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down with a good swig of coffee. “We’re looking at a man in his forties. He’s probably been dead for between twenty and thirty years. The cause of death was three bullet wounds: one in the head and two close to the heart. We won’t know the bullet type and caliber until tomorrow at the earliest. The gun that was found with the body is interesting. It was underneath the rug the body was lying on. It seems that the rug was used to carry the body to the opening. The gun is an old model, a Tokarev. Russian. Stopped being manufactured in the mid-50s. Forensics sent a picture.”
    The image of an old-fashioned gun appeared on the white wall behind him; at first glance it resembled an FN Browning. When Irene looked more closely, she could see a five-pointed star on the butt, with the letters cccp between the points of the star.
    Tommy moved on to the next picture. “This is the rug—a valuable item, according to forensics. Ninety by two hundred and twenty centimeters. The blood on the rug presumably comes from the body, but they’re in the process of testing it. They’ll get back to us when they’ve checked the whole rug in detail.”
    Tommy leafed through the papers in front of him. “Getting back to the mummy itself: he was one hundred and eighty centimeters tall. Slim build, thinning ash-blond hair. Good teeth, but with a number of amalgam fillings. He has a small gold bridge on the upper-left-hand side, so forensics is hoping to identify him with the help of dental records. He was wearing blue Jockey underpants, white tube socks, dark blue corduroy pants, heavy black shoes, a pale blue shirt, a wine-red knit jacket with a crocodile logo on the left breast, and a dark blue Helly Hansen windbreaker with a detachable red nylon lining. On his left wrist he had a watch advertising the Reader’s Digest . We’re in the process of going through the missing persons database.”
    As usual, Irene was drinking coffee with a dash of milk and steering clear of the cakes. Out of sheer defiance, she took another bun. When she had finished, she licked every scrap of cinnamon and sugar off her fingers. Childish, admittedly, but it made her feel much better, even though she would have to run a few extra kilometers to stop the calories from settling on her hips. On the other hand, she hadn’t had time for lunch. The unexpected discovery of Kicki Olsson’s body had meant that Hannu and Irene had gotten back to HQ only fifteen minutes ago. They would return to Gårdsten once CSI had finished with the apartment, probably the following day. There was no doubt that it was suicide, but they still needed to check the place over. They were still looking for Moa’s computer and cell phone, among other things.
    Irene felt depressed as she thought about the dysfunctional family: the son dies behind the wheel in a car crash, the daughter is murdered, and the mother takes her own life. To a certain extent she could understand Kicki’s decision. Perhaps her children had kept her more or less stable, and once they were gone, her life lost its meaning.
    “Any names that look interesting so far?” Efva Thylqvist asked.
    “I’ve only just got the names; I haven’t had time to go through them yet. But I’m optimistic; it hasn’t been that long since this guy disappeared. He must be on the list.”
    Tommy looked determined as he waved his papers.
    Nice to know that someone is feeling optimistic, Irene thought.

As usual, Krister’s spaghetti Bolognese was a triumph. Jar sauce was banned from his cooking, of course. He made the sauce using ripe beef tomatoes, garlic, basil, a decent slug of red wine and freshly ground beef, which he bought in the market hall on Kungstorget. “I want to see the piece of meat before they grind it,” he often said. He had always felt the same, even before it came to light that the stores were re-labeling old ground beef. Food wasn’t only his profession, it was also his main interest in his leisure time. He