The years that followed she later remembered only in her dreams. Not really nightmares; she actually had no reason to complain about the three foster homes where she ended up until she turned eighteen. But they left her with an all-consuming feeling that she meant nothing to anyone, other than as a curiosity. For that was what a girl became if she was fourteen, obscenely fat, and the daughter of a murderess. Her various foster parents had neither the desire nor the energy to get to know the girl who had been assigned to them by social welfare. On the other hand, they had nothing against gossiping about her mother when their curiosity- seeking friends and acquaintances came to visit to gawk at Mary. She hated every last one of them.

Most of all she hated Mother. Hated her because she had abandoned her only daughter. Hated her because Mary had meant so little to her compared with a man; she was prepared to sacrifice everything for him, but nothing for her daughter. When she thought about what she'd sacrificed for Mother, the humiliation felt even greater. Mother had merely been using her, she saw that now. During her fourteenth year she also understood what she should have realized long ago. That Mother had never loved her. She had tried to convince herself that what Mother said was true. That she did what she did because she loved Mary. The beatings, the cellar, and the spoonfuls of Humility. But it wasn't true. Mother had enjoyed hurting Mary because she really despised her and laughed at her behind her back.

That's why Mary had chosen to take only one thing with her from home. They had let her go around the flat for an hour to select a few things; the rest would be sold, just like the flat. She had wandered through the rooms as the memories passed through her mind: Father in his easy chair with his glasses on the tip of his nose, deeply engrossed in a newspaper; Mother at her dressing table, busy getting ready for a party; herself, sneaking down to the kitchen to try and find something to stuff in her mouth. All the images came over Mary as if in a crazy kaleidoscope, and she felt her stomach turn over. The next second she rushed to the toilet and vomited up a foul-smelling mess that brought tears to her eyes. Sniffling she wiped off her mouth with the back of her hand, sat down with her back to the wall and cried with her head between her knees.

When she left the flat she only took along a single thing. The blue wooden spoon. Full of Humility.

No one had voiced any objections to Niclas taking a day off. Aina had even muttered something to the effect that it was about time, and then cancelled all his appointments for the day.

Niclas crawled about on the floor chasing Albin, who was running around like mad among all the things scattered on the floor. He was still dressed in pyjamas although it was past noon. But it didn't matter. It was going to be one of those days; even Niclas was still dressed in the same T-shirt and jogging trousers he'd slept in. Albin laughed heartily in a way Niclas had never heard him do before, which made him crawl even faster after him and roughhouse even more.

With a pang in his chest he realized that he had no memory of himself playing with Sara the same way. He had always been so busy. So full of his own importance and everything he wanted to do and achieve. Feeling a little superior, he had left all that playing and fooling around with the kids to Charlotte, who did it so well. But for the first time he wondered whether he wasn't the one who'd drawn the blank lot. Something suddenly occurred to him that made him stop short and take a quick breath. He didn't know what Sara's favourite game had been. Or what kids' show she most liked to watch on TV, or if she liked colouring with a blue or red crayon. Or what was her favourite subject in school, or which book she most liked for Charlotte to read to her at bedtime. He knew nothing of importance about his daughter. Absolutely nothing. She could just as well have been the neighbours' daughter, judging by how little he knew about her. The only thing he thought he'd known was that she was difficult, obstinate and aggressive. That she hurt her little brother, destroyed things in their home, and attacked her schoolmates. But none of those things had been Sara – they were just things she did.

The realization made him curl up on the floor in torment. Now it was too late to get to know her. She was gone.

Albin seemed to feel that something was wrong. He stopped his wild hooting, crept close to Niclas and curled up like a little animal against his body. Then they lay there, next to each other.

Several minutes later the doorbell rang. Niclas gave a start and Albin looked around nervously.

'Don't worry,' said Niclas to him. 'It's probably just some stranger selling something.'

He picked the boy up and went to open the door. Outside stood Patrik with some unfamiliar men behind him.

'What it is now?' said Niclas wearily.

'We have a warrant to search the house,' said Patrik, holding out a document as proof.

'But you've already been here once,' said Niclas, bewildered, as he scanned the document. When he was halfway through his eyes grew wide and he gave Patrik a confused look. 'What the hell is this? Attempted murder of Stig Florin? You've got to be kidding.'

But Patrik wasn't laughing. 'I'm afraid not. He's being treated right now for arsenic poisoning. He barely made it through the night.'

'Arsenic poisoning?' said Niclas in surprise. 'But how…?' He still couldn't grasp what was happening, and didn't budge from the doorway.

'That's what we intend to find out. So if you would please let us come in…'

Without a word Niclas stepped to one side. The men behind Patrik picked up their cases and equipment and came in with determined looks on their faces.

Patrik stayed behind with Niclas in the hall and seemed to hesitate a moment before he said, 'We also have permission to exhume Lennart's grave. That work has probably already begun.'

Niclas felt his mouth fall open. What was happening was just too unreal for him to grasp.

'But why? What… who…?' he stammered.

'We can't explain it all right now, but we have good reason to believe that he was poisoned with arsenic as well. Though he wasn't as lucky as Stig,' Patrik added grimly. 'But now I'd appreciate it if you could stay out of the way and let my men do their job.' Patrik didn't wait for his answer, but went into the house.

Unsure of what to do next, Niclas went into the kitchen and sat down at the table, still holding Albin in his arms. He placed him in his highchair and bribed him with a biscuit to keep him quiet. Inside Niclas's mind the questions were tumbling around.

Martin was shivering in the biting wind. His uniform jacket provided little protection from the bitter winds blowing across the churchyard. Just after they arrived it had begun to drizzle as well.

The whole operation turned his stomach. He had only been to a few funerals, and to stand here and watch while a coffin was lifted out of the ground instead of down into it felt as wrong as watching a film running backwards. He understood why Patrik had asked him to take charge this time. Patrik had already been through this experience once, just a few months earlier, and once in a lifetime was surely enough. Confirming this notion, he thought he heard one of the gravediggers muttering, 'You guys must have been placing bets at the station to see how many old coots you could get us to dig up in the shortest possible time.'

Martin didn't reply, thinking that it probably wasn't worth it to make any more requests of the prosecutor for a while.

Torbjörn Ruud came over to stand next to him. He couldn't help making a comment either. 'I suppose they'd better start putting elastic bands on the coffins here in Fjällbacka. Then all you have to do is pull them up when you want them.'