'What's done is done,' said August to his daughter. 'You have the afternoon to gather up whatever possessions you can carry, then the carriage leaves for Fjällbacka. Choose your belongings wisely. You probably won't have much use for your party dresses,' he added spitefully, showing how deeply his daughter had wounded him. His soul would never recover from this.

When the door closed behind them the silence was thundering. Then Agnes looked at Anders with so much hatred that he had to dig in his heels so as not to flinch. An inner voice whispered to him to flee while there was still time, but his feet wouldn't budge. They felt as if they were nailed to the floor.

A premonition of bad times ahead made him shudder.

Morgan saw the police officers arrive and then leave again. But he didn't waste time wondering what business they had in his parents' house. He wasn't one to brood.

He stretched. It was now late afternoon and he had been sitting almost the whole day at his computer, as usual. His mother worried about what it would do to his back, but he saw no reason to be concerned about that before something actually happened. Of course his back had started to be rather hunched, but he felt no pain. As long as the problem was merely one of appearance it was nothing that his brain registered. For someone who wasn't normal anyway it didn't matter if he was a little hunchbacked as well.

It was a relief to be able to sit in peace. Now that the girl was gone, that disturbing element had vanished. He had really not liked her. Really. She was always coming in to bother him when he was most engrossed in his work, and she pretended not to hear when he told her to leave. The other children were afraid of him. They contented themselves with pointing their fingers behind his back the few times he showed himself outside the walls of the house. But not her. She kept intruding, demanding attention and refusing to be scared off when he yelled at her. Sometimes he'd been so frustrated that he had stood there screaming with his hands over his ears in the hope that it would make her leave. But she had only laughed. So it was really great that she wouldn't be coming back. Not ever.

Death fascinated him. There was something about the finality of it that kept his brain preoccupied with death in all its forms. The games he most enjoyed were the ones that had a lot of death in them. Blood and death.

Occasionally he had considered taking his own life. Not so much because he no longer wanted to live, but because he wanted to see what it was like to be dead. In the past he had made known his intentions. Said straight out to his parents that he was thinking of killing himself. Just as a matter of sharing information. But their reactions had made him keep such thoughts to himself nowadays. There had been a tremendous row, followed by more visits to the psychologist, at the same time that they, or rather his mother, had begun to watch him around the clock. Morgan had not liked that.

He didn't understand why everyone was so afraid of death. All the incomprehensible emotions that other people seemed to possess became more intense and numerous as soon as the talk turned to death. He really couldn't understand it. Death was a state of being, just like life. Why should one be better than the other?

Most of all he would have liked to be present when they cut into the girl at the post-mortem, be allowed to stand by and watch. See what it was that other people found so terrifying. Maybe the answer would be there when they opened her up. Maybe the answer would be in the faces of the people who cut her open.

Sometimes he dreamed that he was lying in a morgue himself. On a cold metal table, with nothing to hide his naked body. In his dreams he saw the steel gleaming just before the pathologist made the straight cut along his thorax.

But he never told anyone about these thoughts. Then they might think he was truly crazy, not merely different from everyone else, which was a label that he'd learned to live with over the years.

Morgan went back to the code on the computer screen. He enjoyed the calm and the silence. It was really great that she was gone.

Lilian opened the door before they had a chance to knock. Patrik suspected that she had been watching for them ever since they left. In the hall stood a pair of shoes that hadn't been there before, and Patrik assumed they belonged to Lilian's friend Eva who'd come over to lend her moral support.

'So,' said Lilian. 'What did he have to say in his defence? Can we finish that report now, so that you can take him in?'

Patrik took a deep breath. 'We'd just like to have a little talk with your husband first, before we proceed with a report. There are still a few things that seem unclear.'

For a second he saw uncertainty pass over her face, but she regained her belligerent expression at once.

'That's absolutely out of the question. Stig is ill. He's upstairs in bed resting and can't be disturbed under any circumstances.' Her voice sounded strained with a hint of nervousness to it. Patrik could see that Lilian had also forgotten about Stig as a potential witness. So it was even more important that they be allowed to talk with him.

'Unfortunately it can't be helped. I'm sure he could see us for a minute or two,' said Patrik in the most authoritative voice he could muster, taking off his jacket at the same time to emphasize his intent.

Lilian was just about to open her mouth to protest when Gösta said in his most official police tone of voice, 'If we aren't allowed to speak to Stig, it might be considered a matter of obstruction of justice. It wouldn't look good in the official report.'

Patrik was doubtful whether his colleague's assertion would hold in the long run, but it seemed to have the desired effect on Lilian, who furiously strode toward the stairs. When it looked as though she planned to go upstairs with them, Gösta placed a firm hand on her shoulder.

'We can find our way, thanks.'

'Hut…' Her eyes flickered, searching for some other valid P protests, but she finally had to give up.

'Well, don't say that I didn't warn you. Stig is not doing well, and if he gets worse because you go stomping in and asking a lot of questions, then…'

They left the statement hanging as they went up the stairs. The guest room lay directly to the left, and since Lilian had left the I door open, it wasn't hard to locate her spouse. Stig was ensconced in the bed, but he was awake and had turned his head towards the door in anticipation. Judging by how well Lilian's excited voice was now carrying up from the kitchen, he had no doubt heard that they were on their way up. Patrik entered the room before Gösta and had to force himself not to gasp. The man lying in bed was so frail and emaciated that his bones under the covers seemed to jut out in relief. His cheeks were sunken, and his skin had a grey, unhealthy colour. His hair had turned prematurely white, making him look considerably older than he was. There was a nauseating odour of illness in the room, and Patrik had to suppress a desire to breathe only through his mouth.

Dubiously he reached out a hand to Stig to introduce himself. Gösta did the same, and then they looked around the tiny room for a place to sit down. It felt altogether too officious to stand towering over Stig as he lay there in his sickbed. Stig raised a greyish hand and pointed to the edge of the bed.

'Unfortunately this is all I can offer you.' His voice was dry and feeble, and Patrik was again shocked at how utterly exhausted he looked. This man looked far too ill to be at home. He should be in hospital. But it was none of his business, and there was a doctor living in the house, after all.