least since Ernst's screw-up had been revealed. Gosta shook his head. His colleague had made any number of mistakes over the years, but this time he'd gone too far in ignoring how a police officer should carry out his job. For the first time Gosta believed that Ernst actually might be fired because of his actions. Not even Mellberg could back him up after this.
Despondently he looked out of the window. This was the time of year he hated most. It was even worse than winter. He still had the memory of summer fresh in his mind, and he could still reel off the scores of pretty much every round of golf he'd played. By the time winter arrived at least a merciful forgetfulness had begun to roll in, and he sometimes wondered whether he'd really made those perfect shots on the golf course, or whether it was all just a beautiful dream.
The telephone interrupted his ruminations.
'Gosta Flygare.'
'Hi, Gosta, it's Annika. Look, I've got Pedersen on the line and he's looking for Patrik, but I can't get hold of him right now. Could you talk to Pedersen?'
'Sure, put him on.' He waited a couple of seconds. Then he heard the click on the line and the medical examiner's voice.
'Hello?'
'Yes, I'm here. It's Gosta Flygare.'
'I heard that Patrik was out on a job. But you're working on the investigation of the murder of the little girl too, aren't you?'
'Everyone at the station is, more or less.'
'Good, then you can take down the information we just got in, but it's important that everything be sent on to Hedstrom.'
Gosta wondered for a second whether Pedersen had heard about Ernst's fiasco, but then realized it was impossible. He probably just wanted to emphasize that the head of the investigation should get all the information. And Gosta had no intention of making the same mistake as Lundgren, that's for sure. Hedstrom was going to hear about everything, even the slightest clearing of his throat.
'I'll take notes, and you'll fax me as usual, right?'
'Of course,' said Pedersen. 'We've got the analysis of the ashes now. That is, the ashes the girl had in her stomach and lungs.'
'I'm familiar with the details,' said Gosta, who couldn't keep a hint of irritation from sneaking into his reply. Did Pedersen think he was simply some bloody errand boy at the station, or what?
If he heard Gosta's annoyance, Pedersen ignored it and went on calmly, 'Well, we've found out a few interesting things. First, the ashes aren't exactly fresh. The contents, at least certain portions, might be characterized as…' he paused, 'rather old.'
'Rather old?' said Gosta, still sounding peevish. But he couldn't deny that he was curious. 'What exactly does 'rather old' mean? Are we talking Stone Age, or the Swinging Sixties?'
'Well, that's the snag. According to SFL it's incredibly difficult to pin down. The best estimate I could get was that the ashes are somewhere between fifty and a hundred years old.'
'Hundred-year-old ashes?' said Gosta, astonished.
'Yes, or maybe fifty. Or somewhere in between. But that wasn't the only remarkable thing they found. There were also fine particles of stone in the ashes. Granite, to be precise.'
'Granite? Where the hell are the ashes from then? It couldn't have been a piece of granite that burned, could it?'
'No, stone doesn't burn, as we all know. The stone must have been in fine particles from the start. They're still working on analysing the material to be able to say something more definite. But…'
Gosta could hear that something big was brewing. 'Yes?' he said.
'What they can tell, at this point, is that it seems to be a mixture. They've found remnants of wood mixed in with…' he paused but then went on, 'organic matter.'
'Organic matter? Are you saying what I think you are? Are they ashes from a human body?'
'Well, that's what further analyses will show. It's not yet possible to determined whether they're human or the remains of some animal. And it's not certain they'll even be able to determine that, but SFL is going to try. And as I said, in any case it's mixed with other substances: wood and granite.'
'I'll be damned,' said Gosta. 'So somebody saved these old ashes.'
'Yes, or found them somewhere.'
'That's right, it could be that too.'
'So this should give you a little to go on,' said Pedersen dryly. 'Hopefully we can find out more in a few days, such as whether there are actually human remains in the ashes. Until then this will have to do.'
'Yes, it will,' said Gosta, already imagining his colleagues' faces when he told them what he'd found out. The question was how in the world the information could be used.
He put down the receiver and went over to the fax machine. What was whirling in his head was the news of the granite particles Pedersen had mentioned. They should provide a lead.
But the thought slipped away.
Asta groaned as she straightened up. The old wooden floor had been laid when the house was built and could only be cleaned with soap and water. Although her body would probably last for a while yet, with every year that passed it got harder for her to kneel down and scrub.
She looked around the house. For forty years she had lived here. She and Arne. Before that he had lived here with his parents, who had remained living with the newlyweds. Suddenly both parents passed away within the space of a few months. She was ashamed of even thinking it, but those had been hard years. Arne's father had been as gruff as a general, and his mother wasn't much better. Arne had never discussed it with her, but she gathered from random comments that he'd been beaten a lot when he was little. Maybe that's why he'd been so hard on Niclas. A boy who thinks he's loved with the whip will probably dispense love with the whip when that day comes. Although in Arne's case it had been a belt, of course. The big brown belt that hung on the inside of the pantry door and was used whenever their son had done something that didn't suit his father. But who was she to question the way Arne had brought up their son? Certainly it had broken her heart to hear her son's muffled screams of pain, and she had used a gentle hand to wipe away his tears when the ordeal was over, but Arne had always known best.
Laboriously she climbed up on a kitchen chair and took down the curtains. She couldn't see any dirt on them yet, but as Arne always said, if anything ever gets dirty it should have been cleaned long ago. She stopped abruptly, with her hands raised above her head, just as she was about to lift off the curtain rod. Hadn't she done the same thing on that horrible day? Yes, she believed she had. She had stood there changing the curtains when she heard raised voices coming from outside in the garden. Naturally she was used to hearing Arne's angry voice, but what was unusual was that Niclas had also raised his voice. It was so inconceivable, and the possible consequences so dire, that she hurried to jump down from the chair and run out to the garden. They were standing facing each other, like two combatants. Their voices, which had sounded loud from inside the house, now hurt her eardrums. Incapable of stopping, she had run up to Arne and grabbed his arm.
'What's going on here?' She could still hear how desperate her voice had sounded. And as soon as she took hold of Arne's arm she knew it was the wrong thing to do. He fell silent and turned towards her with eyes that were completely empty of emotion. Then he raised his hand and slapped her hard. The silence that followed was ominous. They had stood utterly still, like a three- headed stone statue. Then she saw as if in slow motion how Niclas drew his arm back, clenched his fist, and aimed it at his father's head. The sound of his fist slamming into Arne's face had abruptly broken the eerie silence and set everything in motion again. In disbelief Arne put his hand up to his cheek and stared at his son. Then Asta saw Niclas's arm draw back and fly at Arne again.
After that it seemed it would never stop. Niclas moved like an automaton,
