‘You’re blushing!’ Gabriella laughs. ‘Well, I’m not surprised. You were already babbling about him on our way to Stockholm. But who would have thought it would blow up in the middle of all this too?’

They stop and look out at the island of Söder towering up on the other side of the water, where Gabi’s apartment is located.

‘I like your neighbour,’ Klara says. ‘She’s quite a woman.’

Gabi laughs. ‘Maria? Yes, she’s fabulous. I can’t believe she gave you Rohypnol.’ Then Gabi turns to her. ‘You don’t know how happy I am about this thing with George,’ she says. ‘It’s time for you to move forward. Finally.’

Klara faces the water, watching as the sky turns pink in those first rays of the sun.

‘Yes,’ she says steadily. ‘At some point you have to start living again.’

26–28 November

Stockholm/Eskilstuna

Jacob wakes up to someone gently shaking his shoulder, and he opens his eyes. Grey hair in grey light. A face he recognizes from yesterday – or earlier today? He no longer knows what day it is. Or where he is.

‘I don’t know if I introduced myself,’ the man says. ‘Anton Bronzelius is the name. I’m with Säpo.’

Jacob nods and struggles onto an elbow, blinks in the bleak yellow lights of the room. Bronzelius. That was Klara’s contact at Säpo, he understood that much in yesterday’s chaos.

‘Where am I?’ he says. His voice is hoarse and creaky, and he clears his throat. Bronzelius is already on his feet.

‘Söder Hospital,’ he says. ‘They’re holding you for observation. It seems like you’ve been through a lot lately.’

Jacob looks around – it’s definitely a hospital room; shiny floors, big beds, tubes and a TV hanging from the ceiling. A vague memory of police cars and an ambulance taking him here.

‘Am I a prisoner?’ he says. It feels like the wrong word, but his brain is neither quick nor clear enough. Bronzelius just shakes his head.

‘We have a lot of questions,’ he says. ‘But you’re not suspected of any crime. Even if your role in all this is still far from clear. But we have time to talk about that later.’ He gestures to the door. ‘We’re in a bit of a hurry,’ he says. ‘I think there’s somebody you’d like to see before it’s too late.’

Jacob’s body aches as he follows Bronzelius through the desolate corridor of the hospital. His shoulder, knees, head. It feels as if he’s just been pulled out of the rubble, as if he survived an earthquake. Maybe that’s what he’s done.

The silence and tranquillity of the hospital is confusing; he can hardly believe that after everything, he’s safe now, or something like it. He’s not going to die. Whatever happens, he’s going to live.