‘Not necessarily. But if you look at them side by side, it’s hard not to see links. First he kills a young boy in the most brutal and sensationalist way imaginable. It wasn’t important who the boy was. The only thing that mattered was the colour of his skin. Then we had the fire, which killed three asylum seekers. And now he responds by donning a dark-skinned mask and killing Lennart Andersson, a white middle-aged heterosexual man, in front of a bunch of witnesses.’

53

How would a person react if they found out their life partner had murdered at least three innocent people, one of whom was their own father? Would they even be capable of taking it in, or would they dismiss it out of hand as a misunderstanding?

On his way to see Gertrud Molander, Fabian had pondered how to broach his subject without spooking her, and whether there was a way of finding out what she had told her husband without also spilling everything he knew.

But he had been forced to conclude that whatever he did, there was an imminent risk he would make the situation worse. Still, he had no choice but to try. If he did nothing, it would be only a matter of time before Molander finalized his plan for his demise. Seen from that perspective, he’d dawdled too long already.

He opened the gate and continued up a garden path made of slabs of slate, which despite their irregular shapes seemed to fit together so precisely that not one blade of grass had managed to push its way up into the sunlight. When he reached the door, he overcame his last shred of hesitance, rang the bell longer than necessary to make sure she heard and backed up a step so he wouldn’t be in the way of the door, which in true Molander spirit was newly treated and smelled of oil.

The silence that followed was palpable, and he was struck by how no silence was like the silence in the gap between ringing a doorbell and the door opening. How long was he going to wait before ringing again? A minute? Two? Thirty seconds?

And how should he stand? It didn’t matter which foot he put his weight on, he felt stiff and uncomfortable regardless. And his hands. What was he supposed to do with them? He tried letting them hang straight down, but that felt exposed and vulnerable. Shoving them in his pockets didn’t work either. Not his front or back trouser pockets or his jacket pockets.

At length, he stepped forward and rang the bell again. This time, he kept his finger on the button for so long it left a round indentation in his fingertip when he stopped.