It was probably irrelevant—Kerstin hadn’t mentioned the picture message when they had spoken an hour or so earlier, after all. And there had been no writing in the message, which suggested Kerstin hadn’t sent it intentionally. Or even taken it intentionally. And now Sandra was reluctant to disturb her again with a question about a missent picture message that was only being asked because she was struggling to pass the time during the night shift.

The door opened and the nurse looked in again—the one with the old-fashioned spectacles. She gave Sandra a sunny smile, nodded without saying anything, and withdrew back into the corridor, as if they were communicating in some shared code where a nod meant everything was under control.

She realised that she had completely forgotten about the bilberry soup that she had been given earlier in the evening. It was standing together with the apple juice slightly concealed behind her toilet bag on the nightstand. She reached for the glass and took a big gulp. It tasted just like she remembered: sweet, but not too sweet. It was tasty, with a distinct bilberry flavour minus that natural acidity, and with lovely small seeds that lingered on your tongue. She downed the lot in just a few short gulps, and immediately regretted not having taken two glasses when she’d had the opportunity. She didn’t feel like apple juice right now, so she didn’t touch it.

She cast another disillusioned glance at the incomprehensible picture on her computer, felt impatient, and thought that she could at least ask Kerstin whether she was awake. She fired off a text message and got an answer straight back saying it was fine to call. So she did.

“Aren’t you sleeping?” she asked.

“No, I’m actually out for a walk,” Kerstin replied. “I thought I’d look in on Jeanette.”

“Why?” Sandra said with concern. “Don’t you trust her?”

“No, I wouldn’t put it like that. She found my business card with a photo of me on it attached to one of the bags. Then she realised that it was my husband who died in the ravine, and you might say she didn’t take it very well. Your real name doesn’t really matter in our circles, so she’s always thought of me as Nanna. And after it dawned on me who she was, I wasn’t exactly eager to open her eyes to the truth either.”

“Gosh. And you . . .”

“I’ve forgiven her, Sandra. And she knows that. She refuses to accept it. She can’t forgive herself.”

Sandra sighed. It felt as though Kerstin had more important things to do than answer questions that Sandra wanted to ask to pass the time.

“What was it you wanted to talk about?” said Kerstin.

“It occurred to me that I never got an explanation for that picture message you sent earlier this evening,” Sandra explained.