Nature up on the ridge is completely different from down below. The open landscape has been replaced by deciduous forest and small meadows surrounded by sturdy stone walls. White cows gaze at them as they pass by; it’s almost as if they realise that Anna and Agnes are outsiders. There is a white line in the middle of the road across the top of the ridge, but it is still so narrow and winding that Anna automatically slows down when they meet other cars. As they approach the crossroads, the satnav on her phone seems to hesitate. She can understand why. The vegetation along the sides of the dirt track has recently been cleared, and the gravel is dark brown and fresh. In contrast, the metal sign bearing the word TABOR is old; it almost looks creased, as if someone screwed up a piece of paper then tried to smooth it out again.

Milo is on Agnes’s knee, and as the main road disappears in the rear-view mirror, the white terrier places his paws on the door and presses his nose to the window. His tail is wagging eagerly as if he knows where he is, which of course is impossible as he’s never set foot in Skåne before. Agnes doesn’t even look up as her thumbs continue to move across the screen of her phone.

Anna glances at the clock. The removal truck is just over an hour behind them. She reminds herself yet again that they are simply moving house, nothing else.

Sure, Håkan grins inside her head. Who do you think you’re fooling?

She turns the radio up even louder in order to drown him out. She recognises the song, one of the few new ones she actually likes.

‘This is good! Zara Lah-hrsson,’ she says, mainly in an attempt to break the silence, and immediately falls into the trap. The name tangles itself up into a little gasp, and Agnes responds with one of those sounds that is somewhere between a sigh and a snort. She still doesn’t look up. Anna’s sixteen-year-old daughter has plenty of ways to punish her. Colouring her beautiful hair pink, the ring in her nose, the five in her right ear. The ripped jeans, the dark makeup, the military-style jacket, the worn-down Converse trainers, the full rebel uniform that has erased virtually any trace of the Agnes she once was. Not to mention the left-wing tendencies, the ultra-feminism, or the badge on her jacket informing everyone that ALL COPS ARE BASTARDS, or all the other hidden landmines that Anna has to pick her way around so that not every conversation ends in an explosion. And yet none of these methods are anywhere near as effective as the one her daughter is deploying right now: silence.