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responsible for murder, a fact that the court had more or less ignored. Sofia saw a woman who, under the ever-present influence of alcohol, idealised her man. Her passivity might mean that she could be regarded as complicit in the abuse, but at the same time she was incapable of intervention because of her mental state.
    The verdict had been upheld at the highest level, and all that remained now was the sentence.
    Tyra Mäkelä needed treatment. Her crimes could never be undone, but a prison sentence wouldn’t help anyone.
    The cruelty of the case mustn’t be allowed to cloud their judgement.
    During the afternoon Sofia completed her statement about Tyra Mäkelä, and got through her three and four o’clock appointments. A burned-out businessman and an ageing actress who was no longer getting any parts and had fallen into a deep depression as a result.
    When she was on her way out at five o’clock, Ann-Britt stopped her in reception.
    ‘You haven’t forgotten that you’re going to Gothenburg next Saturday? I’ve got the train tickets here, and you’re booked into the Hotel Scandic.’
    Ann-Britt put a folder on the counter.
    ‘Of course not,’ Sofia said.
    She was going to see a publisher who was planning to print a Swedish translation of the former child soldier Ishmael Beah’s
A Long Way Gone
. The publisher was hoping that Sofia could use her experience with traumatised children to help them check some of the facts.
    ‘What time am I going?’
    ‘Early. The departure time’s on the ticket.’
    ‘Five-twelve?’
    Sofia sighed and went back into her office to dig out the report she had written for UNICEF seven years before.
    When she sat down at her desk again and opened the file, she couldn’t help wondering if she was actually ready to return to her memories from that time. She still dreamed about the child soldiers in Port Loko. The two boys by the truck, one with no arms, the other with no legs. The UNICEF paediatrician, murdered by the same children it was his calling to help. Victims turned perpetrators. The sounds of singing,
‘Mambaa manyani … Mamani manyimi.’
Seven years, she thought.
    Was it really that long ago?

Kronoberg – Police Headquarters
     
    THE FOLLOWING DAY Jeanette systematically worked her way through the documents Hurtig had given her. Interviews, reports from investigations and judgements, all of them dealing with abuse or murders involving an element of sadism. Jeanette noted that in every case but one the perpetrator was male.
    The exception’s name was Tyra Mäkelä, and she and her husband had recently been found guilty of the murder of their adopted son.
    Nothing she had seen at the crime scene out at Thorildsplan reminded her of anything she had experienced before, and she felt she needed assistance.
    She picked up the phone and called Lars Mikkelsen at National Crime: he was responsible for violent and sexual offences against children. She decided to give as brief an outline of the case as possible. If Mikkelsen was in a position to help her, she could go into more detail later.
    What a fucking awful job, she thought as she waited for him to answer.
    Interviewing and investigating paedophiles. How strong did you have to be to cope with watching thousands of hours of filmed abuse and several million pictures of violated children?
    Could you actually have children of your own?
    After her conversation with Mikkelsen, Jeanette Kihlberg called another meeting of the investigating team, where they attempted to piece the facts together. They didn’t have that many lines of inquiry to follow up at the moment.
    ‘The call to the emergency operator was made from an area close to the DN Tower.’ Åhlund held a sheet of paper in the air. ‘We should know where, soon.’
    Jeanette nodded. She went over to the whiteboard, where a dozen photographs of the dead boy had been pinned up.
    ‘So, what do we know?’ She turned to Hurtig.
    ‘On the grass and in the dirt where he was