She felt something soft nuzzling her hand. Agnes looked down to see a little girl in a white frilly dress looking at her with tears running down her cheeks. The crowd swelled around her, surging back and forth, and no one paid any attention to the little girl who must have lost her parents.
'Where's your mommy?' said Agnes in the language she now mastered almost perfectly.
The girl cried even harder, and Agnes vaguely recalled that children of her age might not have started to talk yet. In fact she seemed to have just learned to walk and looked as though she might fall beneath the tramping feet all around her.
Agnes took the girl by the hand and looked around. No one seemed to be looking for her. Nothing but rough work clothes wherever she looked, and judging by her clothing the girl definitely seemed to belong to a different social class. Agnes was about to call for help when she had an idea. It was bold, incredibly bold, but brilliant. Wouldn't her story about the rich husband who died and widowed her for the second time take on additional veracity if she also had a small child with her? And even though she remembered how much trouble the boys had been, it would probably be entirely different with a little girl. She was sweet as sugar, that girl. Agnes could dress her in pretty clothes, and tie ribbons in those lovely locks. She was a regular little darling. The thought was appealing to Agnes more and more, and in the blink of an eye she made up her mind. She took both suitcases in one hand and the girl by the other and strode towards the ship. No one reacted when she embarked, and she stifled a desire to look back over her shoulder. The trick was to look as though the child naturally belonged to her, and the girl had even stopped crying out of sheer amazement and willingly followed along. Agnes took that as a sign that she was doing the right thing. Her parents were surely not nice to her, since she went with a stranger so easily. Given a little time, Agnes would be able to give the girl everything she wished for, and she knew that she would be an excellent mother. The boys had just been too difficult. This little girl was different. She could feel it. Everything was going to be different.
Niclas came home as soon as she rang. Because she hadn't wanted to say what it was about, he dashed in the front door with his heart in his throat. On the stairs he saw Lilian coming down with a tray, and she looked surprised.
'Why are you home?'
'Charlotte rang me. You don't know what it's about?'
'No, she never tells me anything,' Lilian snapped. Then she gave him an ingratiating smile. 'I was just out buying fresh buns, they're in a bag in the kitchen.'
He ignored her and took the stairs down to the cellar flat in two strides. It wouldn't surprise him if Lilian was standing with her ear to the door right now, trying to hear what they were saying.
'Charlotte?'
'I'm in here, changing Albin.'
He went to the bathroom and saw her standing at the changing table with her back to him. Even from her posture he could see that she was angry, and he wondered what she'd found out now.
'What was it that was so important? I had patients waiting.' The best defence was a good offence.
'Martin Molin rang.'
He searched his memory for the name.
'The policeman in Tanumshede,' she clarified, and now he remembered. The young, freckled chap.
'What did he want?' he said tensely.
Charlotte, who now had finished changing and dressing Albin, turned toward Niclas with their son in her arms.
They discovered that someone had threatened Sara. The day before she died.' Her voice was ice-cold and Niclas waited nervously for her to continue.
'Yes?'
'The man who threatened her was described as an older man with grey hair and black clothes. He called her the 'Devil's spawn'. Does that sound like anyone you know?'
Rage coursed through his veins in a fraction of a second.
'Bloody hell,' he cried and ran up the stairs. When he tore open the door to the ground floor he almost knocked Lilian unconscious. He had guessed right: the old biddy had been standing there listening. But it wasn't even worth getting excited about now. He put on his shoes without bothering to tie them, grabbed his jacket and ran out to the car.
Ten minutes later he stopped with a screech outside his parents' house after driving much too fast through town. The house stood on the side of the hill, right above the mini-golf course, and it looked exactly the same as it did when he was a boy. He shoved open the car door and jumped out without bothering to shut it. Then he rushed right up to the front entrance. For a second he paused, then he took a deep breath and knocked hard on the door. Niclas hoped his father was at home. No matter how unchristian he was, it wasn't proper to do what he intended to do in a church.
'Who is it?' called the familiar, stern voice from inside the house. Niclas tried the door handle. As usual, the door wasn't locked. Without hesitating he stepped inside and called out.
'Where are you, you cowardly old devil?'
'What in the world is going on?' His mother came into the hall from the kitchen holding a tea towel and a plate. Then he saw his father's austere figure emerge from the living room.
'Ask him.' Niclas pointed a trembling finger at his father, whom he hadn't seen other than from a distance since he was seventeen years old.
'I don't know what he's talking about,' said Arne, refusing to speak directly to his son. 'Of all the nerve, coming in here and standing there cursing and screaming. That's enough now. Get out of here.'
'You know damn well what I'm talking about, you old bastard.' Niclas saw to his satisfaction how his father flinched at his choice of words. 'And how cowardly can you be, threatening a little girl! If you're the one who killed her I'll make sure that you never walk again, you bloody fucking…'
His mother looked back and forth between the two men and then raised her voice. This was so unusual that Niclas abruptly shut up, and even his father closed his mouth without replying.
'Now can one of you be so good as to tell me what this is all about? Niclas, you can't just barge in here and start screaming, and if it's something to do with Sara, then I have a right to know.'
After taking a couple of deep breaths Niclas said through clenched teeth, 'The police found out' – he could hardly bring himself to look at his father – 'that he yelled and screamed and threatened Sara. The day before she died.' Fury took over again and he shouted, 'What the bloody hell is wrong with you? Scaring a seven-year- old out of her wits and calling her the 'Devil's spawn' or some such nonsense. She was seven years old, don't you get it, seven years old! And I'm supposed to believe that it was a coincidence that you threatened her the day before she was found murdered! Is that right?'
He took a step towards his father, who hastily backed up.
Asta now stared at her husband. 'Is the boy telling the truth?'
'I don't have to stand here and answer to anyone. I answer only to the Lord,' said Arne bombastically, turning his back to his wife and son.
'Don't even try that. You answer me now!'
Niclas looked in astonishment as his mother followed Arne into the living room with her hands on her hips, ready for a fight. Arne too seemed shocked that his wife dared defy him. He was opening and closing his mouth without any sound coming out.
'Answer me,' Asta continued, backing Arne farther into the room as she came
