What was so peculiar was that around the time of the financial crash, his life had also fallen apart. It hadn’t been the collapsing banks that had hurt; the opposite was the case, as there were more business opportunities than ever before, and the profits were in excess of anything he could have dreamed of. There had been a crisis of another kind. An inner one. In the wake of this turmoil, he had found himself caught up in woman trouble, having made the mistake of sleeping with the same girl several times, in the process becoming captivated by her. He had taken the decision to ask for a divorce, but it became clear to him that there could be no such thing. He could not part with Rebekka now that she was in the state that he, admittedly indirectly, had got her into. And he couldn’t leave Anton behind. Although Anton didn’t conceal his disdain for his mother from her, Ingimar knew that if it came to the crunch, the boy would rather live with her than with him. Anton was in the same position as Ingimar, not daring to leave Rebekka on her own.

Ingimar walked with steady strides, but slowed his pace when he heard his phone buzz in his coat pocket. He took it out, glanced at the screen, and saw that this wretched journalist woman wasn’t going to give up. Now her questions were about how high the bribes had been to ensure that the pollution readings for the smelter remained within acceptable limits. He smiled. This was a weird kind of journalism; it was as if the woman was churning out endless conspiracy theories in the hope that one day she might accidentally hit on a true one.

11

Anton always heard his father going downstairs in the mornings, but there was something so comforting about getting to spend a little longer in a warm bed. He lay still, pretended to be asleep, and waited for the cocoa to arrive. The routine was always the same. First he heard the clack of the letterbox as his father fetched the newspaper, then there would be the sound of running water and that would soon be followed by the muttering of the coffee machine. Once the microwave had pinged, it wouldn’t be long before there were footsteps on the stairs. Then the door would open, his father would place the mug of cocoa at his side and would perch by his feet on the bed.

‘Good morning, young man,’ he would say. He always said the same thing: Good morning, young man, and then he’d massage his shins. After a moment, he’d tell him the time.

‘Time you were on your feet,’ he would say, still with his hand on the boy’s shin, as if there was nothing to hurry for.