‘Can you really read what you’ve written?’ she asked sceptically, since his writing looked mostly like hieroglyphics. Or shorthand.

‘Only if I type it up on the computer straight away,’ said Martin, smiling as he continued to write. ‘Otherwise I’m screwed.’

‘Erik Frankel died from a violent blow to the temple,’ said Gösta, taking out photographs from the crime scene. ‘The perp then left the murder weapon behind.’

‘Again, these are not the hallmarks of a particularly cold-blooded or calculated murder,’ said Paula, getting up to pour coffee for herself and her colleagues.

‘The only potential threat we’ve been able to identify came from the neo-Nazi organization Sweden’s Friends, who targeted Frankel because he was an expert on Nazism.’ Martin reached for the five letters enclosed in plastic sleeves and spread them out on the table. ‘In addition, he had a personal connection to the organization through his childhood friend, Frans Ringholm.’

‘Do we have anything that might link Frans to the murder? Anything at all?’ Paula stared at the letters as if she wanted to make them speak.

‘Well, three of his Nazi pals claim that he was in Denmark with them on the days in question. It’s not a watertight alibi, if such a thing even exists, but we don’t have much physical evidence to go on. The footprints found at the scene belonged to the boys who discovered the body. There were no other footprints or fingerprints or anything else besides what we would expect to find there.’

‘Are you going to pour the coffee, or are you just planning to stand there holding the pot?’ Gösta said to Paula.

‘Say please, and I’ll give you some coffee,’ Paula teased him, and Gösta reluctantly grunted ‘please’.

‘Then there’s the date of the murder,’ said Martin, nodding to Paula to thank her for filling his coffee cup. ‘We’ve been able to establish with relative certainty that Erik Frankel died sometime between the fifteenth and the seventeenth of June. So we have three days to play with. And then his body remained there, undiscovered, because his brother was away and no one expected to hear from Erik, except possibly Viola – but as she saw it, he had broken off their relationship. And that happened just before he was killed.

‘And nobody saw anything? Gösta, did you talk to all the neighbours? Did anyone see any strange cars? Any suspicious people?’ Martin looked at his colleague.

‘There aren’t many neighbours to talk to out there,’ muttered Gösta.

‘Should I take that as a no?’

‘I did talk to all the neighbours, and nobody saw anything.’

‘Okay, we’ll drop that for the moment.’ Martin sighed and took a sip of his coffee.

‘What about Britta Johansson? It’s quite a coincidence that she had a connection to Erik Frankel. And to Frans Ringholm, for that matter. Of course it was a long time ago, but we have phone records showing that there was actually contact between them in June, and both Frans and Erik also went to see Britta around that time.’ Again Martin looked to his colleagues for answers: ‘Why choose that particular moment to resume contact after sixty years? Should we believe Britta’s husband, who says that it was because her mental condition was deteriorating, and she wanted to recall the old days?’

‘Personally, I reckon that’s bullshit,’ said Paula, reaching for an unopened packet of Ballerina biscuits. She removed the plastic tape on one end and helped herself to three biscuits before she offered some to the others. ‘I think that if we could only work out the real reason why they met, the whole case would crack wide open. But Frans is as silent as a tomb, and Axel is sticking with the same story that Herman gave us.’

‘And let’s not forget about the monthly payments,’ said Gösta, pausing for a moment as he painstakingly removed the vanilla top layer of his biscuit and licked off the chocolate filling, then continuing: ‘What do they have to do with Frankel’s murder?’

Martin looked at Gösta in surprise. He didn’t know that Gösta was up to speed on that part of the investigation, since his usual strategy was to sit back waiting for information to be fed to him.

‘Well, Hedström tried checking out that angle on Saturday,’ said Martin, taking out the notes he’d made when Patrik phoned to report on his visit to the home of Wilhelm Fridén.

‘So, what did he find out?’ Gösta took another biscuit and the others watched, transfixed, as he repeated his dissecting manoeuvre. Off came the vanilla top layer, then he scooped out the chocolate filling with his tongue. The remaining layers of biscuit were then discarded.

‘Hey, Gösta, you can’t just lick off the chocolate and leave the rest,’ said Paula indignantly.

‘What are you? The biscuit police?’ replied Gösta, making a show of taking yet another biscuit. Paula merely snorted and picked up the packet of biscuits to put it on the counter, out of Gösta’s reach.

‘Unfortunately, he didn’t find out much,’ said Martin. ‘Wilhelm Fridén died just a couple of weeks ago, and neither his widow nor his son knew anything about the payments. Of course, it’s hard to say whether they were telling the truth, but Patrik seemed to think they were. At any rate, the son has promised to ask their lawyer to send over all of his father’s papers, and if we’re lucky we’ll find something there.’

‘What about Erik’s brother? Did he know anything about the payments?’ Gösta glanced greedily at the biscuits on the counter and seemed to be considering actually getting up off his rear to fetch it.

‘We phoned Axel to ask him about the payments,’ said Paula, with a warning look to Gösta. ‘But he said he had no idea what it was all about.’

‘And do we believe him?’ Gösta was measuring the distance from his chair to the counter. A quick lunge, and he might be able to do it.

‘I don’t really know. He’s hard to read. What do you think, Paula?’ said Martin, turning to her.

While she thought about the question, Gösta seized his chance. He jumped up and launched himself towards the packet, but Paula’s left hand shot out at lightning speed and snatched it away.

‘Uh-uh, no way…’ She gave Gösta a mischievous wink, and he couldn’t help smiling back. He was starting to appreciate their banter.

The packet of biscuits safely in her lap, Paula turned to Martin. ‘No, I agree. I can’t really make him out. So, no, I’m not sure.’

‘Let’s go back to Britta,’ said Martin, printing BRITTA in big letters on his notepad, and then underscoring the name.

‘What I judge to be our best evidence is the discovery of what is most likely the murderer’s DNA under her fingernails. And the fact that she evidently managed to leave deep scratches on the face or arms of the person who was suffocating her. We were able to interview Herman briefly this morning, and he had no scratch marks. He also said that Britta was already dead when he came home. That she was lying in bed with a pillow over her face.’

‘But he still claims that her death was his fault,’ Paula interjected.

‘So what does he mean by that?’ Gösta frowned. ‘Is he protecting somebody?’

‘Yes, that’s what we think too.’ Paula relented and put the packet of biscuits back on the table, sliding it towards Gösta. ‘Here, knock yourself out,’ she said in English.

‘What?’ said Gösta, whose knowledge of that language was limited to golf-related terms, although even in those instances his pronunciation left a lot to be desired.

‘Never mind. Go ahead and lick off the chocolate,’ said Paula.

‘And then we have the thumbprint,’ said Martin, listening with amusement to Gösta and Paula’s friendly squabbling. If he didn’t know better, he’d have said his old colleague was actually enjoying being at work.

‘A single thumbprint on one button – not much to write home about,’ said Gösta gloomily.

‘No, not by itself, but if that thumbprint comes from the same person who left his DNA under Britta’s fingernails, then I think there’s cause for optimism.’ Martin underscored the letters ‘DNA’ on his notepad.