‘I’m not sure how soon I’ll be able to go.’

‘And there’s one other thing.’

She sat there for a while with her hands pressed between her knees, looking down at the gravel before continuing.

‘Lennart Brösth has escaped.’

‘Yes, I heard.’

‘And don’t think the police bothered to inform us.’

‘Are you afraid he might do something?’

Kiruna came bounding across the lawn. Diana picked her up and pulled out the juice box and with her arms around the little girl’s body, she pried off the straw and pushed it into the hole.

‘You don’t need to worry about him,’ she said. ‘He’s a hundred years old. A hundred.’

‘Is there really such a big difference between ninety and a hundred? And besides, a hundred years is not the same for Lennart Brösth as it is for the rest of us.’

Diana didn’t understand that last part, but she didn’t have time to ask Gudrun what she meant. Kiruna had grabbed hold of the juice box before she could stop her. The little girl stiffened and looked at the juice that had squirted out of the straw, forming droplets on her jacket. Gudrun quickly pulled a stack of napkins from her pocket and wiped.

‘These characters,’ she said quietly. ‘They’re dangerous.’

‘What characters?’

Her sceptical tone made Gudrun press her lips shut. The little girl sat quietly, drinking; Diana seized the opportunity to sort out her insulated trousers. The foot straps had come off; she slipped them back under Kiruna’s boots. One of the straps was about to break so she tore it in two and tied the pieces back together. Gudrun studied the napkin as she carefully folded it.

‘I just wanted you to know he’s on the run,’ she said quietly and stood up. ‘In case you do go out there. It’s not a hundred per cent risk-free.’

‘Of course I’ll go out there. No question.’

‘Be careful. Promise me.’

‘Pinky swear,’ she said and held her little finger out in the hope of eliciting a smile, but Gudrun didn’t smile, just turned around and walked away.

After exiting the mess…

After exiting the mess, Anders stopped in the middle of the lawn, suddenly unsure of where he was going. Then his memory returned, smacking him in the back of the head. He couldn’t remember what he had said, but he remembered how they had looked away when he had spoken to them. He had thrown down his food tray with a crash that sent the cutlery clattering away across the floor; the whole canteen had fallen dead silent and he had wanted to scream at them, but he hadn’t. Or had he?