Liv’s father had been in London for nearly a fortnight. It must have cost him a fortune even at the not very luxurious hotel in Elgin Avenue. But his motive for staying seemed only partly his concern for his daughter’s welfare. It was true that he called at 15 Russia Road every day and while he was there harangued and scolded Liv, but he never stayed long and, according to her, spent the rest of his time at drinking clubs, pubs, and dubious places in Soho. All his life, in Kiruna, he had been a quiet, respectable, upright sort of man, devoted to his family and hardly ever having a day off work. This was his annual holiday he was taking, though the original intention of himself and Liv’s mother had been to spend it on Gotland and Bornholm. It was twenty years since he had been to London and it had apparently gone to his head. Apart from those daily hectoring visits, he seemed to have forgotten why he had come in the first place. If London was such an attractive holiday place, Liv’s mother could have joined him, for she too was taking her annual leave. As far as I know no one suggested this and perhaps Håkan Almquist, breaking out and letting rip at last, felt her presence might have interfered with his pleasures.

That rainy morning he arrived carrying a large and rather beautiful umbrella, the silk on its steeply domed frame printed with a picture of the Basin of St. Mark’s in Venice, all done in glorious colors on a deep blue background. He shook it out in the hall, splashing walls and carpet and leaving the mess for Beryl to clear up. He also carried or wore, as usual, one of those smallish backpack bags that today are fashionable for women, but which at that time I had never seen on the back of man or woman. I went ahead of him upstairs with the intention of alerting Liv before he got there in case she was still in bed with Wim, though it was past eleven. But Wim was nowhere to be seen and she was up and about, far more brisk and cheerful than usual, bathed and dressed, her hair newly washed and looking its shining blond best.

Instead of showing her usual sullenness, she greeted her father with enthusiasm and broke at once into rapid Swedish. He, frowning in a schoolmasterish way, reproved her for the “unpoliteness” of speaking in what was to me a foreign language, but she only laughed. I knew what she was saying, anyway. She was talking about handing the money over to him. I observed his look of wonder, then calculation. Liv said, “Come with me,” and took my arm.