for a long time. Nearly two years later, when Lars-Gunnar Vinsa killed his son and took his own life, it had all been too much for her. Martinsson had ended up in a psychiatric ward.
    “I’m okay,” Martinsson said, as if she had read Mella’s mind. “May I have a look as well?”
    The skin on the girl’s face was white and bloated from the water. One hand was without its diving glove, and there was next to nothing left of it. The flesh had come away and exposed the bones. The little finger and thumb were missing. So was her nose. Most of her lips, too.
    “That’s what happens,” one of the forensic officers said. “When they’ve been in the water for a long time. The skin tears easily and peels away, and then they drift around and bump into things. That causes noses and ears and such to fall off. Pike might have been nibbling at her as well. We’ll have to see how she holds together when the pathologist cuts away her diving suit. Will Pohjanen be doing the autopsy?”
    Mella nodded, keeping an eye on Martinsson, who was staring at the girl’s battered hand as if transfixed.
    A little way off, Inspector Sven-Erik Stålnacke pulled up in his Volvo, got out, and shouted to Mella.
    “We’ve found the kids’ car. Over by the rapids.”
    He walked toward them. Gingerly, legs wide apart so as not to slip, just as they all were doing.
    “It was parked in the felling area,” he said. “A hundred and fifty meters from the rapids. They must have driven as far as they could over the rough ground so they wouldn’t have to carry their heavy diving gear.”
    He rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully.
    “Then of course it was covered in snow during the winter. They’re digging it out now. That’s what we thought was so odd when they disappeared last autumn—the fact that nobody had seen their car. But it’s obvious now. If it was in the forest, completely covered in snow . . . Not even