But she wasn’t able to appreciate any of it. Not even the way the first faint light of the rising sun set everything sparkling, though the day had barely begun. There was a darkness in her mind that overshadowed everything, and deep down, underneath the imposed calm, she was seething with fury.

A few hours earlier, she had woken up on the lawn in her own garden with one cheek pounding with pain. Her clothes had been soaked through and she was so cold she felt she might never warm up again.

She’d gone inside to find Hampus passed out on the sofa with the TV on and one hand in his sweat shorts, and judging from the remnants on the coffee table, he had ordered pizza and knocked back far too many beers. But she hadn’t even had it in her to be irritated; she had simply continued to the bathroom to have a hot bath.

And there, shrouded in hot steam, reality had slowly returned. Dumping her in her own garden had been a clear warning. A signal so she wouldn’t trick herself into feeling safe.

We know where you live.

After putting on some clean clothes, she had called Klippan from her home phone, convinced he was both awake and beside himself with worry. But the signals had rung out unanswered so she’d left an account of events on his voicemail and assured him she was okay and that she was planning to haul Landertz in for questioning as soon as she got the chill out of her bones.

Fifty minutes later, she had woken up and listened to his terse reply on her answering machine. A reply she had no intention of heeding, responding to or even admitting she’d heard.

No time to talk. Good to hear you’re okay. Landertz can wait. Better for you to rest. Talk later.

The doorbell sounded like one of those annoying brightly coloured plastic toys you can’t turn the sound down on and whose batteries refuse to die. A minute later, the door was opened by a woman with tousled hair, wearing panda slippers and a dressing gown.

‘Good morning,’ Lilja said, noting that the hallway looked like any other hallway. ‘My name’s Irene Lilja. I’m looking for your husband.’

‘Eh… what?’

‘Your husband. Is he home?’

‘Yes, but…’ The woman looked her up and down. ‘What’s this about? It’s only just gone half six.’

‘6.33, to be exact.’

‘Hello there, what’s going on?’

She couldn’t see him, though there could be no doubt who that nasal voice belonged to. When, moments later, he stepped outside with wet hair, dressed only in an unbuttoned shirt, underwear and socks, she felt like she’d stepped right into their bedroom.

‘So, we meet again.’ She fired off a smile, pretending not to notice the pain from the blow to her cheekbone.