If not for the child she was expecting, she would have walked into the sea. The ice had been gone for a long time now, and the summer was waning. Without the kicks inside of her stomach urging her on and giving her strength, she would have gone straight into the water from the narrow shore and headed through the dangerous currents towards the horizon until the sea took her. But the child gave her such joy. After each stern word, each blow, she would retreat to the life that was growing inside her. The baby was her lifeline. The memory of that evening when the child was conceived was something that she’d pushed into a far corner of her mind. That was no longer of any importance. The child was moving inside her womb, and it was hers.

Having scrubbed the wooden floor with soap she laboriously hauled herself to her feet. All the rugs were hanging outside, getting an airing in the breeze. She ought to have given them a thorough wash in the spring. All winter long she had saved up ashes from the fireplace to use for scouring. But because of her pregnancy and the weariness she’d felt all spring and summer, she had settled for simply airing out the rugs. The child was due in November. Maybe she’d have the energy to wash the rugs around Christmastime, if all went well.

Emelie stretched her aching back and threw open the front door. She walked around the side of the house and then allowed herself to pause and rest for a moment. This was where she had her pride and joy: the garden that she’d so carefully cultivated in this stark and desolate setting. Dill, parsley and chives were growing among the hollyhocks and bleeding hearts. The small garden was so heartbreakingly lovely in the midst of that grey and barren environ that she felt a pang every time she rounded the corner and caught sight of it. This little plot was hers, she alone had created it. Everything else on the island belonged to Karl and Julian. They were always in motion. When they weren’t working their shift at the lighthouse or sleeping, they were hammering, building, and sawing. They certainly weren’t lazy – she had to grant them that – but there was something frenetic about all that activity, the way they resolutely battled the wind and salt water that mercilessly broke down whatever they had just repaired.

‘The front door is open.’ Karl came around the corner, startling her so that she put her hand over her stomach. ‘How many times have I told you to close the door? Is that so hard to understand?’

He looked angry. She knew that he’d taken the night shift at the lighthouse, and fatigue made his eyes look darker than usual. Frightened, she cowered before his gaze.

‘I’m sorry, I thought that …’

‘You thought! You stupid woman. You can’t even close the door. You do nothing but waste time instead of doing what you’re supposed to do. Julian and I slave away, day and night, while you squander your time on things like this.’ He took a step forward, and before she could react, he yanked a budding hollyhock out by the roots.

‘No, Karl! Don’t!’ She didn’t stop to think. All she could see was the stalk hanging from his clenched fist, as if he were slowly throttling it. She grabbed his arm and tried to take the flower away from him.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he snarled.

His face was pale, and she saw that strange mixture of hatred and despair in his eyes as he raised his hand to strike her. It was as if he were hoping that the blow would relieve his own torment, but each time he was disappointed. If only she knew the reason for his agony and why she seemed to be the cause of it.

This time instead of flinching she steeled herself and turned up her face to receive the slap that she knew would come. But his hand stopped in mid-air. She looked at him in surprise and then followed his gaze, which was directed out to sea, towards Fjällbacka.

‘Someone is on their way over here …’ she said.

She had lived on this island for nearly a year now, and not once had they ever had a visitor. Aside from Karl and Julian, she hadn’t seen a living soul since the day she climbed into the boat that would bring her out to Gråskär.

‘It looks like the pastor.’ Karl slowly lowered the hand that was holding the hollyhock. He looked down at the flower, as if wondering how it had ended up in his grasp. Then he dropped it and nervously wiped his hands on his trouser legs.

‘Why would the pastor be coming here?’

Emelie saw the fear in his eyes, and for a moment she couldn’t help enjoying the sight, but then she cursed herself for feeling that way. Karl was her husband, and the Bible said that a woman should honour her spouse. No matter what he did, no matter how he treated her, she had to obey that dictate.

The boat carrying the pastor drew closer. When it was only a few hundred yards from the dock, Karl raised his hand in greeting and walked down to welcome their visitor. Emelie’s heart was pounding hard. Was it a good thing or a bad thing that the pastor had turned up so unexpectedly? She placed her hand protectively over her stomach. She too felt fear stirring inside.

13

Patrik was annoyed that he hadn’t managed to get much done the previous day. Even though it was Sunday, he’d gone to the station and written up a report about the missing boat, then checked to see whether it might have been advertised in Blocket or some other list of classified adverts. But he didn’t find anything. Later he had talked to Paula and asked her to go through the contents of Sverin’s briefcase. He’d taken a quick look inside, just enough to see that the laptop was there, along with a handful of documents. For once they’d had luck on their side in this investigation. The briefcase also contained a mobile phone.

Eager to make progress today, he summoned Martin and headed out to the car for the drive to Göteborg.

‘Where do we start?’ asked Martin. He was in the passenger seat, as usual, although he’d done his best to try to persuade Patrik to let him drive.

‘At the social services office, I think. I talked to them on Friday and said we’d probably arrive around ten o’clock.’

‘And then the Refuge? Have you come up with any new questions for them?’

‘I’m hoping that we’ll find out a bit more about them from social services. Hopefully that might give us a lead.’

‘What about Sverin’s ex-girlfriend? Did he tell her anything?’ Martin kept his eyes on the road ahead, instinctively grabbing hold of the handle above the door whenever Patrik made a risky manoeuvre to overtake a container lorry.

‘No. We didn’t learn much from her. Except that she gave us the briefcase, of course. And that may turn out to be a productive discovery, but we won’t know until Paula has examined everything. We’re not going to mess with the laptop, since we have no idea how to crack the password. We’ll have to send it on to the tech guys.’

‘How did Nathalie take the news of Sverin’s death?’

‘She seemed very shaken. She came across as pretty fragile. Not an easy person to read.’

‘Isn’t this where we’re supposed to get off?’ Martin pointed to an exit, and Patrik swore as he turned the wheel so hard that the vehicle behind almost ran straight into them.

‘Bloody hell, Patrik,’ said Martin, his face pale.

Ten minutes later they reached the social services building and were immediately ushered into the office of the director, who introduced himself as Sven Barkman. After the usual courtesies, they all sat down at a round conference table. Barkman was a short, slight man with a narrow face. The sharpness of his chin was further emphasized by a goatee. An image of Professor Calculus from The Adventures of Tintin suddenly sprang into Patrik’s mind; the likeness was striking. But the man’s voice didn’t match his appearance, which surprised both Martin and Patrik. Barkman had a deep, low voice that seemed to fill the room. It sounded as if he would be a good singer, and when Patrik looked around, this impression was confirmed. An array of photographs, certificates, and awards showed that Sven Barkman sang in a choir. Patrik didn’t recognize the name of the group, but clearly it was very successful.