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“We don’t have time for an internal investigation,” he said curtly and tried not to show his irritation at Jern’s insistent voice or his own concern for Ann.

He had been pondering this, tried to remember something that Ann had mentioned over the past few days and that could bring them forward in their search. Often she tried out a new idea on him. It could be a new angle of a problem or a stab in the dark. Ottosson had become increasingly good at reading the various nuances of Ann’s work method. In fact, this was one of the things he had appreciated most in her. He felt a bit flattered that she showed him the confidence of sometimes presenting completely bizarre ideas and impulses, which in many of their colleagues would have elicited snickers and perhaps future teasing when it became clear how insane the idea was.

But Ottosson could not think of anything that explained her disappearance. For a while he speculated that she may have had an accident. Perhaps she had driven off the road and sat unconscious in the car, which was hidden by vegetation. It had happened before that people had been trapped in their cars. He recalled an accident involving one car on the E-4 the driver had been able to call the emergency number on his cell phone but the ambulance and fire department had not been successful in locating him. The driver saw them pass by him and despite his injuries was able to guide them to the right place. That time there was a happy ending.

Ottosson could see Ann’s car in his mind, driven into a bush or against a tree, with Ann hanging unconscious over the steering wheel or thrown through the windshield. She was sloppy about her seat belt.

He quickly got up. She must be alive, he thought and was gripped for the first time during his long police career by what most closely resembled desperation.

“What is it, Otto?” Berglund asked.

“To hell with this!” Ottosson burst out, and Jern, who had continued his litany of the inadequate routines at the crime squad, stared at him with astonishment.

“Out and look for her, god damn it,” Ottosson went on in an agitated voice, “instead of sitting here and kvetching like a little old lady!”

Bea, who had also been listening to Jern’s tirade with growing anger, gave a chuckle.

“While you’re at it why don’t you harrass some Arab in town,” she threw out. “Maybe al-Qaida is involved.”

Jern gathered up his papers and left the room without saying a word.

Sammy Nilsson devoted himself to Ann Lindell’s office with minute attention to detail. He had wolfed down a sandwich and a cup of coffee in the cafeteria and was forced to attend a short briefing, but otherwise he had spent all his time at Lindell’s desk.

He thought it was possible the answer would be found there. Looking aimlessly was nothing for Sammy Nilsson. The problem was that Lindell left so little behind: scattered notes, incomplete reports, and terse theories jotted down in a notebook.

For a while he was angry at Ann. The lack of an organizational system in her office made him wonder how she could function at all as a detective.

Sammy Nilsson flipped through the transcript of the questioning of Ulrik Hindersten’s daughter and Lantz-Andersson’s own comments. It was very brief. Nothing had emerged that could explain the disappearance. What perplexed Sammy was the fact that the file lay on Ann’s desk to begin with. Why was she interested in a missing person’s report from September? He could not recall having talked about this Hindersten, but he sensed what Ann’s thinking had been. Three men around seventy years of age had been murdered and here there was a fourth man of the same age, missing without a trace.

He had called Åsa Lantz-Andersson but she had gone home for the day and when he tried her at home her husband said his wife was out for a run. Two, three times a week she ran a ten-kilometer trail in the forest. She had just set off.

Then go catch up to her, Sammy thought. He asked the man to make sure Åsa called as soon as she got home. When he had put the phone down he started calculating how long