She knew he would seek her out. He wanted something more than just a group meeting like they used to have. The yellow dragon was simply a reminder, a way of bringing the Beasts back to life. He had already contacted the Black Panther she knew that because the Panther had called her for the first time in thirty years to tell her, asking what she thought about the Dragon coming home.

She had merely hung up. Hadn't said a word, just hung up and pulled the lead out of the socket.

But you never escape, she thought, looking at the sculpture that she never managed to finish, the child and the goat and the profound communication between them, beyond words and visions, based on understanding and intuitive sensitivity. She could never quite manage to express that, and she wasn't going to get any further tonight.

Her back ached, she moved heavily over to the damp blanket that stopped the piece from drying out and cracking. She wrapped it up the usual way, and tied it in place. She took off her ap.r.o.n, hanging it up with the others and going off to check the kiln and wash her hands. Then she went round and looked at her students' creations, making sure they had covered their work correctly, that the finished pieces weren't drying too quickly, gathering up some stray tools. She filled the kiln ready for firing the following day, leaving some s.p.a.ce for the Friday group at the top.

She stopped in the door, listening to the silence. As usual on Thursdays, she was the last one out. She changed her shoes, pulled on her outdoor clothes, shut the door behind her and locked it with a jangling key-ring.

The corridor ahead of her was weakly lit and full of dark shadows.

She didn't like the dark. Before the events at the airbase it had never bothered her, but since then the screams and flames pursued her in a way that made night p.r.i.c.kly and threatening.

She started walking, past the pottery room, the woodwork shop and the model railway. She reached the end of the corridor and carefully went down the creaking stairs, past the cafeteria and library. She checked the doors, shutting and locking them.

The front door stuck in the cold, it always did. She managed to force it shut with a groan, and locked it with a tangible feeling of relief. She took several deep breaths before embarking on the slippery journey down to the street.

Snow was falling, thin and sharp, falling silently and gently in the still air. It had got considerably colder during the evening, the temperature continuing to plummet as the snowflakes stopped.

The new snow crunched under the rubber soles of her boots. She took her kick-sledge and pushed it ahead of her on squeaking runners down towards the main road.

I ought to walk more, she thought.

Snow had settled on the porch, but her legs were frozen and she decided to leave it for Thord. She sc.r.a.ped her boots on the coir brush, unlocked the door and stepped into the hall.

She was so hungry she felt faint.

She pulled off her boots, hung up her coat, went into the kitchen without turning on the light, and opened the fridge door.

She had prepared a starter of prawns and eggs before she left, and took it over to the table, wolfing it down so fast that she got mayonnaise on her nose. Afterwards she sat there panting, feeling empty inside, and stared at the sink, realizing how tired she was.

She had to open the nursery early next morning; she would have to be up at half past five to get there in time.

I should go to bed, she thought, without moving.

She sat there in the dark kitchen until the phone rang.

'Are you still up? You know you should be in bed.'

She smiled at her husband's voice.

'I was just going,' she lied.

'Did you have a good evening?'

She sighed gently. 'That youngster can never get enough attention, she needs constant rea.s.surance.'

'And the sculpture?'

'Nothing.'

A short silence. 'You haven't heard anything?' Thord asked.

'Heard anything?'

'From them?'

She shook her head. 'No.'

'I'll be home at two. Don't you lie there waiting, though.'

She smiled again. 'I was just . . .'

They hung up and she climbed slowly up the stairs. The twiggy shadow of a snow-covered birch swept across the walls as a car drove past, headlights on full.

In spite of everything, she was lucky. The girls had grown into healthy, motivated individuals, good people with the right basic values that society needed. And Thord her jackpot in life.

She ran a finger over the wedding photo that took pride of place on the landing.

She washed her face and brushed her teeth, undressed and went onto the landing again. She folded her clothes and put them on a chair next to the linen cupboard.

She had just pulled on her nightgown when the man stepped out of the closet. He looked just as she remembered him, except a little heavier and greyer.

'You!' she said in surprise. 'What are you doing here?'

She wasn't frightened. Not even when he raised his gloved hands and put them round her neck.

Panic only hit when her airway was blocked and the adrenalin shock reached her brain. The room tilted, she saw the ceiling arching over her and his face coming closer, his hands rigid as steel round her neck.

No thoughts, no feelings.

Only the muscles of her bowels relaxing and the unexpected warmth in her underwear.

Friday 20 November

36.

Thomas walked into the apartment like a stranger, feeling like he'd been away for a long time. The attic flat on Grev Turegatan in ostermalm was light-years away, but now he was home, he felt it in his whole body. It was a huge relief to him.

Home, where he lived.

The apartment sounded like it usually did, with the gentle murmur of people sleeping and poor ventilation. The air was cool from the badly fitted windows and smelled of cooking, as usual. He hung up his coat, put his tennis racket and sports bag down on the hall floor, pulled off his shoes. He saw the reality of his deception in front of him, the unused sports kit, the dry towel.

He gulped and shrugged off the guilt. He padded in to the children in his socks, leaned over them, their wide-open mouths and pyjamas and stuffed toys.

This was reality. The attic flat in ostermalm was cold and calculated, the furniture studied and ingratiating. Sophia Grenborg's flat was blue and stripped back; his home was warm and yellow with sleeping children and swinging streetlamps.

Then he went towards the bedroom, walking slowly on feet that grew ever heavier. He stood in the doorway and looked at his wife.

She had fallen asleep lying across the bed with her tights and top and underwear on, her mouth open just like the children's. Her eyelashes cast long shadows across her cheeks. She was breathing deeply and evenly.

His eyes roamed across her hard body, edgy and muscular and powerful.

Sophia Grenborg was so white and soft, she whimpered all the while they made love.

Suddenly he was overcome with an unexpected feeling of complete and utter shame. It made him feel sick. He backed out of the room, leaving her there, lying across the bed without a cover.

She knows, he thought. Someone's told her Someone's told her.

He sat at the kitchen table, resting his elbows on his knees, and ran his fingers through his hair.

Impossible, he thought. She wouldn't be sleeping so soundly if she knew She wouldn't be sleeping so soundly if she knew.

He sighed deeply, unable to escape.

He knew he would have to lie next to her, unable to sleep, listening to her breathing and longing for hair that smelled of apples and the traces of menthol cigarettes.

He stood up in the dark, confused, knocking his hip against the sink. Surely he wasn't longing to get away?

Or was he?

A sticky little hand patted Annika on the cheek.

'Mummy? Bye bye, Mummy.'

She blinked at the light, not sure for a moment where she was. She realized a second or so later that she had fallen asleep with half her clothes on. She looked up and saw Ellen leaning over her with limp pigtails and peanut b.u.t.ter round her mouth.

A broad grin broke out inside her.

'h.e.l.lo, darling.'

'I'm going to stay at home today.'

Annika stroked her daughter's cheek, cleared her throat and smiled. 'I don't think so. I'll pick you up after lunch,' she said, struggling up by straining her stomach muscles and kissing the girl on the mouth, licking at the peanut b.u.t.ter.

'Before lunch.'

'It's Friday, so there'll be ice-cream today.'

The girl pondered this. 'After,' she said finally, and ran out.

Thomas looked in through the door, his usual, normal face with its tired morning eyes and hair sticking out.

'How are you feeling?'

She smiled at him, shut her eyes and stretched like a cat.

'Okay, I think.'

'We're off now.'

When she opened her eyes he was gone.

Today she didn't wait for the silence. She was in the shower before the front door had closed behind them. She washed her hair, put on a facepack, trimmed her split ends and ma.s.saged her legs with cream. She put on mascara and filed her nails smooth, and picked out a clean bra. She made coffee and a sandwich that she knew she would have trouble eating.

Then she sat at the kitchen table and felt the anxiety rush towards her, rolling out of the corners like dark clouds of smoke and poison gas, and she fled, leaving the coffee and sandwich and an unopened yogurt on the table.

Outside the snow had stopped, but the sky was still solid grey. Hard shards of ice were being blown about in the wind, along the streets and pavements, catching on her face and hair. She couldn't make out any colours; the world had turned black and white, the sharp stone twisting in her chest.

Sophia Grenborg. Grev Turegatan.

She knew where that was. Christina Furhage used to live there. Without thinking, she started walking.

The facade was honey yellow and heavy with plaster embellishments, icicles hanging from the extremities, the gla.s.s of the bay windows shimmering unevenly, the door carved and dark brown.

Her feet and ears were freezing. She stamped the ground and adjusted her scarf better.

Wealthy middle-cla.s.s, she thought, going up to the door.

The intercom was the modern sort that didn't give away where in the building people lived. She stepped back and looked up at the facade, as though she'd be able to work out where Sophia Grenborg's flat was. The snow blew into her eyes, making them water.

She crossed the street and stood in the doorway opposite, pulled out her mobile and dialled directory inquiries, then asked for Sophia Grenborg's number, Grev Turegatan, and was put through. If Sophia had a caller-display phone then her number wouldn't show, only the number for directory inquiries.

The phone rang. Annika stared at the building. Somewhere in there it was ringing and ringing, a telephone beside a bed where her husband had been last night.

After the fifth ring an answerphone clicked in. Annika held her breath, listening to the woman's happy, breezy voice. 'h.e.l.lo, you've reached Sophia, I can't take your call right now, but-'

Annika hung up, the breezy voice ringing in her ears, the stone in her chest starting to glow and spit.

She went back to the door, pressed one name after the other until an old lady finally answered.

'Electricity,' Annika said. 'We need to read the meter in the bas.e.m.e.nt, can you let us in?'

The lock buzzed and she pushed the door open on well-oiled hinges.

The stairwell was all gold and black marble, wooden panels of heavily polished oak reflecting the light from bronze lamps. A thick dark-blue carpet swallowed all sound.

Annika ran a finger along the beautiful grain of the dado rail as she walked towards the list of occupants beside the lift.

Sophia Grenborg's name was listed in splendid isolation for the sixth floor.