“Absolutely not,” Sandra said firmly. “I was just leaving.”

“But why did you come here? If you haven’t got anything particular to do, I mean?”

“I . . .” Sandra began.

She couldn’t think how she was going to get out of this. What on earth had she been thinking when she had sat down outside Hallin’s house, of all places?

“I understand,” said Gunilla Hallin. “You want to see Jan.”

“No,” Sandra countered. “I was just out and . . .”

That sentence didn’t have a predetermined end to it either, but fortunately she was interrupted.

“I’m sorry for my behaviour last time we met. For slamming the door in your face. It was unnecessary. I don’t have anything against you as such. It’s Jan I ought to be angry with. Am angry with.”

Sandra nodded with gritted teeth, mostly feeling self-conscious. She had no desire to even brush up against that subject, let alone discuss the presumed extramarital affair with the rapist’s wife. The time when Sandra had thought that she could reach Hallin through his wife was over. The last—and only—attempt had resulted in disastrous consequences.

“I promised I would never look him up again,” said Sandra. “And I intend to keep that promise, so I’ll go now. I don’t know how . . . I don’t know why I ended up here. I’m sorry.”

She nodded in farewell and started to walk away.

“I’m sorry about the thing with the boy,” the woman called out behind her. “I hope it works out.”

Sandra half-turned around to avoid seeming too obviously rude.

“Thanks,” she said, half-jogging away from the embarrassing situation.

But something good might have come out of the unplanned meeting anyway, she thought to herself. Gunilla Hallin had received the message loud and clear that Sandra wasn’t going to bother them again. Even if what had just happened wasn’t the most successful example of Sandra’s intentions in that regard. She could hardly have missed Sandra’s despair as she sat there, either—staring emptily into space in the rain. That was something that in all certainty would reach her husband, with an implied wish that the boy would be released.

Just as long as it wasn’t too late.

Four days of this suffering was an inconceivable period of time. Sandra didn’t know how much longer she could cope. At the same time, she had brought this on herself. All she could do was stand there and take it, she thought to herself as the rain whipped her face. She had to hold fast until she died in battle.

56. Kerstin

56

Kerstin