“My name is Sandra,” she began. “I’m the mother of a three-and-a-half-year-old boy who was conceived through rape in January 2014.”

There was silence for several eternally long seconds, then he said, “That’s an interesting conversation starter. Would you like me to congratulate you or commiserate? Never mind—how can I help?”

“It just so happens that you are the father of the child. Do you remember?”

Why the hell had she said that? Talking over old memories with the rapist was not what she had planned. Now there was an even longer silence.

“Now I definitely think you’re mistaken, Sandra,” he said, finally. “Perhaps you’ve dialled the wrong number?”

“I’m sure I haven’t,” Sandra said. “And you know that too.”

“You know, this is a startling conversation at this time of evening—even if I do say so myself. Are you sober?”

“Let’s skip the bullshit and get to the point.”

“Oh right—there’s a point to this. Exciting.”

Not a trace of worry in Hallin’s voice. All comments so far had been condescending—in an almost amused tone. What exactly had she been expecting? That he would break down and beg for forgiveness?

“I’m offering you the opportunity to make things right.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. I suggest you contact the child’s father instead—he’ll probably pay up.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing. I thought you might be more inclined to take responsibility if we talked about this tête-à-tête, as it were. But if you would rather involve the authorities and so on, we can do it like that.”

“You’ve come to the wrong person,” Hallin said, this time without the ironic tone she had begun to get accustomed to.

Sandra was unsure whether it was a threat or yet another attempt at denial.

“I can always speak to your wife,” she said. “I assume she takes the same view as I do that men should take responsibility for their children.”

“Don’t even try it, sweetheart. My wife and I don’t keep secrets from each other, so that’s a nonstarter.”

Well, of course. It seemed highly probable that Hallin had gone straight home after raping a young woman and told the missus about the day’s big news . . .

“I take it you would prefer me to contact the authorities about the matter?” Sandra said provocatively.

“What the hell is it you want?” Hallin snarled in a way that suggested pent-up rage.

“I had a package deal in mind,” Sandra said. “In return for a one-off fee, you will never hear about the kid again, you will not hear from the authorities, and you won’t hear from me.”

“What sort of sum are we talking about?” he said angrily. “I’m asking out of curiosity, not because I have any intention of even considering your so-called offer. Since I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

“Patchy memory? Doesn’t surprise me given how drunk you were. I thought three thousand kronor per month for nineteen years would be about right. A total of six hundred and eighty-four thousand kronor.”