cheese and held it to his mouth so he could take a bite.
He swallowed and replied with a forced smile, 'I think it's a little better, actually. I slept quite well last night.'
'That's nice to hear,' said Lilian, patting his hand. 'There's no sense playing with your health, and you have to promise that you'll tell me if it gets worse. Lennart was just like you, stubborn as hell, and he refused to let anyone examine him until it was too late. Sometimes I wonder if he'd still be alive if I'd insisted more…' With a sad look she gazed into the distance, her hand holding the spoon poised in mid-air.
Stig stroked her other hand and said gently, 'You have nothing to reproach yourself for, Lilian. I know you did everything you could for Lennart when he was sick, because that's the sort of person you are. You are not to blame for his death. And I'm feeling better, believe me. I've got better on my own before. If I just have a chance to rest up, I'm sure it will pass. It's probably just 'burn-out', like they talk so much about these days. Don't worry about me. You have so many other worse things to worry about.'
Lilian sighed and nodded. 'Yes, you're probably right. It's a lot for me to bear right now.'
'Yes, you poor thing. I wish I were feeling healthy so I could offer you more support in your grief. I'm also grieving terribly about the girl. I can't even imagine how you must feel. And how is Charlotte doing, by the way? It's been a couple of days since she's come upstairs to see me.'
'Charlotte?' said Lilian, and for a moment he thought he saw an ill-humoured glint in her eye. But it vanished so fast he convinced himself that he'd imagined it. Charlotte was everything to Lilian, after all. She was always saying how she lived for her daughter and her family.
'Well, Charlotte is feeling better than at first, anyway. Even though I think she should have kept taking those sedatives. I don't understand why people have to try to muddle through on their own, when there are such good drugs they could take. And Niclas was certainly willing to write her a prescription, but he refused to write any for me. Did you ever hear anything so stupid? I'm grieving too, and I'm just as upset as Charlotte. Sara was my granddaughter, wasn't she?'
Lilian's voice had again taken on that sharp, annoyed tone. But just as Stig felt an annoyed frown forming on his brow, she changed her tune and was once again the loving, caring wife that his illness had really made him appreciate. He could hardly expect her to be her usual self, after all that had happened. The stress and the sorrow were affecting her too.
'Now that you've eaten something you need to rest,' said Lilian as she got up.
Stig stopped her with a little wave. 'Have you heard any more about why the police took Kaj in for questioning? Does it have anything to do with Sara?'
'No, we haven't heard anything yet. We'll probably be the last to know,' Lilian snorted. 'But I hope they throw the book at him.'
She turned on her heel and walked out the door, but he still had time to glimpse a smile on her face.
NEW YORK 1946
Life 'over there' hadn't turned out the way she'd expected. Bitter lines of disappointment were etched round her mouth and eyes, but Agnes was nevertheless still a beautiful woman at the age of forty-two.
The first years had been wonderful. Her father's money had ensured her a very comfortable lifestyle, and the contributions she received from her male admirers had improved it significantly. She had lacked for nothing. The elegant apartment in New York was the frequent setting for joyous parties, and the beautiful people had no trouble finding their way to her home. Offers of marriage had been numerous, but she had bided her time, in the hunt for someone even richer, more stylish, more sophisticated. In the meantime, she had not denied herself any form of amusement. It was as though she had to compensate for the lost years and live twice as fast and hard as everyone else. There had been a feverish eagerness in the way she loved, partied, and spent money on clothes, jewellery, and furnishings for her apartment. Those years felt so distant now.
When the Kreuger crash came in 1932, her father lost everything. A few foolish investments and the fortune he had amassed was gone. When the telegram arrived she had felt such consuming rage at his idiotic behaviour that she tore the piece of paper to hits and stamped on them. How dare he lose everything that one day was supposed to be hers? Everything that would have been her security, her life.
She sent a long telegram back in which she told him in exhaustive detail what she thought of him and how he had destroyed her life.
When a week later a telegram arrived with the news that he had put a pistol to his temple, Agnes had merely crumpled it up and tossed it in the wastebasket. She was neither surprised nor upset. As far as she was concerned, he deserved nothing less.
The years that followed had been hard. Not as hard as those with Anders, but a struggle for survival all the same. Now the only way she could live was at the benevolence of men. When she no longer had any financial resources of her own, her wealthy, urbane suitors were gradually replaced by beaux of lesser social status. Offers of marriage ceased altogether. Instead the propositions were of an entirely different nature, and as long as the men paid she didn't object. It also seemed that something inside of her had been damaged by the difficult childbirth, so she was unable to get pregnant, but that increased her value among her occasional partners. None of them wanted to be bound to her by a child, and she herself would have rather jumped off a building than go through that atrocious experience again.
Agnes had been forced to give up the beautiful apartment; the new one was much smaller, darker, and far from the centre of town. She no longer hosted parties in her home, and she'd had to pawn or sell most of her possessions.
When the Second World War came, everything that had been bad got even worse. And for the first time since she boarded the boat in Goteborg, Agnes longed for home. Her homesickness gradually grew to resolve, and when the war finally ended she decided to go back to Sweden. In New York she had nothing of value, but in Fjallbacka there was something that she could still call her own. After the big fire, her father had bought the lot where the house she'd lived in had stood, and he had had a new one built on the same site – perhaps in the hope that one day she would return home. The house was in her name, so it was still there, even though everything else he had owned was gone. It had been rented out for all these years, and the income had been placed in an account in the event she ever came back. Several times over the years she had tried to gain access to the money, but she was always told by the administrator that her father had stipulated that she would get the money only if she moved back to her homeland. At the time she had cursed what she viewed as an injustice, but now she reluctantly had to admit that perhaps it hadn't been so stupid after all. Agnes calculated that she would be able to survive on that money for at least a year, and during that time she had set her mind on finding someone who could support her.
In order for that plan to succeed, she was forced to stick to the story she had created about her life in America. She sold everything she owned and spent every ore on a dress of elegant quality and a set of fine luggage. The bags were empty – she hadn't had enough money to fill them with anything – but no one would notice that when she came ashore. She looked like a successful woman, and she had also elevated her position to that of the widow of a wealthy man with business dealings of an indefinite nature. 'Something in finance,' she intended to say, with a blase shrug of her shoulders. She was sure it would work. People back in Sweden were so naive and so easily impressed by people who had been to the promised land. No one would think it was odd that she came home in triumph. No one would suspect a thing.
The wharf was full of people. Agnes was shoved here and there as she carried a suitcase in each hand. The money hadn't been enough for a first-class or even a second-class ticket, so she would stick out like a peacock among the grey masses in third class. In other words, she didn't have to fool anyone on the boat by pretending to be a fine lady. As long as she disembarked in Goteborg, nobody would know how she had made the voyage.
