‘Couldn’t you have made it clearer? Explained that that was what you meant?’

‘What did you think I meant?’

That you’d murdered several people.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What did your colleagues say? They must have recognised my name.’

‘I’ve only spoken to Alex. He’s very sorry you’re ill.’

The water boiled over on the hob and Spencer turned down the heat. Fredrika could see that he was trying to hurry, and yet everything happened so slowly. His right arm was stiff; had it been that way before, or was this something new?

‘Need any help?’

‘No thanks.’

And suddenly she remembered what he’d said when he told her about the tumour: he didn’t want to see the day when he couldn’t manage on his own, when he needed help.

‘I don’t do impotence and humiliation,’ he said. She’d nodded and said ‘of course’, told him she’d have felt the same, even though she hadn’t been at all convinced. Until now. Looking at Spencer and the boiling water, she knew for the first time exactly how she felt. She was like Spencer. She too hated the idea of impotence and humiliation so much that she would choose death in Switzerland over the alternative.

‘Say something, please.’

‘About what?’

‘About what I did, what I didn’t do.’

Fredrika scratched a mosquito bite, contemplated the pile of toys on the floor and listened to the children’s excited chatter from the bedroom. She was the one who would be left. The one who would have the privilege of continuing to live this everyday life.

‘What’s done is done,’ she whispered.

Spencer froze in mid movement. His face was filled with such sorrow that she wanted to caress his cheek. Once, twice, ten times. Over and over again before the flight to Switzerland at the beginning of September.

‘Are you sure?’

‘We have so little time left,’ Fredrika said. ‘I choose not to quarrel, just as you have chosen how you’re going to die.’

A single tear ran down Spencer’s cheek. Fredrika went over and wrapped her arms around him. Held him close, so close. For once it was her turn to bring him solace.

*