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  ‘It was good we had a meeting yesterday,’ she said. ‘We have to invite the parents in, too — as soon as possible.’

  Johan nodded. ‘It’s terrible about that murder, by the way. Did you see anything? Since it was right where you live?’

  Hanna didn’t reply, and kept her attention on the children, who were getting more and more rowdy. The atmosphere in the playground felt almost hateful.

  ‘Just say the word if you want me to come and watch over you when your husband is away from home — he certainly wasn’t home yesterday, was he?’ Johan patted her on the side and puffed out his chest. His physical size was as big as his ego, and he always did exactly what he wanted. For him, life was one big buffet, where you got to take what you wanted, when you wanted. ‘So, did you see anything?’ he asked.

  ‘No, just the barricades and the car this morning.’

  Before Johan had time to say anything else, she rang the bell she was holding in her hand.

  ‘What are you doing?’ He looked at the clock. ‘Recess isn’t over yet — there’s five minutes left.’

  It didn’t matter, she wanted to go in — it didn’t feel safe out here, and it was time to separate the children. ‘Recess is over now — I want to see everyone inside!’ she called, continuing to ring the bell while she scanned the playground.

  The feeling that someone was observing her still lingered. She tried to tell herself that it was just her imagination, but what if it wasn’t?

  She would call Stoffe as soon as she could speak to him undisturbed. She’d barely had time to talk to him after the police had come by asking questions that morning. At first, when they’d told them about the murdered woman, Hanna hadn’t known what to say or how she ought to react. But the lie that had followed had come quite naturally. The children had answered their questions shyly, and she’d thanked the gods that they didn’t say any more than they did.

  Hopefully, Stoffe would come home this evening — but maybe everything had changed now? They had to be careful, keep their distance.

  Hanna held open the door for the children and counted them as they ran in. Several times she lost track and was forced to start over once they were all assembled in the cloakroom.

  Some boys lifted up her tunic. ‘Ha ha, we saw your tits.’

  ‘You have bigger tits than my mum.’

  They were laughing.

  When yet another kid pulled up her tunic, she let out a yell — much too loud, and there was an obvious quiver in her voice.

  Hanna saw Alice withdraw to a corner, and she took a deep breath. ‘Come on, go in and take your seats.’

  Before she closed the door, she glanced out over the playground one last time. Empty.

  She locked the front door and went into the cool classroom.

  ELLEN

  10.35 A.M.

  Instead of continuing on Highway 52 towards Örelo, Ellen turned onto the road to Ahlvarssonskan’s farm. She held firmly onto the steering wheel and promised herself that she was only going to take a quick look at the place, and then go home.

  Ellen wasn’t familiar with either Mr Ahlvarsson or his farm, but she’d driven on this road many times in her life. On one side of the road the forest grew thick and tall, and on the other side oat fields extended as far as the eye could see. It felt as if she were driving towards the end of the world.

  Even though she knew that she should stay away, she was drawn to it — death. It was as if it called to her, or it was a drug. By concentrating on the pain of others, she managed to shift the focus away from her own, and that made her feel better. For a moment, anyway.

  When she arrived at what was apparently called Solbyn — Sun Village — the road was closed. Ellen parked next to a Children at Play sign, near where two police cars and the crime-scene investigator’s van, with roof box, were lined up by the blue-and-white tape. A large area had been cordoned off. She got out of the car, breathing the warm air deep down into her lungs.

  Really, she ought to have got back in the car and driven away. What she was in the process of doing was a kind of self-injury behaviour. It was one in a series of psychologists she had gone to who had made that analysis. Instead of cutting her arms, she buried herself in evil, swift death.

  A hundred and fifty metres from the barricades, a car she assumed had belonged to the woman was parked by the road — a light-blue Golf, facing towards Ålberga. The woman must have come from the direction of Nyköping. It looked like she had been driving up into the field; only one tyre was still on the road. As if she had stopped for something or someone and was making sure she wouldn’t be in the way of passing traffic.

  The police had set up a tent by the woman’s car. It appeared that the car was hiding the corpse from view. Technicians in spacesuit-like coveralls were busy collecting evidence.

  Ellen pulled out her phone and took some pictures. She zoomed in on the licence plate, and then entered the letters and numbers directly into the car registration app. The car turned out to be leased, but it wasn’t possible to see by whom.

  Without thinking, she opened her email for the first time in several weeks. It was chaos in her inbox, and she couldn’t bear to even imagine how many unread emails she had. Ignoring them all, she opened a new draft and started typing an email to her colleague Agatha, who worked with research in the newsroom. Her real name was Ann, but Philip and Ellen called her Agatha — as in, Agatha Christie — because of her secret love for reading detective mysteries.

  Ellen asked her to find out who owned the car. Since Ellen was on sick leave, she shouldn’t be at a crime scene, or emailing questions to her colleagues — but for the first time in several weeks, she could feel her blood pulsing around her body, and she felt liberated by it.

  It surprised her that there were no other reporters at the scene. Either the police had managed to keep it under the radar, or else the case wasn’t sufficiently interesting. Maybe it had already been dismissed as a domestic homicide, or perhaps something else was happening out in the world, something with greater news value than the fate of this woman.

  She let her eyes wander across the field. A K-9 patrol was searching a bit further off. It was so quiet. The oats swayed gently in the faint breeze. The birds were beautiful as they swooped across the sky. At the end of the field, she could glimpse what she thought was Ahlvarssonskan’s farm, and she had to stop herself from driving over there and asking a lot of questions. Curiosity had always been her strength, but it could also be a weakness when she let it take over. A little further away, on the other side of the road, was Solbyn, a small district of Stentuna — just three red houses in a row, surrounded by fences painted the same colour.

  The sun was blazing, and Ellen retrieved her sunglasses from the passenger seat of her car.

  Some kids on bikes had stopped by the blue-and-white tape.

  They had colourful backpacks and fresh haircuts, sweaty foreheads and scabby summer legs. They were nicely dressed and kitted out for the start of school — all in new shorts, T-shirts, and gym shoes. With mixed emotions, she remembered what it was like to return to school after the summer holidays.

  The children laughed and pointed. One of them smirked at her, and Ellen lowered her eyes.

  They’re just curious. They don’t understand the seriousness of it, she thought as they pedalled away.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she called out, approaching the tape. ‘My name is Ellen Tamm and I’m a crime reporter at TV4. Is there anyone here I can speak with?’

  A policeman reluctantly came up to meet her. He was wearing a vest that looked like the kind that fly-fishermen wear; his eyes were narrow, and his blond hair tousled. ‘We can’t answer any questions out here in the field, and we need to work in peace and quiet,’ he said, waving away the insects that were buzzing around him.

  Ellen took off her sunglasses. ‘I understand that. I’ll let you get on with
your work, but can you just briefly tell me what you know?’

  ‘We suspect a serious crime, that’s all I can say. If you have any more questions, you can talk to Börje, our preliminary investigation leader. Börje Swahn. Call the switchboard.’

  Before he could turn around, Ellen continued. ‘Do you have the name of the deceased?’

  He sighed and looked at her as if she wasn’t playing with a full deck. He probably wished he could wave her away with the flies.

  In a way, he was right. She rarely stumbled across a homicide in this way, without having any advance information. ‘Are there any footprints? Did someone get out of the car?’ Presumably there were no tyre tracks, because Ahlvarssonskan had salted the road. Tyre tracks were generally difficult to find when it was this dry.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Have you found anything? Come on, you can give me something, can’t you?’

  ‘No, I can’t.’ He turned on his heels and left. ‘Call Börje.’

  Damn, Ellen thought, watching him walk away.

  Could the woman have stopped for a hitchhiker? Or had someone been with her in the car? But in that case, how would they have got away from here? Ellen would check the local traffic and call Börje Swahn.

  Her phone beeped. She was still not used to having it on, and she wondered whether she was ready to say hello to reality — to resist the trolls online, the hate, the threats, and all that other crap. No, not really, but she couldn’t shut the world out forever.

  Where are you? Mum

  Ellen heaved a deep sigh and cast a glance up towards Ahlvarssonskan’s farm, before going back to her car.

  ELLEN

  11.15 A.M.

  With every row of hundred-year-old linden trees she passed along the lane, her anxiety grew stronger. She hadn’t been home to Örelo since early summer, right after the Lycke case. She’d lasted two days before the island had completely eaten her up. In the rear-view mirror, she could see a large cloud of dust forming from the gravel road. If the choice had been up to her, she wouldn’t have come back — not for a while yet, anyway.

  To distract herself from her growing feeling of discomfort, she opened the web browser on her phone and looked around the Aftonbladet news site, controlling the steering wheel with her other hand.

  The headlines were dominated by a derby scuffle the night before, where a man had been killed on Sveavägen in Stockholm. The second story was about the heatwave; the third involved one of the contestants in the spring season of Paradise Hotel, who’d been caught dealing drugs at a club in Växjö.

  She had to scroll a long way down to find an item about the murder in Stentuna.

  On the TV4 site, there was a brief notice at the end of the morning’s local news broadcast, and a map of Stentuna.

  A woman was found dead this morning on the outskirts of Stentuna. The police have started a preliminary investigation of homicide or manslaughter. According to the police, the woman was found outdoors, and the circumstances mean that a crime cannot be ruled out. If anyone has seen anything in connection with this, please call the police on 114 114.

  As Ellen crested the hill and caught sight of the castle, she was struck by the stench of pigs. She rolled up the windows, reduced her speed, and drove slowly into the perfectly raked gravel yard, where each pebble had had its defined place since the castle was built in the eighteenth century.

  Nausea washed over her as she got out of the car. In that moment it was hard to say whether it was due to the heat, the smell, or being back on the island.

  With a deep sigh she took in the grand, beautiful building, with its ugly yellow facade. Draped with ivy all the way up to the bedrooms — to keep thieves away, it was said. Ironically enough, because the horror had already found its way inside.

  ‘There you are. Finally. I was getting worried, and you don’t answer your phone.’ Her mother, Margareta, emerged from the kitchen entrance, and began, just like always, by saying something negative.

  Ellen slammed her car door. ‘Well, I’m here now.’

  Margareta was dressed in various shades of grey, with a lighter blouse, and dark, pressed pants. Product held her silvery hair firmly in place. Once a week, she had her hair done, in contrast to Ellen, who now quickly tied up her messy hair in a bun on the top of her head, so as not to give her mother an easy target.

  They quickly hugged.

  ‘Let me look at you.’ Margareta took a step back. ‘How thin you’ve gotten. Haven’t you eaten all summer?’

  Without answering, Ellen opened the boot of the car.

  ‘You look amazing. It really suits you. If you lose a few more kilos, you’ll probably be able to fit the dresses I had when I was your age. Which I bought after I had you twins.’

  It was hard not to hear the pride in her voice.

  ‘I’d always dreamt that one of you would wear them …’

  Ellen had not even been home five minutes and her mother had already managed to list every disappointment that had made her want to leave — that she had lost her twin sister, that she was single and far from starting a family of her own, that she was bad at keeping in touch, that she wasn’t good enough … But Ellen knew there was no point in trying to bring this up with her mother, she’d learnt that lesson. Instead, she bit her lip hard.

  ‘Shall I help you unpack?’ Margareta stood next to Ellen and stared down into the boot. ‘Is this all you have with you? You do know you have to stay here until you’ve gotten better?’

  Ellen lifted out her weekend bag. ‘I know,’ she said, closing the hatch. ‘This is all I need.’

  ‘Okay, if you say so. Go in and freshen up after the trip, and I’ll put out some ice tea down by the boathouse. I’ve made my own, with mint from the garden. And maybe you could change into something a little more suitable?’

  ‘Why? Does it matter what I wear out here?’ Ellen asked, looking down at her torn denim shorts and the pink bra that was visible through her white, wrinkled blouse.

  Suddenly, a black SUV drove into the gravel yard and parked beside Ellen’s car. A man got out and closed the car door with a bang.

  ‘My God, it smells like pigs here!’

  ‘Daddy,’ Ellen said, ‘what are you doing here?’ She couldn’t remember when they had last seen each other at Örelo.

  ‘We all have to talk about this. I won’t be able to handle you alone,’ Margareta said quietly to Ellen, eyeing her ex-husband.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. The hug he gave Ellen was fleeting, but she still had time to notice how cool he was from the air conditioning, and to pick up the scent of his cologne.

  He took off his black sunglasses, and Ellen saw that he was just as handsome as always. When she was little, she’d thought he was the best-looking dad of them all, and that whatever he did he was the best. Everything he touched turned to gold.

  Which was probably why it had hurt so much when that image of him had been replaced. When he chose to leave them.

  ‘Hi, Erik,’ Margareta said, squinting into the sun.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  Ellen wished she hadn’t seen how her mother blushed.

  ‘You two go on down to the water,’ said Margareta. ‘I’ll get something to drink.’

  They did as she said. Ellen walked a step or two behind her father, past the castle and down the little path leading to the boathouse.

  ‘It’s the same as ever here,’ he said, looking around the garden and out over the lake. ‘I haven’t been here in probably, well, what is it, ten years?’ He almost sounded proud, as if he was talking about a place he had only visited once or twice. Not the place where he’d lived, had children, and then lost one.

  When they arrived down at the water, he went out onto the pier and tugged a little on the mooring of the boat. Presumably to see whether he could find something to comp
lain about. She didn’t really understand why she cared, she wasn’t the one who had moored the boat, after all, but somehow, she interpreted everything he said and did as a criticism of her. It was hard to decide whether it was the words or the tone of his voice that she reacted to more. Maybe it was the way he said things, or else perhaps she just picked up on things he said and read different meanings into them. Like with the pig smell. It’s so nice that I’ve moved on. You all smell bad.

  Margareta was back right away with a tray. She set out her homemade ice tea next to the outdoor furniture on the terrace by the boathouse. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ she said, her tone slightly accusatory.

  Ellen felt tired, and the medication wasn’t helping to dampen any of what was now taking place in front of her.

  ‘You don’t have a beer?’ Erik asked, sitting down on one of the wooden chairs, at the far end of the table, closest to the boathouse and the sauna.

  ‘I made ice tea.’

  ‘That’s lovely, but right now I feel like a beer.’ He looked at Margareta as though she worked there. Ellen was half-waiting for him to snap his fingers to hurry along his order.

  ‘Well, I’ll see what I can find — maybe someone left a beer behind at some point.’

  Ellen watched her mother trudge back to the kitchen to satisfy her ex-husband. She sat down on a chair, away from her father, and took a sip of ice tea, which didn’t taste like mint at all, but parsley. At the same time, she watched her father sitting there — spread-legged, in his sharply tailored suit. He undid the top button on his shirt.