‘Okay, okay,’ said Dan sullenly. ‘But Pernilla should have phoned the friend’s mother to double check. That’s what I would have done.’

‘Yes, you probably would have. And from now on, Pernilla will, too.’

‘Why are you talking about Mamma?’ Belinda came down the stairs, still wearing her nightgown and with her hair sticking out all over. She’d refused to get out of bed ever since they’d brought her home from Erica and Patrik’s on Saturday morning, hung over and apparently filled with remorse. Most of the remorse had since vanished, replaced by even more of the anger that had become her constant companion.

‘We’re not talking specifically about your mother,’ said Dan wearily, sensing that another row was imminent.

‘Are you talking shit about my mother again?’ snarled Belinda, turning on Anna.

Casting a resigned look in Dan’s direction, Anna said calmly, ‘I’ve never said anything bad about your mother – and you know it. So don’t speak to me in that tone of voice.’

‘I’ll use whatever tone of voice I like!’ yelled Belinda. ‘This is my house, not yours! So you can just take your fucking kids and get out of here!’

Dan took a step forward, his eyes flashing. ‘Don’t talk that way to Anna! This is her home too. The same goes for Adrian and Emma. And if you don’t like it…’ The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he realized it was the worst thing he could have said.

‘No, I don’t like it! I’m going to pack my bags and go home to Mamma! And that’s where I’m going to stay until that woman and her kids move out!’ Belinda turned on her heel and rushed upstairs. Both Dan and Anna gave a start when the door to her room slammed shut.

‘Maybe she’s right, Dan,’ said Anna faintly. ‘Maybe everything has gone a little too fast. I mean, she didn’t have much time to get used to the idea before we turned up and invaded her home and her life.’

‘She’s seventeen, for God’s sake. And she’s behaving like a five-year-old.’

‘You have to understand Belinda’s point of view. It can’t have been easy for her. She was a sensitive age when you and Pernilla separated, and…’

‘Oh, thank you very much. As if I need that whole guilt trip on my shoulders again. I know it was my fault that we got divorced, so you don’t have to stand there and throw it in my face.’

With that he walked brusquely past Anna and out the front door. For the second time a door slammed so loudly that the windowpanes rattled. For several seconds Anna stood motionless at the kitchen counter. Then she sank down on to the floor and cried.

‘I hear the Germans finally got their mitts on the doctor’s boy.’

Vilgot chuckled with glee as he hung his coat on the hook in the hallway. He handed his briefcase to Frans, who set it in its usual place, leaning against a chair.

‘It’s about time. Treason, I call it, what he’s been up to, but people are like sheep. They just follow the crowd and bleat on command. Only somebody like me, who dares to think independently, can see things the way they really are. And trust me, Axel Frankel was a traitor. I hope they’ll make short work of him.’

Vilgot went into the parlour and sank into his favourite armchair. Frans followed on his heels, and Vilgot looked up at him.

‘Hey, where’s my drink? Why are you so slow about it today?’ He sounded cross, and Frans hurried over to the drinks cabinet to pour a shot for his father. It had been their routine ever since he was a little boy. His mother hadn’t liked the fact that Frans was asked to handle liquor at such a young age, but as usual, she hadn’t had much say in the matter.

‘Sit down, boy, sit down.’ Gripping his glass firmly, Vilgot magnanimously motioned towards the armchair next to him. Frans caught a waft of alcohol as he sat down. The drink he’d poured for his father was most likely not the first he’d had that day.

‘Your father has made an excellent deal today, let me tell you.’ Vilgot leaned forward, and the alcoholic fumes filled Frans’s nostrils. ‘I’ve signed a contract with a German company. An exclusive contract. I’m going to be their sole supplier in Sweden. They said they were having a hard time finding business partners, and I believe it.’ Vilgot chuckled, his large belly shaking. He downed his drink and held out the glass to Frans. ‘Pour me another.’ His eyes were glazed from the alcohol. Frans’s hand shook slightly as he took the glass. It was still shaking as he poured the aromatic spirit, spilling a few drops.

‘Pour one for yourself,’ said Vilgot. It sounded more like a command than an invitation. Which it was. Frans set down his father’s full glass and reached for an empty one for himself. His hand was no longer shaking as he filled it to the brim. Focusing all his attention on the effort, he carried the two glasses over to his father. Vilgot raised his glass as Frans sat down again. ‘Bottoms up, lad.’

Frans felt the liquid burning his throat, all the way down to his stomach, where it settled like a warm lump. His father smiled. A trickle of alcohol was dribbling down his chin.

‘Where’s your mother?’ Vilgot asked in a low voice.

Frans stared at a spot on the wall. ‘She’s visiting Grandma and won’t be home until late.’ His voice sounded muffled and tinny, as if it were coming from somebody else. Someone outside.

‘Great. So the two of us can talk in peace. Go ahead, son – have another.’

Frans was conscious of his father’s eyes on him as he went to refill his glass. This time he didn’t leave the bottle in the cabinet but brought it back with him. Vilgot smiled appreciatively and held up his glass for more.

‘You’re a good lad, Frans.’

Again the alcohol seared his throat before transforming itself into a pleasant feeling somewhere in his midriff. The contours of everything around him began to dissolve. He felt he was floating in limbo, between reality and unreality.

Vilgot’s voice grew softer. ‘I can earn thousands of riksdaler on this deal, just in the next few years. And if the Germans keep increasing their demand for armaments, I stand to make significantly more. Maybe even millions. They’ve promised to put me in touch with other companies that have a need for our services. Now that I’ve got my foot in the door…’ Vilgot’s eyes gleamed in the dim light. He licked his lips. ‘It’s going to be a successful business that you take over one day, Frans.’ He reached out to place his hand on his son’s leg. ‘The day will come when you can tell everybody in Fjällbacka to take a flying leap. After the Germans take power, we’ll be in charge. Then we’ll have more money than those idiots could ever dream of. So have a drink with your father, and let’s toast the bright future!’ Vilgot raised his glass and clinked it against Frans’s, which he’d again filled to the brim.

The feeling of well-being continued to spread through Frans’s chest as he drank another toast with his father.

Gösta had just started a round of golf on his computer when he heard Mellberg’s footsteps in the corridor. He quickly turned off the game and picked up a report, trying to look as though he was deeply immersed in reading it. Mellberg’s steps came closer, but there was something different about them. And what was that strange grumbling sound? Gösta rolled back his desk chair so he could stick his head out into the hall. The first thing he saw was Ernst, padding along in front of Mellberg with his long tongue hanging out, as usual. Behind him came an oddly hunched figure who was laboriously shuffling forward. He looked a lot like Mellberg, and yet he didn’t.

‘What the hell are you staring at?’