Karin’s face was ashen. ‘That’s Beata’s apartment. She redecorated just a few months before she died, and she sent me some pictures. But . . .’

‘But?’ Alex prompted her.

‘But I didn’t see it for real until I visited the apartment after her death.’

*

When they emerged onto the street a little while later, the air was cool and the sky overcast.

‘We need to speak to Sten Aber,’ Fredrika said immediately.

‘And I guess we also need to speak to Eden’s husband,’ Alex said grimly.

Fredrika shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. She still couldn’t face thinking about Eden.

The ring, however . . .

It altered the picture of the murder, made it clear that this was personal as far as the killer was concerned. It also suggested that Malcolm’s death had something to do with the murder of his daughter.

But they still had no trace whatsoever of the perpetrator.

Chapter 8

Holiday brain – wasn’t that what people suffered from in July? Malin thought so. Holiday brain felt quite different; it was a slower version that mixed up days and times, but you could always make the excuse that you’d been off work for too long, setting all duties and obligations to one side. ‘Oh, I didn’t realise you were coming today – I thought it was tomorrow.’

She sorted the children’s clothes into two piles. She had switched on the washing machine at some point over the weekend, she thought, but then she’d forgotten all about it until her daughter informed her that she couldn’t find any clean knickers. Only then had Malin emptied the machine and dried the laundry.

The effect of a traumatised brain.

She took a deep breath.

What would she give to regain her everyday life and security?

Anything.

However, while she waited for life to get back to normal (if that day ever came), she had to focus on keeping her head above water.

Routine.

The word came back to her several times a day.

They needed routine.

She’d read it in countless articles and books about people who’d been deprived of their freedom for long periods: how they’d survived in captivity, where misery and impotence threatened to break them.

They created routines. Without them they’d have gone crazy.

Hedvig came into the bedroom.

‘Want some help?’

Malin shook her head. ‘I’ve finished.’ She passed Hedvig her pile of clean clothes. A very small pile.

Hedvig swallowed. ‘How long . . . ?’

Malin shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sweetheart.’

Hedvig left the room without another word, and Malin sank down on the edge of the bed. She hated her weakness, her inability to provide answers. Was this the last memory the children would have of her?

Was this where the whole family was going to die?

Chapter 9