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past.
    The entrance Rebecca was looking for was tucked between the bar and a small English-language bookshop. She saw a courtyard that resembled a park. Wrought-iron benches were arranged around a disused fountain, with tall street lamps glowing between them. Along the sides of the courtyard she could make out roses and lilac. Rebecca had walked up and down this street ever since she was a child, and she had never known there was a garden behind the old stone buildings. She almost forgot why she was there. Then it struck her with full force.
    She chose a door at random and tugged on it, but wasn’t surprised to find it locked; of course the outside doors would be locked. And it was the middle of the night so there was little chance of following someone in.
    She stood absolutely still, allowing her gaze to roam over the buildings’ façades. They really were beautiful, and curiously silent. Were the buildings just as reluctant to let in strangers as the people whoinhabited them? How the other half live , she thought uncharitably. Lights were on in a small number of apartments. At one window, she caught sight of a figure behind a curtain. Rebecca allowed the shadows to swallow her up.
    That was when she spotted his navy-blue mountain bike. It was almost invisible in a stand among several others. At least, she was sure that it was his at the time, even if it didn’t have any particular distinguishing features. After a moment’s hesitation she picked up a sharp stone and made a scratch along the frame. If she couldn’t catch him red-handed, the scratch would provide proof when he rolled home in a few hours. She realised with growing frustration that she couldn’t do much more. But if there was one thing that amazed Rebecca, it was how God had a tendency to hear the prayers of desperate people. She walked up to Karpov’s door and found that it wasn’t properly closed, or perhaps the lock was broken.
    She let herself in, and tiptoed quickly up the stairs.
    The turn-of-the-century panelled door was beautiful, but it was also thin; breaking it open would be a piece of cake.
    She could hear footsteps from the apartment on the other side of the landing; she pulled up her hood over her red hair and slowly pushed the letterbox inwards. The hallway was dark and silent. She could smell food: curry, cumin and something else, something sweet.

5
    Ann-Marie was lying in the bath. He was sure she’d gone in there simply to avoid him, even though their time together was precious. He could hear the sound of rushing water behind the door. Henrik sat on the sofa as the TV flickered silently a few metres away. He leafed through a magazine, but was too agitated to read.
    She had turned off the tap; she must just be lying there now. A small green alarm clock, which looked totally out of place, ticked away on the mantelpiece, as if to remind him that every minute was a minutethey would not get back. It was the middle of the night. He had covered himself by mentioning Axel, and telling her it would be a late one, but you never knew with Rebecca. She might suddenly get an idea in her head. He ought to go home.
    Henrik had outlined his plans for a shared future to Ann-Marie; in the end he had talked himself into a dead end, and he ought to go home before he made the situation worse. But he didn’t want to leave just yet. This was no note to leave things on.
    Henrik really wished Ann-Marie hadn’t gone into the bathroom with such an air of weary resignation. He wished she hadn’t been so distant, as if her mind were not on the two of them, but on something else entirely. What she was going to do at the weekend, when Henrik and Rebecca were visiting mutual friends outside Kungsbacka, eating shrimps and tiramisu.
    She seemed distracted, but was she actually afraid?
    Earlier that evening he had been appalled by how much he had upset her. He had been frightened by the fact that he had scared her when he raised his voice and shouted in frustration: