From a purely legal point of view, it is too late anyway. Any crime that has been committed is well beyond the statute of limitations, and no one can be brought to account at this stage. Not in court, at least.

Regardless of what happens now, Simon Vidje’s death is a tragedy that will continue to haunt the community when the horrific details are revealed.

That is what Bror Klein’s letter is about. The letter that is actually a speech.

Her suspicions are confirmed when Klein straightens his shoulders, licks his lips and clears his throat. Neither Elisabet nor Lisa have noticed anything yet. Elisabet’s question still hangs in the air.

Klein takes a deep breath, opens his mouth. Boundless sorrow is etched on his face. His lips form the first syllable in his confession.

‘It was an accident,’ Anna says loudly, not taking her eyes off the old man. ‘Everything indicates that Simon’s death was a tragic accident.’

Elisabet nods slowly and sadly, then turns back to Lisa and the photo album. Their voices blend into a quiet murmur as Klein and Anna stare at each other. He looks confused, shocked. Then he slowly regains control of his facial muscles, realigns them one by one until the stony expression is restored. Then he goes over to the head of the bed and gently places one hand on Elisabet’s shoulder, the other on Lisa’s.

Anna is about to leave when she sees that he is looking in her direction. His lips move. She doesn’t hear a sound, but she is sure of the words they are forming.

Thank you.

*

Anna makes her way laboriously along the corridor, with Milo limping beside her.

‘We’re not exactly on top form, are we?’ she says to the little dog. Milo puts out his tongue in a comical way and tilts his head, with its bandaged ear, on one side as if to say that at least he looks better than she does.

‘Stupid dog. Shall we go and find Agnes?’

The rain and wind whip up a few of the remaining dead leaves against the windows. No longer razor blades slicing into her, but fragile scraps of paper in shades of brown and rusty red, rattling against the glass before they disappear.

One last dance before winter, that’s what Håkan would have said.

She misses him. She always will, and yet she feels unexpectedly carefree. It’s as if something inside her has eased, been blown away by the autumn wind exactly like those last few leaves, allowing a new feeling to take its place.

‘Everything is going to be all right,’ she murmurs to herself as she opens the door of Agnes’s room and sees her daughter’s face light up.

Everything is going to be all right.

Author’s Note

Author’s Note