When had they last made cinnamon buns? Last week? Or was it the week before? She didn’t know, but thought it was when the food was delivered. The days blended into one, it was no longer possible to distinguish between weekdays and the weekend. She had tried at the beginning, but now it was harder. The children’s father refused to help. He almost looked as if he was wondering what the hell she was doing, why she was bothering. She had explained, over and over again, and each time she had seen him being driven further and further away from her and the children.

Routine.

Wasn’t that what they needed most of all?

Routine.

The very cornerstone of crisis management in a situation like this.

Why was that so fucking difficult to understand?

They went into the kitchen. Malin took yeast, milk and butter out of the fridge while her son fumbled with the bag of flour.

‘Be careful – it’s full,’ Malin said.

‘I know!’

Malin melted the butter, added the milk, warmed it gently. Max crumbled the yeast into the bowl.

‘Can I pour?’

Malin nodded and the boy allowed the milk to trickle over the yeast as Malin whisked. The yeast dissolved, turning the mixture beige.

‘And a pinch of salt,’ she said.

Max ran to fetch the salt cellar. Malin glanced out of the window. It was raining, so heavily that it looked almost misty. She could still see that the trees were green, the black-currant bushes flourishing. The lawn was overgrown, the fence leaning drunkenly. Sorrow overwhelmed her, made her inhale sharply. She let out a sob as she exhaled.

‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’

The child’s pale face was tense and anxious. Sometimes Malin wondered how much he understood, how much he was suffering.

‘Nothing. I’m just a bit tired.’

Max followed her gaze and saw what she saw: the garden, the field. The fruit trees and the stillness. The desolation. And, in the distance, the forest that made them invisible.

‘I want to go outside,’ he whispered.

‘I know, sweetheart. So do I.’

MONDAY

Chapter 1

The ground around Malcolm Benke’s impressive house had been softened by all the rain. The grass was flattened by the feet moving back and forth across the garden. Curious onlookers had already gathered by the fence, leaning over to see if they could work out why the police were so interested in the place.

‘Has something happened? Is he dead?’ asked a teenager with a skateboard under one arm.

Detective Inspector Torbjörn Ross contemplated him in silence, wondering what to say. He hadn’t seen a skateboard for years – were they still a thing?

‘Make sure they stay behind the fence,’ he said to a colleague, gesturing towards the uninvited observers.