The thing was, she had no idea what the police would do when they found she had no concrete proof, or where she could run without him finding her. As that dawned on her, fear had taken over. Fear of what he would do to her when he realized she knew. So she’d stood there, feather duster in hand, her pulse rattling like automatic rifle fire. It hadn’t slowed down yet. Was that why he was moving over towards her side and was starting to pull on the duvet she’d wrapped around her precisely so he couldn’t get at her? Could he sense her galloping pulse?

‘Hello? Are you awake?’ He leaned in so close she could tell from the foetid smell of his breath he’d flossed his teeth, in itself a clear sign of what he was after.

She wanted to burst into tears and scream. But she couldn’t. Not now. It would have to wait. Until this was over. The problem was, it would never be over. Whatever happened, no matter how things turned out, it was something she would have to live with for the rest of her life. Divorce, life-time imprisonment, name change. Nothing would turn back time.

‘Gertie… Daddy’s here.’

No matter how badly she wanted to, there was no way back to a time where she could walk around with a smile, pretending to be ignorant and claiming everything was coming up roses. Knowledge had opened up a chasm under her feet and since then, she’d kept on falling.

The thought of what he’d done to Inga Dahlberg filled her with absolute terror. Something that horrifying was unimaginable. And how long had this been going on? What kind of monster was it she’d shared her life with for almost forty years, who was now rubbing the tip of his nose against her right cheek?

‘Gertie,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Hello… are you there?’

She’d known for a long time that Ingvar was out of the ordinary. Ever since he’d asked her to his house on New Year’s Eve and cooked lobster. He’d tried to impress her by placing the live lobsters upside-down, standing on their heads and claws, and pressing down with his finger on some point on their necks, claiming it hypnotized them. They had stood there in a row, motionless, until he plunged them, one after the other, into the boiling water.

She’d felt it was sheer cruelty, but he’d laughed and said it was a good thing she hadn’t been with him in China when he tried Yin Yang Fish. A fried fish that, with the help of ice and a cold wet towel around its head, was kept alive during the cooking and served that way. One of the most delicious things he’d ever eaten, he’d said.