The Man Who Watched Women by Michael Hjorth

be right. The man who had stolen his daughter seemed to be full of life. Perhaps it was just a mask he assumed when he was with Vanja, making an effort for her sake.
    â€˜He’s been in remission since the spring,’ Trolle went on. ‘Whatever that’s worth. My contact hasn’t managed to get hold of his notes, but he’s only booked in for normal follow-up appointments, so he must be out of danger.’
    Sebastian grunted with disappointment.
    â€˜Okay … anything else?’
    â€˜Not really. But I’ve only just started. I can dig much deeper if you want me to.’
    Sebastian thought about it. This was worse than he had imagined. Not only was Valdemar loved by his daughter, he had just survived cancer. A saint who had returned to his family from death’s waiting room.
    Sebastian didn’t have a chance. It was over.
    â€˜No, there’s no need. Thanks anyway.’
    He ended the call.
    So much for that particular plan.

His third day in the job. He had finally got hold of one of those machines that allowed you to print out labels and self-adhesive strips, and he was now standing in the corridor in front of the metal plate which indicated that this room was the domain of the governor. He removed the protective strip from the back of the printed label and stuck it on the door. It was a bit crooked, but it didn’t matter. It was perfectly legible. Governor Thomas Haraldsson.
    He stepped back and looked at the sign with a contented little smile.
    A new job.
    A new life.
    He had applied for the post several months ago, but hadn’t really expected to get it. Not that he wasn’t well qualified, but it had been a period in his life when nothing was going his way. Things were bad at work; he didn’t get on with his new boss, Kerstin Hanser, and professional success had been eluding him, to be honest. This was largely down to the fact that Hanser refused to acknowledge what an asset he was, and actively worked against him, but even so. It had started to get him down. The situation at home was also rather strained. It wasn’t down to a lack of love, or the fact that they’d got into a rut, it was just that things were very … focused. His wife Jenny had embarked on a series of fertility tests, and their entire lives centred on her attempts to get pregnant. Her every waking thought was fixed on conception, while he was obsessed with Hanser, the job, and a growing sense of bitterness. Nothing felt right, and Haraldsson hadn’t dared to hope that he might get the job he had applied for towards the end of the winter, purely on the off chance. The advert had stated that the position would not be filled until the summer, so he had carried on working with the VästerÃ¥s police and had more or less forgotten his application. Then that boy had been murdered, Riksmord had been brought in, and Haraldsson had ended up having surgery following a bullet wound. To the chest, if he was describing the incident. To the lower part of the shoulder, according to his notes. At any rate, he wasn’t yet fully recovered. It still pulled a little; he could feel it as he smoothed down his new name label one more time.
    Somehow the bullet wound had been a turning point. When he came round after the operation, Jenny had been there. Anxious, but also thankful that he had survived. That he was still there. They were told that he had been lucky. The bullet had created a split in the parietal pleura, the membrane lining the chest cavity that contains the lungs. This had caused a bleed into the pleural cavity itself, and consequently in the upper lobe of the right lung. Haraldsson just knew that getting shot was extremely painful. He had been off work for three weeks. While he was at home he had time to think about what things would be like when he got back to the station. No doubt the chief superintendent would give some kind of welcome-back speech, highlighting his heroic