Was that what had happened when Kerstin’s husband had come round the corner before the ravine? Had Peter Norling decided to pull out onto the road in his company car at that very moment? Had he been careless, thoughtless, maybe lost control of his vehicle and forced the oncoming car off the road and down the precipice? Had he then reversed back onto the forest track to avoid being as visible, photographed the blue Audi that had passed by shortly after and stopped and then left the scene, before then climbing down to the wreck and photographing it and leaving without raising the alarm? Whereupon he had sent the photos to Kerstin to direct suspicion in a different direction.

That must have been what had happened. Hallin was innocent, at least when it came to the hit-and-run. That was why he was able to ignore the blackmail attempt without any scruples. Peter Norling had caused the catastrophe.

Two weeks later he had been dead—murdered. The question was why, but it seemed likely it was connected to the accident. Which in turn suggested that Kerstin was responsible for the murder. But it seemed highly unlikely, given that nothing in their nightly calls had hinted that Kerstin had known enough at the time of Norling’s disappearance to undertake such drastic measures. She couldn’t reasonably have known about Peter Norling’s role in the whole thing. And Kerstin simply didn’t seem to be a brutal person—quite the opposite, in fact.

MIDSUMMER LUNCH WAS served in her parents’ garden with friends and family invited. After plates had been cleared of herring and new potatoes, and beers and schnapps drained, they cycled in a pack to Fridhem where the traditional celebrations were being held. There was dancing around the maypole, childish games, and fishing for the little ones.

The rather large party had spread out their blankets on the edge of the site, right beside a copse of trees. Late in the afternoon, just before they were due to cycle home again and prepare the evening barbecue, Erik wandered off into the woods with a couple of the older children. Sebastian and Fredrika were both nine years old, and they promised to keep an eye on Erik.

They returned twenty minutes later, each one of them carrying a bouquet of flowers assembled with childlike artlessness. Large, sprouting weeds drowning out the flowers that ought to have been the gems in each bouquet. Nevertheless, there were seven different kinds of flowers to place under their pillows on Midsummer’s night, just as the tradition dictated. The purpose of this was to ensure that one’s dreams provided a premonition of one’s future life partner—something that seemed pretty far-fetched for the three-year-old and nine-year-olds alike. A distant prospect, at any rate. But the kids were exhilarated, and that was the main thing.