Joona Linna was in his car on Drottningholmsvägen when he heard the call at 22:10. A police officer was screaming that children had been slaughtered, he was alone in the house, the mother was dead, they were all dead. A little while later he was radioing from outside the house and, calmer now, he explained that Superintendent Lillemor Blom had sent him to the house on Gärdesvägen alone. Björkander suddenly mumbled that this was the wrong channel and stopped speaking.

In the sudden quiet, Joona Linna listened to the rhythmic thumping of the windscreen wipers as they scraped drops of water from the glass. He thought about his father, who had had no backup. No police officer should have to do something like this on his own. Irritated at the lack of leadership out in Tumba, he pulled over to the side of the road; after a moment, he sighed, got out his mobile, and asked to be put through to Lillemor Blom.

Lillemor Blom and Joona had been classmates at the police training academy. After completing her placements, she had married a colleague in the Reconnaissance Division and two years later they had a son. Although it was his legal right, the father never took his paid paternity leave; his choice meant a financial loss for the family as it held up Lillemor’s career progression, and eventually he left her for a younger officer who had just finished her training.

Joona identified himself when Lillemor answered. He hurried through the usual civilities and then explained what he had heard on the radio.

“We’re short-staffed, Joona,” she explained. “And in my judgment— ”

“That’s irrelevant. And your judgment was way off the mark.”

“You’re not listening,” she said.

“I am, but— ”

“Well, then, listen to me!”

“You’re not even allowed to send your ex-husband to a crime scene alone,” Joona went on.

“Are you finished?”

After a short silence, Lillemor explained that Erland Björkander had only been dispatched to inform the family; he had decided on his own to enter the house without calling for backup.

Joona apologized. Several times. Then, mainly to be polite, asked what had happened out in Tumba.

Lillemor described the scene Erland Björkander had reported: pools and trails of blood, bloody hand- and footprints, bodies and body parts, knives and cutlery thrown on the kitchen floor. She told him that Anders Ek, whom she assumed had been killed following the attack on his family, was known to Social Services for his gambling addiction. While his official debts had been written off, he still owed money to some serious local criminal types. And now a loan enforcer had murdered him and his family. Lillemor described the condition of Anders Ek. The murderer had started to hack his body to pieces; a hunting knife and a severed arm had been found in the locker room showers. She repeated several times that they were short of staff and the examination of the crime scenes would have to wait.

“I’m coming over there,” said Joona.

“But why?” she said in surprise.

“I want to have a look.”

“Now?”

“If you don’t mind,” he replied.

“Great,” she said, in a way that made him think she meant it.