‘Well, I don’t think that’s the same thing at all,’ said Britta, sniffing pitifully.

‘Of course it’s not the same thing. I just meant… oh, never mind.’ Elsy knew it was useless to continue the conversation. She loved her friend for all the good that she knew was inside her, but sometimes Britta could be incredibly self-centred.

They heard someone coming up the stairs, and Britta immediately sat up and began frantically wiping the tears from her face.

‘You’ve got visitors,’ said Hilma. Behind her Frans and Erik appeared on the stairs.

‘Hi!’

Elsy could tell that her mother wasn’t pleased, but she left them alone after saying: ‘Elsy, don’t forget that you need to deliver the laundry that I’ve done for the Östermans. You’ve got ten minutes until you have to go. And remember your father is due home any minute.’

When she had gone, Frans and Erik made themselves comfortable on the floor in Elsy’s room since there was nowhere else to sit.

‘It doesn’t sound like she wants us to come over here,’ said Frans.

‘My mother doesn’t believe people from different social classes should mix,’ said Elsy. ‘The two of you are upper class, though I don’t really know why anyone would think so.’ She gave them a mischievous smile, and Frans stuck out his tongue in reply. Erik was looking at Britta.

‘How’s it going, Britta?’ he said quietly. ‘It looks like you’re feeling bad about something.’

‘None of your business,’ she snapped, holding her head high.

‘Probably just a girl’s problem,’ said Frans with a laugh.

Britta gave him an adoring look and a big smile. But her eyes were still red-rimmed.

‘Why do you always think everything is so funny, Frans?’ asked Elsy, clasping her hands in her lap. ‘Some people have a hard time, you know. Not everybody is like you and Erik. The war has brought hardships to so many families. You ought to think about that once in a while.’

‘How did I get dragged into this?’ asked Erik, offended. ‘We all know that Frans is an ignorant fool, but to accuse me of not being aware that people are suffering…’ He gave Elsy an insulted look but then jumped and yelled ‘Ow’ when Frans punched him in the arm.

‘Ignorant fool? I beg to differ. The fools are the ones who talk about “not being aware that people are suffering”. You sound like you’re eighty years old. At least. All those books you read aren’t good for your health. They’re making you weird up here.’ Frans tapped his finger on his temple.

‘Oh, don’t pay any attention to him,’ said Elsy wearily. Sometimes the boys’ constant squabbling got her down. They were so childish.

A sound from downstairs made her face light up. ‘Pappa’s home!’ She smiled happily at her three friends and headed downstairs to see him. But halfway down she stopped, realizing that the cheerful tones that she usually heard when her father came home were missing entirely. Instead their voices rose and fell, sounding upset. As soon as she saw him, she knew that something was terribly wrong. His face was ashen, and he was running one hand over his hair, the way he always did when he was especially worried.

‘Pappa?’ she said hesitantly, feeling her heart pounding. What could have happened? She tried to catch his eye, but she saw that his gaze was fixed on Erik, who had come down behind her. He opened his mouth several times to speak, but then closed it again, unable to utter a word. Finally he managed to say, ‘Erik, I think you should go home. Your mother and father… are going to need you.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’ Then Erik clapped his hand over his mouth as he realized that Elsy’s father was about to give him bad news. ‘Axel? Is he…?’ He couldn’t finish the sentence, but kept swallowing hard as if to make the lump in his throat go away. An image of Axel’s lifeless body raced through his mind. How could he face his mother and father? How could he…?

‘He’s not dead,’ said Elof, when he realized what the boy was thinking. ‘He’s not dead,’ he repeated. ‘But the Germans have him.’

Erik’s expression turned to bewilderment. The relief and joy he had felt upon hearing that Axel wasn’t dead were quickly replaced by worry and dismay at the thought of his brother in the hands of the enemy.

‘Come on, I’ll walk you home,’ said Elof. His whole body seemed weighed down by the responsibility of telling Axel’s parents that their son wasn’t coming back this time.

Paula smiled contentedly as she sat in the back seat. There was something so pleasant and familiar about the way Patrik and Martin were bickering with each other in the front seat. At the moment Martin was in the middle of a long diatribe about Patrik’s driving; putting up with it was not something he’d missed. But it was obvious that the two men were fond of each other, and already she had formed a great respect for Patrik.

Thus far, Tanumshede seemed to have been a good move. From the moment she arrived, it felt as if she’d come home. She had lived in Stockholm for so many years that she’d forgotten what it was like to live in a small town. Maybe Tanumshede in some way reminded her of the little town in Chile where she’d spent her early years. She couldn’t find any other explanation for why she’d so quickly adapted to the place. There was nothing she missed about Stockholm. Perhaps that wasn’t Stockholm’s fault; as a police officer, she’d seen the worst of the worst, and that had tainted her view of the city. But in truth she’d never felt at home there, even as a child. She and her mother had been part of an early wave of immigrants; they were assigned a tiny flat on the outskirts of Stockholm, in a neighbourhood where their dark eyes and black hair set them apart. She was the only one in her class who hadn’t been born in Sweden. And she’d had to pay for that. Every day, every minute, she’d paid for the fact that she’d been born in a different country. It didn’t help that after only a year she could speak perfect Swedish, without a trace of an accent. She was an outsider.

Contrary to popular belief, racism on the police force had ceased to be a problem by the time she joined. Swedes had finally grown used to people from other countries, and she wasn’t really considered an immigrant any more. Partly because she’d lived so many years in Sweden, partly because, with her South American background, she didn’t fall into the same category as refugees from the Middle East and Africa. She’d often thought it absurd that she’d lost her immigrant status by virtue of seeming less foreign than the more recent refugees.

She found men like Frans Ringholm frightening. They didn’t see nuances, didn’t see variations. After only a second’s glance they were ready to target someone on the basis of their appearance. It was the same kind of indiscriminate prejudice that had forced her and her mother to flee Chile. Centuries-old beliefs that decreed only one way, only one type of person was the right one and everything else was anathema, a threat to their world order. People like Ringholm had always existed. People who believed that they possessed the intelligence or the power or the force to determine the norm.

‘What number did you say it was?’ Martin turned to Paula, interrupting her thoughts. She glanced down at the slip of paper in her hand.

‘Number seven.’

‘Over there,’ said Martin, pointing to the building. Patrik turned in and parked. They were in the Kullen district, in front of a block of flats right across from the sports field.

The usual sign on the door had been replaced with a much more personal sign made of wood, with the name Viola Pettersson elegantly printed inside a circle of hand-painted flowers. And the woman who opened the door matched the sign. Viola was plump but well-proportioned, and her face radiated warmth. When Paula saw her romantic, floral-print dress, she thought that a straw hat would suit her perfectly, perched atop the grey hair that was pinned up in a bun.