"You were spies, in other words," Ann inserted.

"Exactly. We spied and your father told stories. It was there, in his stories, that the rift was."

"No one cares about his old delivery routes. Do you know I often accompanied him in the summer?"

"You told me that the first time we met ... no, the second, don't you remember? When we walked down that old road. You told me how he used to sing in the car. That's why I fell in love with you."

Then he fell silent. Was it the memory of that old road, of his earlier life, that overcame him? She a.s.sumed so, and they did not speak until they reached the roundabout at the southern entrance to Uppsala. The visit to deshog and the car ride back home became one of her most beautiful memories of their time together.

Nothing more was said of the rift, but she had a feeling she knew what he meant. That was Edvard. He read the landscape and people like n.o.body else.

Her father's delight in seeing his old delivery locations, the obligatory honk as he drove up to the entrance or loading dock, the faces of the country grocers in the doorway, the talking, the jokes, the clinking of the fully loaded beer crates and the clatter of the empty ones-everything that gave the trips meaning was relived during those Sunday hours.

Edvard had observed all this, but also something more. A rift. How her father walked around in his old memories. Edvard understood these things. She missed this, missed his intensity, his gaze.

She got up out of the armchair. Should she pour herself a gla.s.s of red wine? She smiled to herself and decided instead to have more milk.

The blue journal was still open on the table and she would read more. About the rifts in Josefin's life.

Six.

"Day two," Ann Lindell wrote in her notepad. Then nothing else for a long while. And then the number one.

"Can you live with this, Sven-Erik Cederen?" she said out loud and wrote his name on the page.

Security had been increased in the nation's airports and harbors. A national alarm had gone out yesterday morning, but had not yielded anything. Everyone knew how easy it was to leave the country. Perhaps he had gone to Kapellskar, taken the boat to Finland?

"Lover" was the next word. She stared at it. "Love." After reading Josefin's diary, Lindell knew that there was another woman in her husband's life. Who she was and where she was, it didn't say. Either Josefin herself did not know or else she did not want to write down her name. She hated the woman, that much was clear, and perhaps she did not want to give her a name, a shape.

She was only mentioned in pa.s.sing. Josefin and Sven-Erik's relationship had circled around this woman, although he did not know that she knew. Or did he? Had they quarreled about her? Lindell did not think so. There was nothing in the journal about this. She was simply present, a boulder rolled through the dirty, elegant house in Uppsala-Nas, carried up the stairs, the stone that Josefin stumbled over. She compared herself to the other woman, scrutinizing her husband and his reactions.

Josefin had tortured herself over it. The knowledge that there was another had worn her down. At the same time, she had been pregnant. The journal said as much and the autopsy confirmed it. Sammy Nilsson had come back with the report that stated that Josefin had been in her second month.

Was it another man's child? The diary did not say, but the whole text led to the same conclusion: that Sven-Erik was the father. Lindell remembered one of the sentences quite clearly: "How could he go from her to me?" Lindell wondered how she could receive her husband in bed, make love to him knowing full well that he had a mistress, but sensed that it had been a desperate attempt to win him back. Perhaps a child would save the marriage?

Lindell took out the list of MedForsk employees. Nine names in all, of which three were women. All in their thirties. The whole workforce was young. No one over fifty, most of them between thirty and forty.

Lindell decided to question the women. The preliminary work that had been done yesterday had yielded nothing out of the ordinary: "He seemed fine" and "I didn't notice anything unusual." Lindell noted that Wendell had conducted the interviews and had also had time to type up the reports. There were photographs of all of the employees. That was impressive. He must have worked into the night.

She wrote down the women's names as she studied their pictures. All three were attractive. Two blondes and one with henna-colored hair. Weren't most affairs job-related? Lindell picked one of the blondes.

MedForsk was located on the outskirts of town, in an area where Lindell had almost never had reason to go. Even the street name was new to her. Here they were, the start-ups in IT and medical research. All housed in nondescript buildings, like a parade of boxes in yellow brick. These were supposed to be the city's future, with company names and logos discreetly placed on the side and above the entrance. There was no way to guess what lay inside.

Lindell cheered up when she saw a company name for a business that she could place: La.s.se's Auto-Everything for Your Car. She wished that was where she was headed. A car lift and walls hung with tools, the sound of an angle grinder and the sparks from a blowtorch-this was familiar to her.

Instead she found herself in foreign territory. The reception area of MedForsk seemed deserted. Behind the unmanned reception desk, there were three doors-all of which were locked-and a small seating area. That was all. Not a sound, no signs of human activity, and Lindell thought perhaps the entire workforce had decided to stay at home.

A woman suddenly turned up from behind a door, quickly closed it, and then turned her eyes inquiringly at Lindell.

"Ann Lindell, police, Crimes division," Lindell said, and held out her hand.

She recognized the woman from one of the snapshots. She was the one with henna-colored hair. Just like the surroundings, the woman's hand was chilly. Her eyes revealed nothing, partially concealed behind a pair of gla.s.ses.

"Yes?" she said in a somewhat baffled tone, as if she were at a loss to understand what the police were doing at MedForsk.

"I'm investigating the accident that occurred yesterday."

"I see."

"And Sven-Erik Cederen's disappearance."

"I've already been questioned."

The henna-haired woman pulled her slender body together and looked even more inaccessible. The blue dress with the narrow silver belt brought out something snakelike in her persona. Her arms were folded under her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"I know. We're gathering additional information."

"But you've already been out here. A truckload of police officers showed up here this morning."

"We're trying to get a better picture of the company."

The woman walked around the reception counter and picked up a thin notebook with hard covers. The pencil that was attached to the cover bore visible chew marks.

"We've divvied up the work, and the three women at MedForsk fell to me."

"Fell to you," the woman repeated.

"I could start with you, if that's all right."

"I'm actually somewhat occupied right now and I'm also supposed to watch the desk ... but we can go to the kitchen."

The woman made toward the nearest door, punched in a code, and held the door open for Lindell.

The kitchen, which was strikingly relaxed in its furnishings, was located in the center of the building. On their way there, Lindell saw some offices as well as a room behind a gla.s.s door that she took to be a laboratory.

Lindell took out her notebook. The woman across from her sat at the edge of her seat, her legs pressed tightly together, staring at Lindell.

Her name was Sofi Ronn and she was thirty-five years old. Lindell already knew this, but she let Sofi talk a little about herself. She had been employed for five years. She was, in other words, one of the veterans. Her tasks were administrative in nature and had nothing to do with the research.

"How would you describe Sven-Erik Cederen?"

Ronn sat quietly for a moment. "He is a skilled and driven researcher," she said finally.

"Driven in what way?"

"He works night and day," Ronn said and gave Lindell a look as if anything else was nonsense. "He arrives early and leaves late. He travels a lot, going to conferences, and he has a wide circle of contacts."

"Is he well liked? I know it's a bit silly to put it that way, and I understand that you wouldn't want to speak ill of a coworker."

"He's liked. We all like him."

For the first time, something else broke through her chilliness. Ronn's shoulders sank somewhat and her gaze wandered from Lindell's face to a point in the middle of the room.

"Did you know Josefin Cederen?"

"Yes, she came by occasionally, but that was all. We didn't interact much."

"Did you interact with Sven-Erik?"

"What do you mean?"

She glanced swiftly at Lindell.

"In private, I mean."

"We met at events through work, nothing more. Is that what you mean?"

"I don't mean anything in particular, just if you ever met with Sven-Erik and if you were a part of his life, so to speak."

Silence. It slowly dawned on Sofi Ronn what Lindell was after with her questions, and she stared back at her coldly.

"Sven-Erik and I have nothing to do with each other in private," she said curtly.

"I'm trying to gather some information about him beyond his professional life. Work we can map with relative ease, but it's harder to uncover someone's personal life. A coworker often becomes a good friend. One confides in good friends. Has Sven-Erik said anything that would explain his disappearance?"

Ronn shook her head.

"It doesn't look good," Lindell said. "His wife and six-year-old daughter Emily-I'm sure you've met her-are the victims of a heinous. .h.i.t-and-run, and the husband vanishes without a trace. It doesn't look good."

She let the words sink in for a couple of seconds before she went on.

"Some people think he killed his own family. What do you think?"

"Never," said Ronn quickly and without hesitation.

She removed her gla.s.ses but kept them in her hand.

"Never," she repeated. "He would never have done such a thing. Not to his own child. Emily was a wonderful little girl."

Her icy demeanor was slowly melting. Lindell didn't speak, letting her gather her thoughts. Ronn wiped her cheek.

"He loves Emily. He's always talking about her."

"Does he love his wife?"

"Why wouldn't he love her?"

Lindell gazed back at Ronn. A couple of people walked past the closed door to the kitchen and laughter echoed down the corridor.

"Lately he seemed a bit out of it, you could say."

"Do you think it was anything to do with his marriage? Did he say anything specific?"

Ronn shook her head, but it was clear that something was weighing on her mind. Her initial standoffishness had vanished. She clearly wanted to talk and Lindell had no reason to hurry her.

"He traveled a lot and he may have met someone. I don't know."

"Tell me more."

"He's changed."

"Where did he go in his travels?"

"We have a daughter company in Mlaga. UNA Medico. He often goes there."

"And you think perhaps he met someone there?"

"Maybe."

"How has he changed?"

Ronn squirmed, stroking her hand over the already smooth fabric of her dress. Her nails reminded Lindell of Josefin." He used to be so nice. Always chatty and making jokes."

Ronn slipped into a dialect that Lindell mentally placed in Halsingland. She made a few notes on the page and checked the time.

"He's been quiet. Doesn't say very much. Mostly stays in his office. He hardly ever comes out even for a cup of coffee."

"Was it after a trip?"

"Yes, more then, but he's changed overall. He's more irritable."

"Have there been any conflicts at work?"

A new pause. Lindell wished she had something to drink or maybe snack on.

"Sven-Erik and Jack didn't get along so well."