‘Er, sorry. Am I interrupting something?’ asked Martin, who had stopped short in the doorway.

Ernst at least seemed glad to see him. He came over, wagging his tail, and began licking Martin’s hand. Mellberg didn’t reply, just frowned as he struggled to get up off the floor. To his great annoyance, he finally had to admit defeat and stretch out his hand to Martin, who pulled him to his feet.

‘I was just doing a few stretches,’ muttered Mellberg, moving stiffly over to his chair. He caught the grin on Martin’s face and snapped, ‘Did you want anything in particular, or were you just planning to interrupt me for no reason?’

Mellberg reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a coconut marshmallow puff. Ernst sniffed at the air and swiftly homed in on the delicious and by now all too familiar scent, looking up at his master with moist, pleading eyes. Mellberg tried to give the dog a stern look, but then relented and reached for a second marshmallow, which he tossed to Ernst. It was gone in two seconds flat.

‘Your dog is getting a bit pudgy around the middle,’ said Martin, casting a worried look at Ernst, whose paunch was starting to resemble that of his owner.

‘Oh, he’s okay. A little extra weight is good for everybody,’ said Mellberg contentedly, patting his own beer belly.

Martin dropped the subject and sat down across from Mellberg. ‘I just had a call from Pedersen. And I also received a report from Torbjörn this morning. Their initial assumptions have been verified. Britta Johansson was indeed murdered. Suffocated with the pillow that lay next to her on the bed.’

‘And how does -’ Mellberg began.

‘Let’s see now,’ Martin interrupted, consulting his notepad. ‘Pedersen used slightly arcane language, as usual, but in layman’s terms, she had a feather from the pillow in her throat. Presumably it got there when she was gasping for breath with the pillow pressed over her face. Pedersen also looked for traces of fibre in her throat, and he found cotton fibres that matched those from the pillow. In addition, the bones in her neck had been traumatized, which shows that someone had applied direct pressure to her neck. Most likely using his hand. They checked for fingerprints on her skin, but didn’t find any, unfortunately.’

‘Well, that seems clear enough. From what I’ve heard, she was ill. A bit gaga,’ said Mellberg, waving his finger at his temple.

‘She had Alzheimer’s,’ replied Martin sharply.

‘Yeah, okay, I know,’ said Mellberg, dismissing Molin’s annoyed reaction. ‘But don’t tell me you think somebody other than the old man did it. It was most likely one of those… mercy killings,’ he said, pleased with his own deductive logic, and then he rewarded himself with yet another marshmallow.

‘Er… well, maybe,’ said Martin reluctantly, as he turned the page in his notebook. ‘But according to Torbjörn, they did find a fingerprint on the pillowcase. It’s usually very difficult to lift fingerprints from cloth, but in this instance the pillowcase was fastened with a couple of shiny buttons, and there was a clear thumbprint on one of them. And it doesn’t belong to Herman,’ said Martin quite firmly.

Mellberg frowned and gave him a worried look for a moment. Then his face lit up. ‘Probably one of the daughters. Check it out, just to be sure, so you can confirm it. Then phone the doctor at the hospital and tell him to give Britta’s husband whatever bloody electroshock therapy or medicine he needs in order to revive him, because before the end of the week, we want to talk to the man. Understand?’

Martin gave a sigh and nodded. He didn’t like this. Not at all. But Mellberg was right. There was no proof pointing to any other perpetrator. Merely a lone thumbprint. And if he was very unlucky, it would turn out that Mellberg was right on that point too.

Martin was halfway out the door when he slapped his forehead and turned round. ‘Oh, I forgot one thing. Shit, how stupid of me! Pedersen found a considerable amount of DNA under her fingernails, both skin scrapings and blood. Presumably she scratched the person who was suffocating her. Quite deeply, according to Pedersen, since she had sharp nails and she’d managed to scrape off so much skin. In his opinion, it was most likely that she scratched the murderer on the arms or face.’ Martin leaned against the door jamb.

‘And does her husband have any scratches?’ asked Mellberg, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his desk.

‘I don’t know, but it certainly sounds as though we need to pay Herman a visit ASAP,’ said Martin.

‘It certainly does,’ replied Mellberg. ‘Take Paula with you,’ he shouted, but Martin was already gone.

Per had been tiptoeing around the house the past few days, not believing that it would last. His mother had never managed to stay sober for even one day. Not since his father had left. Per could hardly remember how things had been before then, but the few memories he did have were quite pleasant.

Even though he was putting up a show of resistance, he was actually starting to feel hope. More and more with each hour that passed. Even for each minute. Carina looked shaky and kept giving him ashamed looks every time they ran into each other. But she was sober. He’d checked everywhere and hadn’t found a single newly purchased bottle. Not one. And he knew all of her hiding places. In fact he had never understood why she bothered to hide the bottles. She could just as well have left them standing on the kitchen counter.

‘Shall I make us some dinner?’ Carina asked quietly, giving him a cautious look. It was as if they were padding around each other like they had just met each other for the first time and weren’t sure how things might turn out. And maybe that was an accurate description. It had been such a long time since he’d seen her sober. He didn’t really know who she was without any booze inside her. And she didn’t know him either. How could she have kept track of what was going on when she was constantly walking around in an alcoholic fog that filtered everything she saw, everything she did? Now they were strangers to each other. But strangers who were curious, interested, and quite hopeful.

‘Have you heard anything from Frans?’ she asked as she took items out of the refrigerator to make spaghetti and meatballs.

Per didn’t know what to say. All his life he’d been told that he was strictly forbidden to have any sort of contact with his paternal grandfather, yet it was Frans who had intervened and saved the day, or at least given them a glimpse of hope that it could be saved.

Carina noticed her son’s confusion and reluctance to answer. ‘It’s okay. Kjell can say whatever he likes, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to talk to Frans. As long as you…’ She hesitated, afraid to say the wrong thing, something that might upset the tenuous balance that they’d spent the past few days establishing. But then she mustered her courage and went on: ‘I have no problem with you contacting your grandfather. ‘He… well, Frans said things that needed to be said. Things that made me realize…’ She put down the knife she was using to chop onions, and Per saw that she was fighting to hold back tears as she turned to face him. ‘He made me see that things have got to change, and I’m eternally grateful to him for that. But I want you to promise me that you won’t hang around with… those people he’s associating with.’ She gave him a pleading look, and her lower lip began to quiver. ‘I can’t promise you anything in return… I hope you’ll understand. It’s so hard. Every day, every minute is hard. I can only promise you that I’ll try. Okay?’ Again that shameful, pleading look.

Per felt the tight knot in his chest start to loosen a little. All these years, the only thing he had wanted, especially right after his father had left them, was permission to be a child. Instead, he’d been forced to clean up her vomit, check to make sure she wouldn’t burn down the house when she smoked in bed, and go out to do all the shopping. He had to do things that no young boy should have to do. All those memories flickered past in his mind. But it didn’t matter. Because the only thing he heard was her voice, her soft, pleading mother’s voice. And he took a step forward and put his arms around her. Nestled against her even though he was almost a head taller than she was. And for the first time in ten years, he allowed himself to feel like a child.