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Hälleforsnäs?’ he asked.
    Annika recoiled. Then she spun around and got back into the car, landing in the front seat with a thud.
    ‘We won’t be getting in this way,’ she said, slamming the door.
    ‘Damn it, how many times do I have to tell you––?’
    Bertil Strand released the clutch carefully to avoid a spray of gravel that would scratch up the paint job.
    ‘Hang on,’ Annika said. She closed her eyes, smoothed her brow, and felt the adrenalin start pumping away. ‘There’s got to be some other route.’
    The photographer revved up the car and put it in second gear, skidding slightly on the wet gravel.
    A sense of failure felt like a stone slab on Annika’s chest.
    ‘Stop the car,’ she pleaded. ‘We’ve got to think.’
    Bertil Strand parked next to a faded traffic sign.
    ‘There’s got to be some other way to get in,’ she said.
    The photographer gazed out over the lake.
    ‘Is it possible to approach this place from the other side?’
    ‘The castle’s on an island located between two lakes,’ Annika told him. ‘This is Lake Långsjön. On the other side, Lake Yxtasjön continues quite a long way up to the left. I don’t think there are any public roads there. There could be a tractor path, but they’re usually gated.’
    She scanned across the lake and caught a glimpse of Finntorp Farm through the foliage. When she’d been a teenager, she’d been to riding camp there, jumping her horse Soraya and winning ribbons. Impressions flashed through her mind: the scent of new-mown hay, the warmth of the horse between her thighs, the dust of the dirt road, the love and the sense of utter harmony she felt in the mare’s company.
    Suddenly she knew.
    ‘Go left,’ she said, ‘and then make another left.’
    Without questioning her, the photographer did as she said; either he trusted her or he was pissed off. It made no difference, she decided.
    ‘Where do we go now?’ he asked when they reached Finntorp.
    ‘Make a right turn,’ Annika said. ‘Head for the Ansgar Centre.’
    They made their way carefully up the hill, past the paddocks and the ‘closed to all vehicles’ sign. Red-painted wooden houses emerged from the gloom like huge building blocks.
    ‘What is this place?’
    ‘A Christian centre and retreat, I think it’s owned by the Swedish Missionary Society. Drive down the hill, there’s a parking lot in the back.’
    Apart from an RV at the far end, the lot was empty. They parked at the edge of a substantial lawn.
    ‘What are we doing here?’ Bertil Strand asked.
    ‘There’s a beach beyond that hill,’ Annika replied, ‘and there should be a lifeboat next to the jetty. I figure we could borrow it.’
    The rain showed no sign of letting up. They put on raingear and Bertil Strand packed his cameras in plastic bags and put them in a watertight backpack.
    ‘Cover that computer,’ the photographer said. ‘I don’t want anyone to break into my car.’
    Annika gritted her teeth and tossed a blanket over her computer bag in the back seat. Break in? When you’re parked in an empty parking lot at a Christian centre?
    The boat was there, half-filled with water. The oars had been tossed into the reeds, but they couldn’t find a bailer. They pulled the boat ashore, turned it over and watched the water carve a creek in the sand.
    ‘Do you know how to row a boat?’ an uncharacteristically timorous Bertil Strand asked.
    ‘I hope they haven’t sealed off the beaches,’ Annika replied.
    It was farther than she’d thought. The tiny rowboat bobbed like a float on the waves; at times it felt like they weren’t getting anywhere. The boat began to fill up with water again, and it wasn’t only coming from above.
    A lifeboat, huh? Yeah, right , she thought when they were halfway across the lake.
    As they rounded the point, the full force of the wind hit them. Annika’s arms started to cramp up.
    ‘Do you really think we’ll make it today?’ Bertil Strand asked, wet as a drowned