The evening sun caressed the tarmac on which Fredrika Bergman was walking. She was heading home from work. Away from the equally unpleasant and incomprehensible letter that had been sent to Alex, away from an investigation she didn’t understand. Everywhere she looked she saw people hurrying along in the fine weather, hurrying to enjoy themselves. She thought that was a good answer to the question ‘What is typically Swedish?’: living in cold and darkness for so much of the year that the odd summer’s day evoked anxiety more than happiness.

What happens if I don’t enjoy myself enough?

When will the next opportunity come along?

Spencer rang as she was crossing Torsgatan and passing Vasa Park. He wanted to meet at the outdoor cafe on Odenplan, make the most of the sunshine. Of course. He had more reason than anyone to seize the day.

So many things to fit in.

So many things he would never have the chance to experience again.

Fredrika’s lungs burned as she inhaled.

‘Wouldn’t you prefer somewhere by the water?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘Odenplan isn’t exactly charming.’

‘By the water? What difference does that make? I’m happy with good food and decent wine.’

She let him decide. This was his last summer; she had to allow him to make his own choices.

She dashed away the tears from her cheeks. More tears. She couldn’t think of another summer when she’d cried so much, or another autumn she’d dreaded as much as the one that lay just weeks away. In her darkest hours she saw everything slipping through her fingers, the children being placed in foster care when she died of a broken heart. It was as if she needed to reach rock bottom in order to find the strength to climb up again.

The children.

It was for their sake that she would continue to put one foot in front of the other. Anything else would be unthinkable, unforgivable.

‘What’s the worst thing?’ her mother had asked. ‘What’s the worst thing about what you’re going through?’

Fredrika hadn’t hesitated for a second.

‘The certainty,’ she’d said.

She hated – hated – people who insisted it ‘must be good to know for sure’. As if the doctors’ diagnosis brought peace of mind, according to the totally meaningless principle that ‘it’s better to know than to worry’. Only the lucky individual who’d never seen their worst nightmare become a reality could possibly think that way.

I won’t accept it, she thought. I won’t.

‘Don’t cry, Fredrika,’ Spencer said on the phone. His voice was gentle, his patience endless. Unlike hers. Quite the reverse.

That was where it ended, in fact, right then and there.

I

won’t

accept

it.

She stopped dead and voiced her despair.