around the first things within reach: Christian’s legs.
‘Damn!’ Christian brusquely shook off his five-year-old son, but it was too late. Both trouser legs now had bright splotches of ketchup around the knees. He struggled to keep his temper – something that was proving more and more difficult lately.
‘Can’t you keep the kids in line?’ he snapped, demonstratively unbuttoning his suit trousers so he could change.
‘I’m sure I can clean that off,’ said Sanna as she grabbed for Melker, who was on his way towards the bed with his sticky fingers.
‘And how do you expect to do that, when I have to be there in an hour? I’ll just have to change.’
‘But I think I can …’ Sanna sounded on the verge of tears.
‘Look after the kids instead.’
Sanna flinched at every word, as if he had struck her. Without replying, she took Melker by the arm and hustled him out of the room.
After she left, Christian sat down heavily on the bed. He glanced at himself in the mirror. A tight-lipped man. Dressed in a suit jacket, shirt, tie, and underwear. Hunched over as if all the troubles of the world were resting on his shoulders. He tried straightening up and puffing out his chest. He looked better already.
This was his night. And nobody could take it away from him.
‘Anything new?’ asked Gösta Flygare as he held up the coffee pot towards Patrik, who had just stepped into the police station’s little kitchen.
Patrik nodded that he’d like some coffee and sank down on to a chair at the table. Ernst the dog, hearing that they were taking a break, came plodding into the room and lay down under the table in the hope some morsel would be dropped on the floor for him to lick up.
‘Here you go.’ Gösta placed a cup of black coffee in front of Patrik and then sat down across from him.
‘You’re looking a bit pale around the gills,’ said Gösta, studying his younger colleague.
Patrik shrugged. ‘Just a bit tired. Maja isn’t sleeping well and that makes her cranky. And Erica is totally worn out. Understandably so. Which means things haven’t exactly been easy on the home front.’
‘And it’s only going to get worse,’ said Gösta.
Patrik laughed. ‘Wow, that’s encouraging. But you’re right, it probably will.’
‘So you haven’t come up with anything new on Magnus Kjellner?’ Gösta discreetly sneaked a biscuit under the table, and Ernst happily thumped his tail against Patrik’s feet.
‘No, not a thing,’ said Patrik, taking a sip of coffee.
‘I saw that Cia was here again.’
‘Yes, it’s like some sort of obsessive ritual – but I suppose that’s not surprising. How is a woman supposed to act when her husband suddenly vanishes?’
‘Maybe we should interview some more people,’ said Gösta, sneaking another biscuit under the table for Ernst.
‘Who do you have in mind?’ Patrik could hear how annoyed he sounded. ‘We’ve talked to his family and his friends. We’ve knocked on doors throughout the neighbourhood, and we’ve put up notices and appealed for information via the local paper. What else can we do?’
‘It’s not like you to give up so easily.’
‘Well, if you’ve got any suggestions, I’d like to hear them.’ Patrik immediately regretted his brusque tone of voice, even though Gösta didn’t seem to take offence. ‘It sounds terrible to hope that the man will turn up dead,’ he added in a calmer manner. ‘But I’m convinced that only then will we work out what happened to him. I’ll bet you he didn’t disappear voluntarily, and if we had a body then at least there’d be something to go on.’
‘I think you’re right. It’s horrible to think that his body will float ashore somewhere or be discovered in the woods. But I have the same feeling you do. And it must be awful …’
‘Not to know, you mean?’ said Patrik, shifting his feet, which were getting hot underneath the heavy weight of the dog.
‘Well, just imagine not knowing where the person you love has gone. It’s the same thing for parents when a child goes missing. There’s an American website devoted to kids who have disappeared. Page after page of pictures of missing kids. All I can say is Jesus H. Christ.’
‘Something like that would kill me,’ said Patrik. He pictured his whirlwind of a daughter. The thought of her being taken from him was unbearable.
‘What on earth are you guys talking about? The atmosphere in here is positively funereal.’ Annika’s cheerful voice broke the dismal mood as she joined them at the table. The station’s youngest member, Martin Molin, came in right behind her, lured by all the voices coming from the kitchen and the smell of coffee. He was working only part-time now, since he was on paternity leave, and he seized every possible opportunity to hang out with his colleagues and take part in adult conversations.
‘We were discussing Magnus Kjellner,’ said Patrik, his tone of voice making it clear that the conversation was over. To make sure the others understood, he changed the subject.
‘How’s it going with the little girl?’
‘Oh, we got new pictures yesterday,’ said Annika, taking some photos out of the pocket of her tunic.
‘Look how big she’s getting.’ She put the pictures on the table, and Patrik and Gösta took turns looking at them. Martin had already been given a preview when he arrived that morning.
‘Ah, she’s so pretty,’ said Patrik.
Annika nodded in agreement. ‘She’s ten months old now.’
‘When do you two get to go there to collect her?’ Gösta asked with genuine interest. He was fully aware that he had played a part in convincing Annika and Lennart to seriously consider adoption. So he took a slightly proprietary interest in the little girl in the photographs.
‘Well, we’re getting some mixed messages,’ Annika told him. She gathered up the pictures and put them carefully back in her pocket. ‘But in a couple of months, I should think.’
‘It must seem like a long wait.’ Patrik got up and put his cup in the dishwasher.
‘Yes, it does. But at the same time … At least the process has been started. And we know that she’ll be ours.’
‘Yes, she certainly will,’ said Gösta. On impulse he put his hand on Annika’s and then snatched it away. ‘Right, back to work. Haven’t got time to sit around here chatting,’ he muttered in embarrassment, getting to his feet.
His three colleagues looked at him in amusement as he slouched out of the kitchen.
‘Christian!’ The publishing director, reeking of perfume, came over to give him a big hug.
Christian held his breath so he wouldn’t have to inhale the cloying scent. Gaby von Rosen was not known for subtlety. Everything was always excessive when it came to Gaby: too much hair, too much make-up, too much perfume, all combined with a fashion sense that, putting it politely, could best be described as startling. This evening, in honour of the occasion, she wore a shocking pink ensemble with a green cloth rose on the lapel, and teetered on dangerously high stilettos. But despite her slightly ridiculous appearance, as the head of Sweden’s hot new publishing house she was a force to be reckoned with. She had over thirty years’ experience in the field and an intellect as acute as her tongue was sharp. Those who underestimated her as a competitor never made the same mistake twice.
‘This is going to be such fun!’ Gaby held Christian at arm’s length as she beamed at him.
Christian, still struggling to breathe in the cloud of perfume, could only nod.
‘Lars-Erik