“No,” said Kerstin. “It was Jan Hallin who forced Karl-Erik off the road. And then did a runner.”

Sandra stopped breathing. Had it been the rapist who had thundered round the bend on the wrong side of the road while pissed after all? And met another car without giving an inch? Just like they had first believed, just like she had truly, truly wanted to believe. Before those photographs had messed it up for them, and got them to see a conspiracy instead of the obvious.

“It was Jeanette who took the photos and sent them to me,” Kerstin said. “Both she and Peter Norling were in that car. They didn’t cause the accident, but they left without telling anyone too. Without lifting a finger to save Karl-Erik’s life.”

“The shadow,” Sandra thought aloud. “It’s the shadow of Peter Norling that you can see in that photo. Not Hallin or anyone else.”

“Exactly,” said Kerstin.

“But why?” Sandra asked in agitation. “What drives a person—two people—to do something like that?”

“Greed,” Kerstin said with emphasis.

And then she repeated the part of the story about forbidden love and avarice, remorse, anxiety and longing, betrayal, hatred, and a death wish.

Jeanette’s story, in short. And she presented it without any subjectivity whatsoever. Honestly, plainly, and with the same feeling that she had told her own story.

“Does Jeanette know who you are?” Sandra asked carefully.

“No, she doesn’t know my real name—to her I’m just Nanna. And I haven’t revealed my identity. Not sure I’m going to, either. It depends.”

“On how you should approach this? And Jeanette?”

“Among other things,” Kerstin said thoughtfully. “I’m still thinking about it.”

“I’m not going to give you any advice,” said Sandra. “You’ll find the answer inside yourself somewhere.”

Kerstin said nothing in response to that, instead pointing out something that had already been occupying Sandra’s thoughts for some time.

“Jeanette was tormented by a guilty conscience and sent the photos to me. I sent them to Hallin with an implied threat that I would go to the police with what I knew. If he didn’t give me the money that I erroneously assumed he had stolen. Hallin didn’t have the money, but he was terrified that the police would catch wind of this—so what was he meant to do?”

“We thought he buried his head in the sand and hoped it would go away,” Sandra said contemplatively.

“Which it did,” Kerstin added. “Given that I didn’t dare remind him of the threat or put it into practice. But perhaps he interpreted it in another way.”

Sandra felt something take a deepening grip of her throat.

“If the root of the problem could be removed from the world . . .” she said, developing Kerstin’s reasoning. “Peter Norling.”