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child. Both parents work long hours. I have a feeling that Alexandra was a lonely girl. Yes, she had a horse and loved riding, but . . . she seemed lonely.”
    Hannu nodded to show that he understood. A cop has to rely on gut feelings.
    The next person on their list was in his hair salon. He finished off a client, then showed the two officers into a small staff room, hidden away behind a rattling bamboo curtain. His name was Bengt Robertsson, and he was forty-three years old. His thin bleached-blond hair was cut very short, but he sported an impressive mustache with the ends waxed and optimistically turned upward. He had a watertight alibi for the time of Moa’s death; he had been in Thailand when she went missing and had gotten home three days before Walpurgis Night. He had spent April 30 and the May Day holiday in the company of good friends on the Stena line ferry to Kiel. Without a moment’s hesitation he gave them the names of a dozen people who could confirm he was on board the ship at the relevant time.
    The visit to the hairdresser had taken only fifteen minutes. The next person on Hannu’s list had been horrified at the suggestion that the police come and speak to him at his new workplace, so he had promised to come to the station after five o’clock. Until then Hannu would go with Jonny to see another man on their list. Once all seven had been tracked down and questioned, any possible alibis would be checked. They would then attempt to decide which of the men were still of interest and which could be eliminated from the investigation. Meanwhile they would continue to follow up any new leads or information that came in. It was tedious routine work, but it was absolutely necessary; it was the only way to solve a crime.
    “We’ve got time to go and see Moa’s mother. It’s only quarter of an hour from here. What’s her name again?” Irene asked.
    “Kristina. Known as Kicki. Thirty-nine years old. Regularly picked up for alcohol abuse ever since she was a teenager. Her parents were alcoholics. However, she has managed to look after her own children; they’ve never been taken into care.”
    “What about Moa? Has she had any dealings with the police?”
    “Nothing at all. However, the brother who died in the car crash was picked up for drunken behavior twice, and he was given a warning for aiding and abetting in the theft of a car. That was two months before he stole the car he crashed.”
    “So you don’t think it was pure chance that the son died in a car crash and the daughter was murdered. I agree with you to a certain extent, but not entirely. Not all children who grow up with parents who abuse alcohol or narcotics end up going down that road themselves.”
    Hannu glanced sideways at her.
    “The survivors. But Moa Olsson and her brother were not among them.”
    Nor was their mother, it seemed. They parked outside a two-story grey concrete block. The stairwell had recently been freshened up with pastel colors, but someone had already sprayed mdnmdnmdn all over one wall in bright purple. The letters were surrounded by small red phalluses.
    They rang the doorbell of Kicki Olsson’s apartment. When no one had answered by the fourth ring, Hannu tried the handle and the door swung open. There was a pile of shoes and outerwear in the hallway, and an unidentifiable smell with hints of garbage and sour wine.
    They stepped over the mess on the floor, and Irene called out, “Hello! Anyone home? Kicki Olsson?”
    She was in the bathroom. There was a high stool right next to the bathtub, with a drying rack propped against one wall. Kicki Olsson had tied a nylon washing line to the ceiling hook for the rack, then she had made a noose and slipped it around her neck. She had stood on the stool, then jumped into the tub. Given the way she looked, it must have happened at least twenty-four hours ago.
    “We’ve got some information about the mummy,” Tommy said.
    He took a big bite of his cinnamon bun and washed it