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certainly is good,” Eriksson said, turning away to hide his proud smile. “I always compare them with my previous dog, Zack. It was a privilege to work with him. He taught me all I know. I just followed him. I was so young in those days, didn’t have a clue. But I’ve trained Tintin.”
    The bitch looked up when she heard her name and came trotting over to them. Sat down next to the boot of Eriksson’s car as if to say, “Shall we get moving?”
    “She knows we’re going out on a job,” Eriksson said. “She thinks it’s great fun.”
    He turned to Tintin.
    “It’s no good,” he said. “The car won’t start.”
    The dog tilted her head to one side and seemed to think this over. Then she lay down in the snow with a resigned sigh.
    “Why don’t you take my car?” Martinsson said.
    It dawned on her that she was talking to Tintin, so she turned to face Eriksson.
    “Sorry,” she said. “I expect you’ll be the one doing the driving. I don’t need my car today.”
    “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly . . .”
    As she pressed the keys of her Audi A4 Avant into his hand, he kept asking whether she was sure she would not need the car that day. In any case, there was bound to be another solution. They could come and fetch him, for instance.
    “Why can’t you just say thank you?” she said. “I’m going inside. Unless you need some help moving the dog cages. Just go! They’ll be waiting for you.”
    He said he could manage the cages himself. So she left him to it, pausing in the doorway to give him a wave.
    She had not even taken her jacket off when he knocked on the door of her office.
    “It’s no good,” he said. “It’s an automatic. I can’t cope with them.”
    She smiled.
    That doesn’t happen very often, he thought.
    Other women went around smiling all day long. Whether they were happy or not. But not this one. And she didn’t just smile with her mouth, oh no, you had to look deep into her eyes. A merry tune was playing at the very back of her eyes when she looked at him.
    “What about Tintin?” she said.
    “No, she’s used to a stick shift as well.”
    “It’s dead easy, you just . . .”
    “I know!” he said, interrupting her. “That’s what everyone says, but . . . It’s no good, I just can’t do it.”
    Martinsson looked at him. He met her gaze without a trace of embarrassment or shyness. Held her gaze.
    She knew he was a lone wolf.
    And it’s not just because of how he looks, she thought.
    Eriksson’s face was badly scarred by severe burns. A house fire when he was a teenager, she had heard. His skin was shiny with patches of pink, his ears two newly opened, crinkled birch leaves, no hair, no eyebrows or lashes, his nose just two holes in the middle of his face.
    “I’ll drive you,” she said finally.
    She expected him to protest. To start going on about how she was supposed to be at work. That she no doubt had all kinds of other things to do.
    “Thank you,” he said, smiling mischievously to show that he had learnt his lesson.
    It suddenly turned warm as they were driving. The sun’s hot breath. Melting snow dripped from spindly pine trees and from the branches of birches already taking on a violet tone. Patches of open water had begun to appear round the stones in the river. The ice was beginning to recede from the riverbanks. But the cold would return when night fell. It had not surrendered yet.
    Martinsson and Eriksson followed the forest tracks north of the Torne. The police had marked the route with strips of red plastic tape. If they had not done so, it would have been virtually impossible to find the right place out here in the wild. There were tracks running off in all directions.
    The barrier across the track leading to the summer cottages on the promontory at Pirttilahti was standing open. The site was covered with all kinds of huts and chalets made out of spare bits of timber, wooden cottages and several outside toilets. Everything appeared rather