The Black Path by Åsa Larsson

radio while washing up, or just enjoy the silence and think her own thoughts with her hands in the warm water. Lie on that inviting sofa in the living room and light a fire, crackling in the hearth.
    “Perhaps these people aren’t the kind that wash up,” commented Sven-Erik. “There’s probably somebody who comes in and cleans up after them when they’ve gone.”
    “In that case we need to get hold of that person,” said Anna-Maria quickly.
    She opened the doors to the four bedrooms. Big double beds with Sami coverlets. Above the bed heads hung reindeer skins, silver gray against the silver gray walls.
    “Nice,” said Anna-Maria. “Why doesn’t my house look like this?”
    There were no wardrobes in the bedrooms; instead big American trunks and antique chests stood on the floor to store things in. Coat hangers hung from beautiful Indian folding screens and elegant hooks or horns on the wall. There was a sauna, a laundry room and a big drying cupboard. Next to the sauna was a large changing room with space for ski clothes and boots.
    In one of the bedrooms was an open suitcase. Clothes lay in a heap both in and out of the case. The bed was unmade.
    Anna-Maria poked about among the clothes.
    “A bit of a mess, but no sign of a struggle or a break-in,” said Fred Olsson. “No blood anywhere, nothing unusual. I’ll check the bathrooms.”
    “No, nothing’s happened here,” said Sven-Erik Stålnacke.
    Anna-Maria swore to herself. It would have been helpful if this had been the scene of the murder.
    “I wonder what she was doing here,” she said, eyeing a skirt that looked expensive, and a pair of silky stockings. “These aren’t exactly the clothes for a skiing holiday.”
    Fred Olsson reappeared behind them. He was holding a purse. It was made of black leather, with a gold-colored chain.
    “This was in the bathroom,” he said. “Prada. Ten to fifteen thousand kronor.”
    “Inside it?” asked Sven-Erik.
    “No, that’s how much it costs.”
    Fred Olsson tipped out the contents onto the unmade bed. He opened the wallet and held Inna Wattrang’s driving license up to Anna-Maria.
    Anna-Maria Mella nodded. It was definitely her. No doubt.
    She looked at the rest of the things that had fallen out of the bag. Tampons, nail file, lipstick, sunglasses, face powder, a load of yellow credit card slips, a pack of painkillers.
    “No cell phone,” she established.
    Fred Olsson and Sven-Erik nodded. There was no telephone anywhere else either. That might mean the perpetrator was somebody she knew, somebody whose number was programmed into the phone.
    “We’ll take her stuff to the station,” said Anna-Maria. “And we’ll seal this off anyway.”
    Her glance fell on the purse again.
    “It’s wet,” she said.
    “I was just coming to that,” said Fred Olsson. “It was in the sink. The tap must have been dripping.”
    They looked at each other in surprise.
    “Strange,” said Anna-Maria.
    Sven-Erik’s substantial moustache came to life beneath his nose, moving in and out and from side to side.
    “Can you take a walk around the outside?” asked Anna-Maria. “I’ll just go round inside one more time.”
    Fred Olsson and Sven-Erik Stålnacke disappeared outside. Anna-Maria walked around slowly.
    If she didn’t die here, she thought, the killer has at least been here. And he was the one who took the phone. But of course she might have had it with her when she went out running, or whatever she was doing. In her pocket.
    She looked in the washbasin where the purse had been. What had it been doing there? She opened the bathroom cabinet. Completely empty. Typical for a place that’s going to be used by guests and employees or rented out; nothing personal is left behind.
    I can assume that any personal items that are here were hers, thought Anna-Maria.
    There were a few microwave meals in the refrigerator. Three of the four bedrooms were completely untouched.
    There’s nothing more to see here, she