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it. A few nights previously, people had been murdered in the house where her mother grew up. Could it be her mother’s foster parents who had been killed? The newspapers wrote that most of the dead were old people.
    Her mother’s foster parents would be more than ninety years of age now. Perhaps.
    She shuddered at the thought. She seldom if ever thought about her parents. She even found it difficult to recall what her mother looked like. But now the past came unexpectedly rushing toward her.
    Staffan entered the kitchen. As always, he made hardly a sound.
    “You make me jump when I don’t know you’re coming,” she said.
    “Why are you up?”
    “I felt hungry.”
    He looked at the papers lying on the table. She told him about the conclusion she’d reached and that she was becoming more and more convinced that what she suspected was in fact the truth.
    “But it’s pretty remote,” he said when she’d finished. “It’s a very thin thread connecting you to that little village.”
    “Thin, but remarkable. You have to admit that.”
    “Maybe. But you have to get some sleep.”
    She lay awake for ages before dozing off. That thin thread became stretched almost to the breaking point. She slept fitfully, and her sleep was broken by thoughts about her mother. She still found it hard to see traces of herself in her mother.
    She dropped off to sleep eventually and woke up to find Staffan standing at the foot of the bed, hair damp from the shower, putting on his uniform. I’m your general, he used to tell her. Without a weapon in my hand, only a pen to cancel tickets.
    She pretended to be still asleep and waited until the door closed behind him. Then she jumped up and switched on the computer in her study. She went through several search engines, looking for as much information as she could find. The events that had taken place in Hälsingland still seemed to be shrouded in uncertainty. The only thing that appeared clear was that the weapon used was probably a large knife or something similar.
    I want to know more about this, she thought. At least I want to know if my mother’s foster parents were among those murdered the other night. She searched until eight o’clock, when she put all thoughts about the mass murders aside to consider the day’s trial concerning two Iraqi citizens accused of smuggling people.
    It was a further two hours before she had gathered together her papers, glanced through the preliminary investigation notes, and taken her seat in court. Help me now, dear old Anker, to get through this day as well, she pleaded. Then she tapped her gavel lightly on the desk in front of her and asked the prosecuting counsel to open the proceedings.
    There were high windows behind her back.
    Just before she sat down, she had noticed that the sun was beginning to break through the thick clouds that had moved in over Sweden during the night.
6
    By the time the trial was over two days later, Birgitta Roslin knew what her verdict would be. They were guilty, and the elder of the two men, Abdul ibn Yamed, who was the ringleader, would be sentenced to three years and two months in prison. His assistant, the younger Yassir al-Habi, would get one year. Both men would be deported on release.
    The sentences given were similar to what had gone before. Many of the individuals smuggled into Sweden had been threatened and assaulted when it transpired that they were unable to pay what they owed for the forged immigration papers and the long journey. She had taken a particular dislike to the elder of the two men. He had appealed to her and the prosecutor with sentimental arguments, claiming that he never retained any of the money paid by the refugees but donated it all to charities in his homeland. During a break in proceedings the prosecuting counsel had stopped by for a cup of coffee and mentioned in passing that Abdul ibn Yamed drove around in a Mercedes worth almost a million kronor.
    The trial had been strenuous. The days had