to work out time differences and opening times of the Swedish Embassy in Canberra, and countless calls trying to pin down some official of the Swedish- Australian Society, which turned out to have an incredible number of members. But there was no trace of Aron Cantor. He was not registered with the embassy, nor was he a member of the society. Not even an old head gardener in Perth by the name of Karl-Håkan Wester, who was reputed to know every Swede in Australia, could provide any information.
They discussed the possibility of placing advertisements, or hiring somebody to find him. But Louise argued that Aron was so elusive that he could vanish at will. He could confuse anybody trying to follow him by turning into his own shadow.
They would not be able to find Aron. Perhaps that was what she really wanted, deep down? Did she want to rob him of the right to accompany his own son to the grave? In revenge for all the hurt he had caused her?
Artur asked her point-blank that very question and she told him the truth; she did not know.
She spent most of those September days crying. Artur sat at the kitchen table in silence. He could do nothing to console her, all he could offer her was silence. But the silence was cold, it merely increased her desperation.
One night she went to his room and snuggled down beside him in his bed, just as she had done for years after Heidi's death. She lay quite still, her head on his arm. Neither of them slept, neither spoke. The lack of sleep was like waiting for the waiting to come to an end.
But when dawn came, Louise could remain inert no longer. Even if it was going to be impossible, she had to begin to try to understand what dark forces had robbed her of her only child.
They had got up early and were sitting at the kitchen table. They could see the rain through the window, and autumn drizzle. The rowan berries were bright red. She asked to borrow his car, as she wanted to return to Stockholm that very morning. He seemed worried, but she reassured him. She would not drive too fast, nor would she drive over a cliff. Nobody else was going to die. But she must go back to Henrik's flat. She was convinced that he had left behind some clue or other. There had not been a letter. But Henrik never wrote letters, he left other kinds of message that only she would be able to interpret.
'I have no option,' she said. 'I have to do this. Then I'll come back here.'
He hesitated before saying what had to be said. What about the funeral?
'It must take place here. Where else could he be buried? But that can wait.'
She left an hour later. His car smelled of hard work, hunting, oil and tools. A ragged dog blanket was still in the boot. She drove slowly through the endless forests, thought she had glimpsed an elk on a hillock near the Dalarna border. It was late afternoon by the time she reached Stockholm. She had slithered around on the cold, slippery roads, tried hard to concentrate on her driving and told herself that she owed it to Henrik. It was her duty to stay alive. Nobody else would be able to find out what had really happened. His death made it imperative for her to live.
She checked into a hotel at Slussen that was far too expensive. She left the car in an underground car park, and returned to Tavastgatan as dusk fell. To help give her the required strength, she opened the bottle of whisky she had bought at Athens airport.
Like Aron, she thought. I always used to be annoyed when he drank straight from the bottle. Now I am doing it myself.
She opened the door. The police had not sealed it.
On the mat was some junk mail, but no letters. Only a postcard from somebody called Vilgot, with enthusiastic descriptions of stone walls in Ireland. The card was green and depicted a slope down to a grey sea, but oddly enough without any stone walls. She paused motionless in the hall, holding her breath until she was able to control her panic and an instinctive urge to run away. Then she hung up her coat and took off her shoes. She worked her way slowly through the flat. There were no sheets on the bed. When she