Free The Other Son by Alexander Söderberg

believe that,” Antonia said.
    He didn’t answer.
    “Who’s taking over?”
    Tommy put his hands on the desk. The first sign that the conversation was approaching its conclusion.
    “Miles Ingmarsson,” he replied.
    So that was his name, she remembered. The introvert from the Economic Crime unit.
    “Why him?”
    Tommy searched for something on his desk. “Why you, why me, why anyone? This isn’t about the individual.”
    “What is it about, then?”
    “It’s about who’s available.”
    “There are hundreds of others, hundreds better than he is.”
    Tommy kept pretending to look for something among his papers.
    “Not available,” he said.
    “I’m available.”
    “Good,” he said dismissively, and made a move to stand up.
    She was unwilling to let it go.
    “Just one question,” she said.
    Tommy waited.
    “Ingmarsson. Is it because he’s good, or because someone has to investigate Trasten even though you don’t think it’s going to lead anywhere?”
    He had to think through her question one more time.
    “That’s not what I said,” he replied.
    “Yes, you did.”
    She saw him lose his thread. He started acting superior again.
    “Do you know what, Antonia? Stop arguing. This isn’t some fucking trade union where you and I are supposed to reach some sort of compromise. I’m the one who makes the decision, and me alone. I’m your boss and we investigate murders. You can either do as I say, or look for a new job. Your choice.”
    Tommy wiped his mouth, then went on: “Right, time to start the weekend.”
    A fake smile, a sigh, and Tommy stood up.
    —
    Antonia spun around on her office chair, biting one of her fingernails. Tommy was a damned idiot. She hated having to act subordinate, especially when something was obviously completely wrong…and aimed directly at her. Antonia felt like breaking something. But she held back and waited until her colleagues went home for the day. She wasn’t finished with the Trasten investigation yet.
    The office was deserted when she put the two Trasten murder investigation files on the desk in front of her. There were masses of papers, documents, photographs. She lifted them out, lining the edges up with the palms of her hands so they were neat.
    Then she went over to the photocopier and switched the big white machine on. A fan started up, and the machine sounded odd, as if something inside was loose, trying to find its place. She waited patiently until it calmed down and the lights on the control panel were all glowing evenly.
    Antonia made a copy of the entire investigation. The machine swallowed up her documents and spat them out again just as quickly.
    The plans of the Trasten restaurant, statements, forensic medical reports, ballistic evaluations. Pictures of the Russians found dead in the restaurant. Information about Leif Rydbäck, a Swedish repeat offender whose body parts were found frozen in the restaurant kitchen, many of them already processed through the mincing machine. A passport photograph of Hector Guzman, who in all likelihood had been in the restaurant when the murders took place. Plenty of witnesses who weren’t witnesses, because no one had seen anything. Records of bullets from weapons that didn’t exist, fingerprints from people who didn’t exist, DNA samples that didn’t belong to anyone. But Antonia, as the detective on the scene after the shootings, had found Anders Ask and Hasse Berglund there, chained to a radiator in the restaurant’s office. At first she didn’t know who they were, and managed to ask them some quick questions. Berglund showed her his police ID, and Anders Ask claimed he was working freelance, and that they were watching Hector Guzman, who had been in the restaurant but had since vanished.
    Then a short report appeared from the copier, an excerpt of an interview she herself had conducted with a nurse who had gotten to know Hector when he was a patient at Danderyd Hospital: Sophie Brinkmann. The woman hadn’t had