The only reason she had stayed with him was because she would occasionally catch glimpses of that other man. The one who was vulnerable and could show what he was feeling. The one who dared reveal his true self and didn't have to keep his charm turned up to the max at all times. It was those glimpses that had made her fall in love with Niclas, though that now felt like a lifetime ago. In recent years those occasions had come less and less frequently, and she no longer knew who he was or what he wanted. Sometimes, in her weaker moments, she had wondered whether he actually wanted to have a family at all. To be brutally honest with herself, she believed that if given the choice he would have preferred a life without the obligations of a family. But he had to be getting something out of it, or else she didn't think he would have stayed as long as he had done. During the recent dark days she'd hoped in moments of selfishness that what had happened might at least bring her and Niclas closer together. But she had been very wrong about that. They were now farther from each other than ever before.

Without even noticing, Charlotte had walked towards Fjällbacka Campground and now stood in front of Erica's house. It had meant a great deal that her friend had come by yesterday, but Charlotte still had doubts. She had spent her whole life trying to take up as little space as possible, never demanding anything for herself, never causing any trouble. She understood how her grief affected other people, and she wasn't sure that she wanted to dump more of that burden on Erica. At the same time she really needed to see a friendly face. She wanted to talk to someone who wouldn't either turn away or, as in her mother's case, take the opportunity to tell her what she should have done.

Albin had begun to squirm, and she cautiously lifted him out of the pushchair. Still half asleep, he looked around and then gave a start when Charlotte knocked on the front door. A middle-aged woman she didn't know opened the door.

'Hello?' said Charlotte uncertainly, but then realized that this must be Patrik's mother. A vague memory from the distant time before Sara's death floated up to the surface and reminded her that Erica had mentioned that her mother-in-law was coming to visit.

'Hello, are you looking for Erica?' said Patrik's mother. Without waiting for a reply she stepped aside to let Charlotte into the hall.

'Is she awake?' Charlotte asked cautiously.

'Yes she is, she's nursing Maja. I've stopped counting how many times she's done that today. Well, I suppose I don't really understand modern customs. In my day children were fed every four hours, and never more than that, and that generation certainly has nothing to complain about.' Patrik's mother babbled on, and Charlotte nervously followed her. After people had been tiptoeing around her for several days, it felt odd to hear someone speaking in a normal tone of voice. Then she saw it dawn on Erica's mother- in-law who she must be, and the ease vanished from both her voice and her movements. She clapped her hand to her mouth and said, 'Forgive me, I didn't realize who you were.'

Charlotte didn't know what to reply to that. Her only response was to hold Albin closer.

'I really apologize…' Erica's mother-in-law was shifting anxiously from one foot to another, and she seemed to want to be anywhere else but in Charlotte's presence.

Was this how it was going to be from now on? thought Charlotte. People shrinking away as if she had the plague, whispering and pointing behind her back and saying, 'There's the woman whose daughter was murdered,' but without daring to look her in the eye. Maybe it was out of nervousness, because they had no idea what to say, or maybe it was from some sort of irrational fear that tragedies were contagious and might spread to their own lives if they got too close.

'Charlotte?' Erica called from the living room, and the older woman was obviously relieved to have an excuse to leave. Slowly and a bit hesitantly Charlotte went in to see Erica, who was sitting in her easy chair breast-feeding Maja. The scene felt both familiar and yet oddly remote. How many times in the past two months had she come in and encountered the same scene? But that thought also conjured up an image of Sara in her mind's eye. The last time Charlotte was here, Sara had come along. From a purely intellectual point of view she knew that it was only last Sunday, but she still had a hard time comprehending it. She saw before her how Sara had bounced up and down on the white sofa, with her long red hair flying about her face. She remembered admonishing her. Telling her sharply to stop. It all felt so petty now. What harm would it have done if she jumped on the cushions a bit? The thought made her suddenly dizzy, and Erica had to jump up and help her sit down in the nearest easy chair. Maja shrieked when Erica's breast was so brusquely snatched out of her mouth, but Erica ignored her daughter's protests and put her in the bouncing cradle.

With Erica's arms around her Charlotte dared to voice the question that had nagged at her subconscious ever since the police arrived with the news of Sara's death on Monday. She said, 'Why didn't they get hold of Niclas?'

Anders had just finished work on the plinth of the statue when the foreman called to him from over in the quarry. He sighed and frowned; he didn't like having his concentration being disturbed. But of course he had to obey, as usual. Carefully he put his tools into his toolbox next to the granite block and went to hear what the foreman had to say.

The fat man was nervously twirling his moustache.

'What have you gone and done now, Andersson?' he said, half in jest, half concerned.

'Me? What is it?' said Anders, removing his work gloves and giving the man a bewildered look.

'The front office is calling for you. You have to go down there. Right now.'

Damn it all, Anders swore silently. Was there something else that had to be changed on the statue now, at the eleventh hour? Those architects, or 'artists', or whatever they chose to call themselves, had no idea what they were doing when they sat in their studios and redrew their sketches. Then they expected the stonecutter to be able to make the changes just as easily in stone. They didn't understand that from the beginning he had planned the directions of the cleavages and marked the places where he had to cut, based on the original drawing. A change in the sketch would change his entire starting point, and in the worst case the stone might crack so that all the work had been done in vain.

But Anders also knew that it was no use to protest. It was the client who made the decisions. He was merely a faceless slave who was expected to perform all the hard work that the person who had designed the statue could not or would not do himself.

'Well, I suppose I'll have to go down there and hear what they want,' said Anders with a sigh.

'It might not be anything major,' said the foreman, who knew precisely what Anders feared and was showing some sympathy for a change.

'Well, no use putting it off,' replied Anders as he slouched off towards the road.

A while later he knocked awkwardly on the door of the office and stepped inside. He wiped off his shoes as best he could, but realized that it didn't make much difference, since his clothes were full of granite dust and chips, and his hands and face were dirty. But he'd been compelled to come down here on short notice, so they would have to take him as he was. He plucked up his courage and followed the man from the front office into the director's private office.

A hasty look around the room made his heart sink to his stomach. He understood at once that this summons had nothing to do with the statue. Much more serious matters were about to be discussed.