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Berit stood up, drying her eyes, and walked towards the door.

‘Now you’re insulting an old revolutionary,’ she said. ‘Well, I’m finally going to get some food. Otherwise I’ll be a dead revolutionary.’

She closed the door behind her.

Annika stayed where she was, listening to her own heartbeat.

Was there any other explanation? Could different people, unknown to each other, send quotations from Mao to people whose relatives had just met a violent death, on similar paper, with the same sort of stamp on the envelope?

She stood up and walked over to the glass wall that separated her world from the newsroom, looking over the heads of the people out there, and trying to glimpse the real world through the window beyond the sports desk. From the fourth floor she could only make out a faint grey horizon, and some single flakes of snow drifting gently down towards the top of a tall birch tree.

We live in a desperate country, she thought. Whatever made people want to settle here? And why are we still here? What makes us put up with it?

She closed her eyes hard, and she knew the answer. We live where those close to us live; we live for those we love, for our children. And then someone comes along and kills them, destroying the meaning of our lives.

Unforgivable.

She hurried back to her desk and dialled Q’s mobile phone.

The metallic voice of his voicemail explained that he was busy in meetings for the rest of the day, that messages couldn’t be left; try again tomorrow.

She dialled his direct line at the national crime unit, a secretary answered after various clicks indicating that the call was being transferred.

‘He’s in a meeting,’ she said. ‘And he has another meeting straight after that.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Annika said, shaking her arm to look at her watch: 15.32. ‘We agreed to see each other briefly between his meetings, and I’m supposed to show up just before four.’

The secretary was suspicious. ‘He hasn’t mentioned that.’

‘He knows it won’t take long.’

‘But he has to be in the Ministry of Justice at four; the car’s picking him up at quarter to.’

Annika jotted that down, writing ‘Rosenbad 4’ on her notepad. Justice occupied the fourth and fifth floors of the main government building, with the Cabinet Office directly above.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It was that committee, wasn’t it . . . ?’

The sound of the secretary leafing through some papers.

‘JU 2002:13, the new correctional treatment act,’ she said.

Annika scribbled out Rosenbad 4 and wrote ‘Regeringsgatan’ instead.

‘I must have misunderstood,’ she said. ‘I’ll try to catch him tomorrow.’

She stuffed her notes in her bag, grabbed her hat, gloves and scarf, searched for her mobile in the mess on her desk but failed to find it, and assumed it must be somewhere in her bag, then yanked open the door and headed for the newsdesk.

Jansson had only just arrived. He was sitting there bleary-eyed and unkempt, reading the local papers.

‘There’s something wrong with the machine,’ he said to Annika, pointing at a plastic cup on his desk.

‘Isn’t it time for a smoke?’ she said, and Jansson immediately took out his cigarette packet.

Annika stepped into the empty smoking area.

‘I may have found a serial killer,’ she said as Jansson lit his twentieth cigarette of the day.

He exhaled a plume of smoke and stared up at the extractor fan. ‘May?’

‘I don’t know if, or what, the police know,’ she said. ‘I’m hoping to grab Q on his way to a departmental committee in quarter of an hour.’

‘So what have you got?’

‘Three deaths,’ she said. ‘A journalist killed in a hit-and-run, a murdered boy in Luleå, and a local councillor shot in Östhammar. The relatives all received anonymous letters the day after the deaths, handwritten Mao quotations on lined A4, posted in ‘Sverige’ envelopes with ice-hockey players on the stamps.’

Jansson fixed his glazed eyes on her, exhausted by eighteen years on the nightshift, a fourth wife and a fifth baby.

‘Sounds like you’re sorted,’ he said. ‘The police just have to confirm it.’

‘With