“I understand this is far from good news for you, but I’m just presenting the facts,” Sandra said apologetically.

Not that she needed to apologise for being raped, threatened, and subjected to something that was suspiciously like attempted murder. But at the same time, she understood Hallin’s wife too. It was clear that she had difficulty reconciling herself with such grave allegations against the man she had chosen to spend her life with.

“I don’t know what to say,” she said. “I find it very hard to believe . . . A police report would break him.”

“I don’t want to report him to the police,” Sandra explained. “And I’m not going to report him to the police. So long as he stops these awful threats and the danger he’s putting me and my son in. That’s all I ask.”

“And the money?”

“I just wanted to engage in sensible dialogue about the support payments for my child that I’m legally entitled to from the father. That was my sole intention before the whole thing degenerated like this. And I’m truly sorry that I’ve had to put you through this—I fully understand how you must feel about me right now. But I would ask you one more time: please make sure he stops harassing me.”

The woman gave her an incredulous look, letting it wander from her head to her feet and back again. She said nothing, but Sandra reckoned she could read her thoughts.

Was it really likely that her husband had been with this creature?

Gunilla Hallin looked like she was about to say something, but she stopped herself. Instead, she shook her head sadly, took a step back into the hallway, and shut the door.

49. Jan

49

Jan

GUNILLA WAS IN a state of utter misery when he got home. She was sitting at the dining room table quietly crying, and she didn’t even look up when he came through the door. She rarely cried—almost never—but when she did it was serious. Jan was overcome with dread.

Why wasn’t she looking at him, why wasn’t she seeking comfort in his eyes like she usually did?

He pulled out the chair next to her and sat down, taking her hand. It was slack and unresponsive in his, and she didn’t react to his caresses.

“What’s happened, sweetheart?” he asked softly.

He had to, but he could tell where it was going to lead. It was he who had made her upset—otherwise she would have met him at the door, burrowed herself into his embrace, and cried against his chest.