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rather short and sparse, and Thomas Haraldsson, the investigating officer, didn’t seem to be the kind of man who overexerted himself. They would probably have to start all over again from the beginning.
    Torkel knew that this was exactly the kind of case the tabloids loved to get hold of. It didn’t help that the preliminary cause of death—established where the body was found—indicated an extremely violent assault, with countless stab wounds to the heart and lungs. But thatwasn’t what bothered Torkel the most. It was the short final sentence in the report, a statement made by the pathologist at the scene.
    A preliminary examination indicates that most of the heart is missing.
    Torkel looked out of the window at the trees flying by. Someone had removed the heart. He hoped for everyone’s sake that the boy hadn’t been a fan of hard rock or too much of a dedicated World of Warcraft player. If so, the speculation in the press would be completely crazy.
    Crazier than usual
, he corrected himself.
    Vanja looked up from her folder. She had probably just seen the same sentence.
    “Perhaps we ought to bring Ursula in as well,” she said, reading his mind as usual. Torkel gave a brief nod. Billy glanced over his shoulder.
    “Do we have an address?”
    Torkel gave it to him and Billy quickly entered it into the GPS. Torkel didn’t really like Billy doing other things while he was driving, but at least he slowed down while he was keying in their destination. Which was something.
    “Another thirty minutes.” Billy put his foot down and the big van responded. “We may do it in twenty, depending on traffic.”
    “Thirty is fine. I always find it so unpleasant when we break the sound barrier.”
    Billy knew exactly what Torkel thought of his driving, but he just smiled at his boss in the rearview mirror. Good road, good car, good driver. Why not take full advantage? He increased his speed even more.
    Torkel picked up his phone and called Ursula.

Chapter Four
    T HE TRAIN left Stockholm’s Central Station at 4:07 p.m. Sebastian settled down in first class. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes as they left the city.
    In the past he had never been able to stay awake on trains. But now, even though his body was telling him how welcome an hour’s sleep would be, he couldn’t find the necessary peace of mind.
    Instead he took out the letter from the funeral director, opened it, and read it. He already knew what it said. One of his mother’s former colleagues had called and told him she had passed away. It had been quiet and dignified, she said.
Quiet and dignified
—his mother’s life in a nutshell. There was nothing positive in this response, at least not if your name was Sebastian Bergman; no, for him life was a battle from the first moment to the last. Those who were quiet and dignified had no place in his world.
Dead and boring
—that’s what he usually called them. People who lived with one foot in the grave. He was no longer quite so sure. How would his life have turned out if he had been quiet and dignified?
    Better, presumably.
    Less painful.
    At least, that’s what Stefan Hammarström, Sebastian’s therapist, had tried to get him to believe. They had discussed the matter at a recent session, when Sebastian mentioned that his mother had died.
    “How dangerous can it be to be like other people?” Stefan hadasked when Sebastian made it clear what he thought about “quiet and dignified.”
    “Extremely dangerous,” Sebastian had replied. “Lethal, in fact. Evidently.”
    They had then spent almost an hour discussing mankind’s genetic predisposition for danger. It was a subject Sebastian loved.
    He had realized how important danger could be as a driving force, partly through his own life, partly because of his research into serial killers. He explained to his therapist that there are two real motivators for a serial killer: fantasy and danger. The fantasy is the engine humming away: a constant