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Sejer observed the house for a few minutes.

Sundelin’s red SUV was parked in the driveway.

The air was hot and drowsy and silent.

As if the small wounded family had huddled together inside, in a corner.

He stared at the house until he began to feel like a peeping Tom, then turned and headed back. As he walked, he examined the trail, studying it closely, and found nothing but spruce cones. When he reached the clubhouse, he stopped. The boys were still playing football, and he suddenly wanted to join the game. He was in good shape, and it wouldn’t be difficult. Besides, he was almost two metres tall, and his legs were long. Almost immediately, to the boys’ jubilation, he scored a goal. Now they guarded him like a swarm of buzzing bees. After they finished, the players sat on the grass and chatted, clustered in a horseshoe around Sejer.

‘All the criminals on the loose,’ one of the boys said, ‘the bad guys you don’t manage to catch. Does it make you really cross?’

Sejer had to admit it often made him cross. The man who’d been in the Sundelins’ garden, they would have to catch him.

‘Do you have any leads?’ they wanted to know.

‘Nothing good,’ he admitted. ‘Not yet. But sooner or later, criminals make mistakes, especially when they’ve been at it for a while. They usually get careless.’

‘But the case with the baby, that was just a prank,’ said a little black child. ‘Does he have to go to jail for that?’

‘It’s not a prank,’ Sejer corrected. ‘Let me tell you something.’ He looked hard at each of them. ‘It’s a form of theft. The parents’ security has been stolen from them, and that’s very serious. Without security, life is terribly difficult.’

The boys thought carefully about what he’d said. When he left, they followed him to the car, flocking around him and waving.

‘Keep to the straight and narrow, boys,’ Sejer ordered and drove away.

Chapter 10

One night, a few weeks after the attack against Margrete, Karsten Sundelin woke at three thirty in the morning. He lay in bed listening. A dark blue curtain kept the light out, but instantly he could tell that Lily wasn’t beside him. He switched on the bedside lamp. Margrete’s cot, which they’d brought into the bedroom, was also empty. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. He knew that Lily was having difficulty sleeping. When he thought about everything that had happened, and about how much they’d lost, he clenched his hands into fists. Something had entered the house, something unfamiliar. At times he could sense it like a tension between them, almost as if someone else were listening to them and meddling in their lives — but without words, just something shadow-like and vague. He crawled from the bed and went to the lounge, where he found them on the sofa. Lily sat with Margrete in her lap. At first he thought she was asleep, but then she sensed him and opened her eyes. He sat heavily in an armchair. Lily hadn’t turned on any lights. There was only a thin, grey glow in the room. Margrete was asleep. For a long time he observed them on the sofa. Some sort of fear had been planted in Lily, he knew, and it had grown and stolen her peace of mind. Everything they once had taken for granted. He gripped the armrests of the chair.

‘We can’t live like this,’ he said.

He heard a heavy sigh from the sofa. Margrete moved a hand, but otherwise slept peacefully.

‘Well, how should we live?’ Lily said wearily. She rocked Margrete softly on her lap.

‘Like we did before.’

‘We can’t do that. You must realise that.’

He held back a protest. He switched on the steel lamp beside his chair.

Lily had pulled on a dressing gown, and draped a blanket across her knees. Right now you can protect Margrete, he thought, but you can’t sit like this for ever. We’ve got to sleep. We’ve got to work. Margrete will grow up. He didn’t say any of this out loud, but instead rose and walked into the kitchen, calling out that he was making tea and would she like a cup?

‘No, I don’t want anything.’

She sounded like a bitter old woman. Karsten leaned against the worktop. He made a fist, and cursed under his breath. Then he filled the kettle.

While he waited for the water to boil, he went back to the lounge. He wanted to say something encouraging, something to make her feel better.

‘Sooner or later they’ll get him,’ he said. ‘And justice will be served. Everything will be back to normal. Don’t you think?’

Her response was to give him a hurt look which instantly turned to one of reluctance, as if the corner she’d located, on the sofa, with a blanket over her knees and Margrete on her lap, was a place she would never again leave. There was something unsettling about it all. She was somewhere he couldn’t reach any more. It didn’t matter what he said or did, because there was no longer any energy between them, she had pushed him away.

He heard the water boiling in the kitchen.

‘I mean,’ he said softly, ‘some lose their children for good. Have you thought about that?’

He knew he shouldn’t speak these words, but he couldn’t help himself. Because Margrete lay in Lily’s lap, and she was healthy and fine and lovely. Lily looked up quickly. She made a strange sound, the kind an injured cat makes when it snarls. The kettle whistled and he stood. But when he reached the kitchen, he left the kettle and opened the fridge instead. He returned with a bottle of beer in his hand. Lily looked at him wide-eyed.

‘You’re going to have a beer now?’

He put the bottle to his lips. He felt very gloomy.

‘What if you have to drive?’ she snapped.

He drained half the bottle before putting it down with a bang. ‘Why would I have to drive?’

‘If something happens,’ she said, rocking Margrete.

‘What would happen now?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s four in the morning.’

She pulled the blanket tighter around her, as if to demonstrate her vulnerability. ‘Anything can happen,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you realised that yet?’

He finished his beer. She’s spooked out of her wits, he thought. And I’m angry. She’s sulking like a child, and I’m growling like a dog. This can’t be happening. We’ve got to sleep. We’ve got to put Margrete to bed. We’ve got to move on. There are so many things we want to do.

‘If you don’t start sleeping soon, maybe we can get our hands on some sleeping pills.’

‘Sleeping pills?’ She rolled her eyes at this offensive suggestion. ‘Then I couldn’t be alert.’

‘But I’m right beside you. I’ll wake at even the faintest sound. I’ll take care of you two.’

‘He came while we were eating,’ she reminded him, ‘and we didn’t hear a thing.’

Karsten leaned across the table and looked at her. ‘Yes, Lily. He did. But he’s not coming back. Can’t we agree on that? Come, let’s go back to bed. I know you’re suffering. You’re probably in shock. But you need to pull yourself together.’

Finally she pushed the blanket away and got up. He turned off the lamp and followed her into the bedroom. She put Margrete between them in the bed, and did so with a glance that thwarted any protest. Then she flicked on the lamp that was on her side of the bed.

‘I’m going to read for a bit,’ she said, ‘but you can go to sleep. If you’re so tired.’

She seemed to imply that he should be ashamed of himself. Because he was so tired. Karsten felt the urge to lash out at what had happened to them. What had happened to Margrete was certainly terrible — he was the first to say it. What he’d seen when he came out to the garden, Lily on the ground screaming, the child under the blanket, bloody as slaughter, he would never forget it, never. But what about the rest of our lives? he thought. We’ve got to find some kind of order. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the light bothered him. And each time she flipped a page the riffling of paper was like a clap of thunder to him. The sound rumbled through his head. Maybe we’ll end up raving mad, he thought. Maybe that was what he wanted, the one who’d come from the forest.