noticed right away that something had happened. When he came from airside into the terminal he was walking slowly, almost as if he hesitated to go any further. He smiled when he saw me, but I remember thinking he looked as if he'd hoped nobody would be there to meet him. He was the same as usual, or at least he tried to be the same as usual. He was miles away mentally, even when we made love. I didn't know whether or not to be jealous. But he would have told me if he'd met another woman. I tried to find out where he'd been, but he just shook his head. When he unpacked his bags I noticed that there was red sand on the soles of one pair of shoes. I asked him about that, but he didn't answer, just seemed annoyed. Then all of a sudden, he changed completely again. His mind was no longer miles away, he became more cheerful, more at ease, as if he'd thrown off some invisible burden. I noticed that he was often tired when I came to visit him in the afternoons: he'd been up all night, but I could never get him to tell me what he'd been doing. He was writing something, I noticed more and more new files around the flat. All the time he used to talk about the anger that needed to be vented, about everything that was being hushed up, everything that ought to be exposed. It sometimes sounded as if he was quoting the Bible, as if he were turning into some kind of a prophet. I tried to make a joke about it once, but he was furious. It was the only time I've ever seen him really angry. I thought he was going to hit me. He raised his fist, tightly clenched – if I hadn't shouted he'd have punched me. I was scared. He apologised, but I didn't believe him.'
Nazrin dried up again. Noises from the flat next door could be heard through the kitchen wall. Louise recognised the music, it was the theme tune of a film, but she couldn't remember its name.
Nazrin buried her face in her hands. Louise sat motionless, waiting. What was she waiting for? She had no idea.
Nazrin stood up.
'I must go now. I haven't the strength to go on.'
'Where can I get in touch with you?'
Nazrin wrote her telephone number on one of the advertising leaflets. Then she picked up her coat, turned and left. Louise could hear the echo of her footsteps going down the stairs, then the sound of the front door closing.
A few minutes later she left the flat herself. She walked towards Slussen, turning into side streets at random and keeping close to the walls of buildings, afraid of suddenly suffering a panic attack. When she came to Slussen she hailed a taxi and went to Djurgården. The wind had eased off, the air felt milder. She wandered through the trees dressed in their autumn colours, and thought back to what Nazrin had said.
Sorrow that had suddenly disappeared, rather than unexpected happiness. A journey he did not want to talk about.
An obsession? All those files? Louise was convinced the ones Nazrin had referred to were the ones she had read herself, about the assassinated president. Those were the ones Nazrin had seen. So Henrik's interest in the dead president's brain was not something long-term. It was something new.
She strolled around the trees and meandered through the many thoughts running across her mind. Sometimes she was unsure if the autumn leaves were rustling in her head or under her feet.
She suddenly remembered the letter from Aron she had found. She took it out of her pocket and opened it. It was brief.
Still no icebergs. But I'm not giving up. Aron.
What did it mean? Icebergs? Was it a code? A game? She put the letter back into her pocket and carried on walking.
It was late afternoon when she returned to Henrik's flat. Somebody had left a message on the answering machine. Hi, it's Ivan. I'll try again later. Who was Ivan? Nazrin might know. She was about to call her, but changed her mind. She went into Henrik's bedroom and sat down on the mattress. She felt dizzy, but forced herself to remain seated.
There was a photograph on a shelf of the two of them together.
They had been to Madeira when Henrik was seventeen. They had spent a week on the island, and