ELLEN

1.05 P.M.

Ellen went up the old stone staircase and along the corridor that had bedrooms lining both sides, a number on each door so no one would get lost. She and Elsa had played hotel here when they were little. The heat couldn’t penetrate through the thick walls, and it was nice and cool. Ellen breathed cautiously through her mouth. Olfactory memory was the worst — nothing else could throw her back in time like that.

Before going into her room, number sixteen, she took note of the marks on the wall. Every year, Ellen and Elsa had measured how tall they were. And every year they were exactly the same height — except for once, when Ellen had cheated and stood slightly on tiptoe. That was the last time they’d measured each other.

Ellen took a deep breath and opened the door.

Her old childhood room was stuffy and smelt confined. She threw her bag onto the bed and opened the window. The lake was smooth as a mirror. The air was still out there, too, and not even a breath of wind worked its way in to relieve the pressure.

Down by the boathouse, Margareta was still sitting gazing out at the lake. It hurt Ellen to see her like that. She wished she could do something to help her mother. But she was the wrong person. Ellen only reminded Margareta of the sorrow and loss she felt after Elsa; when Margareta looked at Ellen, all she saw was Elsa.

‘Death, death, death …’ Ellen tapped her fingers feverishly, attempting to stop the escalating feelings that were starting to press in.

She quickly rooted out a cigarette in the bag and lit it. Didn’t have the energy to care about the consequences of the smell of smoke. She flicked the ashes into the empty water glass that her mother had set out on the nightstand, and opened the bottle of Ramlösa sparkling water. She took a gulp of the lukewarm water and then poured a little into the glass. Setting out the bottle was a nice gesture, but it made her feel like a guest in her own home.

She lay down on top of the bedspread. Drew the smoke into her lungs.

The hand-painted floral wallpaper made her dizzy. On either side of the bed hung a portrait of one of Ellen’s parents — they’d had them painted on their engagement day. Their guilt-inducing eyes were the last thing Ellen saw before she fell asleep and the first thing she saw when she woke up.

It was death that had shaped her, and it was death that kept her afloat. Equally contradictory and reasonable. She could handle other people’s sadness and horror. Her own sadness was frozen solid, and nothing could be done with it. A ticking bomb, Philip called it, and she knew he was right. But she still couldn’t bring herself to do anything.

She felt captive, and she longed for Philip and for her apartment, but she also knew that there was a lot in her life that needed to change. In the end it was probably a good thing that Philip and her unpaid rent had given away her condition, and that they’d finally got her out of the apartment and Skeppsbron. She understood that — but could she cope with this?

Ellen took her phone out of her bag and googled ‘murder stentuna’.

The local newspaper, Södermanland News, had the murder on its homepage. She skimmed the story. There wasn’t really anything new.

On the Flashback forums there was a short thread. People speculated that this was domestic violence — exactly as she’d suspected. The victim’s name was also used; asterisks were covering some letters, but it was easy to work out what her name was.

Liv Lind, age forty-one. Registered at Folkunga Street on Södermalm, the south side of Stockholm. Single, Ellen assumed, because no one else was registered at the same address. Accountant. The company was registered at the same address.

She flicked to her inbox, saw that Agatha hadn’t answered the email about the licence plates, and quickly closed it again to avoid seeing all the unread emails that had piled up over the summer.

Facebook. Ellen hesitated at first, but then clicked on the app. She ignored all the new messages and friend invitations, searched ‘Liv Lind’, and scrolled through her feed. Nothing. No ‘rest in peace’ messages.

She opened Liv’s photo album and was able to see some pictures, though they weren’t friends. A picture where she was standing with a glass of rosé in her hand. Published over a year ago. Long blonde hair. Round cheeks. Another picture that was taken last summer showed her in a boat, and then there was one where she was standing under an umbrella, looking happy. She seemed to have gone to high school in Umeå and studied economics in Kristianstad.

What was she doing in Stentuna?

Ellen went to her list of friends and scrolled down through the 121 names. They had no friends in common, which wasn’t really that unexpected, but sometimes it could turn out that you had a connection to people you’d never met or heard of before.

She continued searching, and she stopped feeling so claustrophobic. But there was no new information on the sites.

She sat up in bed and dialled the number for the police, then asked to speak with Börje Swahn. He answered after just a few rings.

‘Yes, this is Börje.’

His voice was deep. She guessed that he was in his fifties.

‘Hi, this is Ellen Tamm. I’m calling from TV4 News. I have a few questions concerning the murder in Stentuna — Liv Lind.’

‘From TV4, you said?’ He laughed.

‘Yep, is that funny somehow?’

‘No, sorry. It’s just that you never know what you journalists are going to get excited about.’

‘What do you mean?’ She felt slightly irritated, but now wasn’t the time to start an argument with him. ‘Can you confirm the victim was Liv Lind?’

‘No, I can’t confirm anything. But perhaps you can explain to me — we had another homicide last week, also a woman who was beaten to death, in Brandkärr. You know about that?’

‘Yes,’ said Ellen. She knew the area, but not the murder.

‘Then maybe you can see what I’m getting at. There were no TV channels calling up for that one. What actually gets you people excited? I’ve always wondered. Why are you calling now?’

She understood what he meant. ‘Coincidences,’ was the best she could come up with. ‘We can’t cover everything, but we do the best we can.’ She was embarrassed for her channel and herself. ‘I am interested now, though, and it’s important for the media and the police to have a good dialogue. Is there any information you can give me?’

‘Unfortunately, I can’t say anything other than that we are investigating a serious crime.’

‘What was the cause of death?’

He sighed. ‘I can’t go into any details. Assault, that’s all I can say.’

‘What do you believe has happened?’

‘We don’t believe anything, we proceed from the information we have and work based on that. We did a crime-scene investigation of the site today. We visited neighbours and are talking with possible witnesses. At the present time I can’t say any more than that.’

‘Is the family informed?’

‘We have to get back to work here now, but thanks for calling.’

‘Could you at least take my number, in case you come up with something?’

They exchanged numbers and ended the call, but just before she went to hang up, she heard a crackling on the phone.

‘Hello?’ she said, but he didn’t seem to hear her. His own voice, on the other hand, could be heard some distance from the phone.

He hadn’t hung up.

Instinctively, Ellen turned up the sound on her phone and tried to hear what was being said. There was crackling and buzzing. She was able to make out that they were talking about TV4. That something was absurd. It was hard to hear exactly what they were saying, but she opened the recording app and pressed the red button. Just in case they said something of value.

Suddenly it came through more clearly.

‘What’s there to be interested in? That woman probably got what she deserved.’ Börje laughed; so did someone else in the background. ‘Her man probably got tired of all the nagging at home and finally had to put a stop to it, as they say.’

‘Yes, that thought isn’t totally unfamiliar.’ Several people laughed.

‘A woman should know her place …’ Laughter and coughing in turn.

‘She probably has herself to blame. That’s what happens if you sleep around.’