Wasn’t there some nondescript track leading off there for forestry workers and the like? Now it occurred to him. One of those roads that was nothing more than two tire tracks with weeds in between them? Yes, he was pretty certain. And not only that—out of the mists of his memories of that unfortunate afternoon, a memory of the journey in the opposite direction emerged. A very hasty reflection of his made on the way home with the girl with all her bargain buys from the sales. She had been gritting her teeth for the last few kilometres—clearly anxious, he had noted with mild amusement, given there was nothing to worry about. That meant he had been concentrating more on driving and her reactions than on what had been rushing by on the side of the road. But just up there in the woods on the small track he had seen something fleetingly. He had noticed a car among the bare trees and wondered whether they had engine trouble or something. Something he would most respectfully not have given a shit about, given he had recognised the yellow car and its decal as belonging to a guy in the same hunting club as him. Norling was his name, and he was a self-righteous idiot. Jan couldn’t have cared less about any problems that guy might have.

How much time had he spent at the house of the whisky girl—half an hour, perhaps? If Norling had run out of petrol and had been waiting for help, he might very well still have been in the car when the accident happened.

In all likelihood, that bastard was behind the blackmail attempt. Was he in dire straits financially? Six million wasn’t exactly chicken feed, but was pretty much exactly what Jan could scrape together if he sold everything he owned.

Which he had no intention of doing. This would have to be solved by other means, he thought to himself as he put the photographs back in the envelope. He heard steps behind him and turned to face his wife with a forced smile.

“Just coming, darling,” he said, shutting the unpleasant correspondence in his desk drawer.

34. Jeanette

34

Jeanette

SHE WAS STANDING waiting, amid concrete, corrugated metal, cars covered in the grime of winter roads and wet asphalt. In the rain and wind and February chill, still expectant. The weeks of eternity without Peter were finally over.

Jeanette had received a text message from an untraceable number. Maybe he had a secret number, or maybe he’d picked up a burner. The message was crystal clear: he was heading south and would pick her up outside the Bilcity store, just before the roundabout leading onto Toftavägen. On the day exactly two weeks after the accident.