Monday morning. If she scores the weekend, it comes out with a slight plus. The weather took a turn for the worse yesterday, so she and Agnes didn’t manage to continue their search for the quarry. Instead, Agnes spent the whole day shut in her room with Netflix, while Anna did a few jobs. Part of her hopes that Agnes will tire of Simon’s story and realise that a tragic fatal accident involving a boy only a few years older than her is not something they should be digging into, particularly as they’re living in his father’s studio. Another, much stronger part is already missing the companionship they shared on Saturday. For a few short hours everything had been almost . . . normal.

When her hair is dry enough she gathers it up into a severe ponytail, puts on a minimal amount of makeup, then adjusts the knot of her tie. Examines the result in the mirror and finds a new wrinkle next to one eye. She considers trying to cover it with foundation, but decides not to bother. After all, she will be forty-six soon, and she has no desire to turn up for her first day at work plastered in makeup.

She taps on Agnes’s door. ‘Time to get up.’ Milo is on the bed, of course, even though he’s not allowed. He glares defiantly at her, curls his lip a fraction as if to warn her against coming too near his Agnes.

*

‘Did you sleep well?’ she asks as Agnes pulls on her jacket to take the dog out. The only response is a mumble. The positive mood of the weekend has clearly gone.

‘What time is your train?’

‘Seven thirty.’

‘OK – that means we need to leave here by ten to seven at the latest.’

The front door slams shut. Anna takes a deep breath, determined not to let herself be provoked. This is Agnes’s first day at school. Hers too, you could say.

*

She parks in front of the police station five minutes after the agreed time. The weekend’s fog still lingers; it seems thicker down here in the village, and clings to her clothes. It also smells unpleasant, an acrid, burned odour that makes her nostrils prickle. She never used to bother much about smells; she’s experienced the very worst in the course of her job, but over the past year they all seem to have become more powerful. She knows exactly when it started: on the morning of 2 November last year. White lilies. Håkan’s funeral. She feels the nerves making her stomach churn, fills her lungs with air. Calm down, everything’s going to be fine, he whispers. They seem to be friends again now. At least he isn’t filling her head with any more dire warnings.