“You had evidence Bror was on the island,” I said. “But it wasn’t enough. That’s why you didn’t want it in front of the court.”

“Interesting theory.” He stared at me, an unreadable look in his eye.

“How long has he been a suspect?”

He shook his head. He wasn’t going to discuss procedure with me.

“Have you at least issued an arrest warrant?”

“We have,” he said. “I can give you that assurance.”

Forty-Four

The apartment was secure. Electricians had installed a panic button and a camera in every room. Everything was professional, everything reassuringly neat. But really, if someone wants to harm you, they will find a way.

I drove south. By eleven-thirty I was at the beach by the harbor. I dragged the rowboat across the stones and into the water, rowed slowly across the sound. The water was ink-black, the sky red, streaked through with white.

I tied up the boat in front of the cabin. Elsa had placed Franklin’s crib on the wooden veranda that gave onto the shore. She heard my footsteps on the shingle, came out to meet me, stood beside the crib as I approached, watching over our sleeping son. Franklin lay on his back on his giant sheepskin, covers thrown off, arms raised, the tips of his fingers gently exploring each other as he slept.

“We have to talk,” I whispered as we kissed. Elsa nodded, looked meaningfully at Vee, who was watching us intently from the doorway.

Not yet.

They had dredged mussels from the bay with a snow shovel. Elsa laid the shovel straight onto the fire to cook the mussels, turning them with steel tongs, then scooped them onto plates filled with seagrass and new potatoes. We poured a small glass of wine for Vee, which she did not touch, and a larger glass of wine for each of us. Together we sat on a wooden bench that faced out across the fjord, Vee between us, watching as the last of the sun’s rays played on the brow of a far hill and the sky above us faded purple-black. Water lapped at the shore. Oystercatchers gathered in small flocks, swooping and soaring, calling out across the sound.

The mussels were sweet, the wine dry, the seagrass salty and delicate.

“Vee,” I said, “you’re barely eating.” But Vee did not reply.

Elsa looked across at me, smiled. Vee’s eyes were closed. She was asleep where she sat, upright, breathing gently. That slow, familiar in-in-and-out. Her mother’s daughter.

“Vee?” I said gently. “Vee, I’m going to lift you, and carry you into bed.”

“Mm,” said Vee.

“Want me to help?” said Elsa.

“I’ve got this.”