anything you want. Then we’ll go buy some new clothes for Lova. And for Sanna too. You can help me choose something nice for her. Now get in the car.”
Sara didn’t speak, just looked down at her feet. Then she shrugged and got in the car. Lova climbed in after her and the older girl helped her little sister with the seat belt. Virku licked the salty tears off Lova’s face.
Rebecka Martinsson started the car and reversed out of Sanna’s yard.
Please, God, she thought for the first time in many years. Please help me, God.
The redbrick houses on Gasellvägen were neatly arranged along the street like pieces of Lego. Snow-covered hedges, piles of snow and kitchen curtains covering the lower part of the windows protected them from anybody who might look in.
And this family is going to need that, thought Anna-Maria Mella as she and Sven-Erik Stålnacke got out of the car outside Gasellvägen 35.
“You can actually feel the neighbors’ eyes on the back of your neck,” said Sven-Erik, as if he’d read her thoughts. “What do you think Sanna and Viktor Strandgård’s parents might have to tell us?”
“We’ll see. Yesterday they didn’t want to see us, but once they heard their daughter had been taken in for questioning they rang and asked us to come.”
They stamped the snow off their shoes and rang the doorbell.
Olof Strandgård opened the door. He was well groomed and articulate as he invited them in. Shook hands, took their coats and hung them up. Late middle age. But with no sign of middle-age spread.
He’s got a rowing machine and weights down in the cellar, thought Anna-Maria.
“No, no, please keep them on,” said Olof Strandgård to Sven-Erik, who had bent down to take off his shoes.
Anna-Maria noticed that Olof Strandgård himself was wearing well-polished indoor shoes.
He led them into the lounge. One end of the room was dominated by a Gustavian-style dining suite. Silver candlesticks and a vase by Ulrika Hydman-Vallien were reflected in the dark mahogany surface of the table. A small reproduction crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. At the other end of the lounge was a suite consisting of a pale, squashy corner sofa made of leather, and a matching armchair. The coffee table was made of smoky glass with metal legs. Everything was spotlessly clean and tidy.
Kristina Strandgård was slumped in the armchair. Her greeting to the two detectives who had turned up in her living room was distracted.
She had the same thick, pale blond hair as her children. But Kristina Strandgård’s hair was cut in a bob following the line of her jaw.
She must have been really pretty once upon a time, thought Anna-Maria. Before this absolute exhaustion got its claws into her. And that didn’t happen yesterday, it happened a long time ago.
Olof Strandgård leaned over his wife. His voice was gentle, but the smile on his lips didn’t reach his eyes.
“Perhaps we should give Inspector Mella the comfortable chair,” he said.
Kristina Strandgård shot up out of the chair as if someone had stuck a pin into her.
“I’m so sorry, yes, of course.”
She gave Anna-Maria an embarrassed smile and stood there for a second as if she’d forgotten where she was and what she was supposed to be doing. Then she suddenly seemed to come back to the present, and sank down on the sofa next to Sven-Erik.
Anna-Maria lowered herself laboriously into the proffered armchair. It was far too low and the back wasn’t sufficiently upright to be comfortable. She turned the corners of her mouth upward in an attempt at a grateful smile. The baby was pressing against her abdomen, and she immediately got heartburn and a pain in her lower back.
“Can we get you anything?” asked Olof Strandgård. “Coffee? Tea? Water?”
As if she had been given a signal, his wife shot up again.
“Yes, of course,” she said with a quick glance at her husband. “I should have asked.”
Both Sven-Erik and Anna-Maria waved dismissively. Kristina Strandgård sat down again, but this time she perched on the very edge of the sofa, ready to leap to her feet again if something came up.
Anna-Maria looked at her. She didn’t look like a woman who’d just lost her child. Her hair was newly washed and blow-dried. Her polo-neck sweater, cardigan and trousers were all in toning shades of sandy brown and beige. Her makeup wasn’t smudged around her eyes or mouth. She wasn’t wringing her hands in despair. No screwed-up tissues on the coffee table in front of her. Instead, it