The driver, who looks exhausted, nods. ‘We secured a number of clothing fibres from the fence right by the edge, and part of a footprint next to the same spot.’

‘Anything else?’

The men glance at each other. ‘Not exactly,’ says the man in the passenger seat. ‘It’s been raining for several days, so the ground is soft, and there are no footprints in the forest, only little piles where the leaves have been kicked up. This is largely speculation . . .’ they exchange another glance, ‘but both Börje and I have seen similar locations over the years, and we think this happened very fast.’

‘What do you mean?’ She turns back to the driver, who is evidently called Börje.

‘We mean that it looks as if he was running. Started off in the forest, leaped over the fence and carried straight on into thin air. The footprint supports that theory.’

‘It’s only the front part of the sole,’ the passenger clarifies. ‘The way your foot lands when you’re running as fast as you can.’

She thanks them for the information and asks for directions to the viewpoint before letting them go.

She finds the right logging track and weaves between the potholes. She parks just in front of the tracks left by the Saab and the truck that picked it up.

There is dense, deciduous forest on both sides of the track. The trees have tall, straight trunks, just like those around Tabor. The ground is covered in a thick layer of wet leaves – this year’s on top, last year’s in the middle, then older and older layers in varying stages of decomposition, until you reach the soil beneath. She glimpses light between the trees, and follows the slope downwards. After about a hundred metres, she reaches the viewpoint.

The plateau is only three to four metres wide. It appears all of a sudden, and the only warning is the light from the sky. The view is impressive, although nowhere near as beautiful as the one from Tabor. Glarea’s lunar landscape extends from the bottom of the cliff – an ugly, dirty brown wound with ragged edges that has chewed its way down through the earth’s crust and stretches all the way to the outskirts of Nedanås. She can see the huge machines moving around, and smoke rising between the ravines. In spite of the height and the wind, she can also smell burning clay. The houses she can see in the distance on the edge of the quarry must really suffer from both the blasting and the stench. It’s hardly surprising that the place is going to have to close down.