friendship would have been over long ago. That was exactly what had happened while Erik was studying at the university and working in Göteborg, while Kenneth had stayed in Fjällbacka and started up his small accounting firm. A company that over the years had become a very successful business.
Because Kenneth was, in fact, quite talented. He was aware that he wasn’t particularly good-looking or charming, and he had no illusions about having more than average intelligence. But he did have a remarkable ability to work wonders when it came to numbers. He could juggle with the sums in a profit-and-loss report or balance sheet as if he were the David Beckham of the accounting world. Combined with his ability to persuade the tax authorities to see his side of things, Kenneth had suddenly, and for the first time ever, become a highly valuable person for Erik. He was the natural choice when Erik needed an associate as he entered the construction market, which had lately become such a lucrative enterprise on the west coast of Sweden. Erik had, of course, made it very clear that Kenneth needed to know his place, since he owned only a third of the company and not half – although he really should have done, considering what he contributed to the firm. But that didn’t matter. Kenneth wasn’t interested in amassing wealth or power. He was content to work with the things he was good at, and to be Erik’s associate.
‘I really have no idea what to do about Louise,’ said Erik, getting up from behind his desk. ‘If it weren’t for the children …’ He shook his head as he put on his coat.
Kenneth nodded sympathetically. He knew full well what the situation was. And it had nothing to do with the children. What was stopping Erik from divorcing Louise was the fact that she would then be entitled to half of their money and other assets.
‘I’m going out for lunch, and I’ll be gone for a while. A long lunch today.’
‘Okay,’ said Kenneth. A long lunch. Oh, right.
‘Is he home?’ Erica was standing on the porch of the Thydell home.
Sanna seemed to hesitate for a few seconds before stepping aside to let her in.
‘He’s upstairs. In his workroom. He’s just sitting in front of the computer, staring.’
‘Is it all right if I go up to talk to him?’
Sanna nodded. ‘Sure. Nothing I say seems to do any good. Maybe you’ll have better luck.’
There was a bitter tone to Sanna’s voice, and Erica paused for a moment to study her. She looked tired. But there was something else that Erica couldn’t quite put her finger on.
‘Let me see what I can do.’ Slowly Erica made her way up the stairs, supporting her oversized stomach with one hand. Lately even such a simple task sapped her of all energy.
‘Hi.’ She knocked gently on the open door, and Christian turned around. He was sitting in his desk chair, but the computer screen was blank. ‘You really gave us a scare yesterday,’ said Erica, sinking on to an armchair in the corner.
‘Just a bit overworked, I guess,’ said Christian. But there were dark shadows under his eyes, and his hands were shaking. ‘Plus I’ve been worried about Magnus disappearing.’
‘Are you sure there’s not some other reason?’ Her voice sounded sharper than she’d intended. ‘I picked this up yesterday and brought it along.’ She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the note that had come with the bouquet of white lilies. ‘You must have dropped it.’
Christian stared at the card.
‘Put that away.’
‘What does the message mean?’ Erica looked with concern at this man she had started to regard as a friend.
He didn’t answer.
Erica repeated her question, this time a bit more gently: ‘Christian, what does it mean? Your reaction was awfully strong yesterday. So don’t try to make me believe that you were just feeling overworked.’
Still he said nothing. Suddenly the silence was broken by Sanna’s voice from the doorway.
‘Tell Erica about the letters,’ she said.
Sanna stayed where she was, waiting for her husband to respond. A few more minutes of silence ensued before Christian sighed, pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a small bundle of letters.
‘I’ve had these for a while.’
Erica picked up the letters and cautiously leafed through the pages. White sheets of paper with black ink. And there was no doubt that the handwriting was the same as on the card she’d brought along. Some of the words were familiar too. The sentences were different, but the theme was the same. She began reading aloud from the letter on top:
‘She walks at your side, she follows along with you. You have no right to your life. It belongs to her.’
Erica looked up in astonishment. ‘What’s this all about? Do you understand any of this?’
‘No.’ Christian’s reply was swift and firm. ‘No, I have no clue. I don’t know of anyone who would want to harm me. At least, I don’t think so. And I have no idea who “she” is. I should have thrown out those letters,’ he said, reaching for them. But Erica had no intention of relinquishing them.
‘You should tell the police about this.’
Christian shook his head. ‘No, it’s probably just someone having fun at my expense.’
‘This doesn’t sound like a joke to me. And I can see that you don’t think it’s funny, either.’
‘That’s exactly what I said,’ Sanna interjected. ‘I think it’s really creepy, especially since we have children, and everything. What if there’s some mentally disturbed person who …’ She stared at Christian, and Erica could tell that it wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. But he stubbornly shook his head again.
‘I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.’
‘When exactly did this whole thing begin?’
‘When you started writing the book,’ said Sanna, receiving a look of annoyance from her husband.
‘I guess that’s about right,’ he admitted. ‘A year and a half ago.’
‘Could there be some sort of connection? Did you put any real person or event in your book? Someone who might feel threatened because you wrote about them?’ Erica kept her eyes fixed steadily on Christian, who was looking extremely uncomfortable. It was obvious that he had no desire to discuss this topic.
‘No, it’s a work of fiction,’ he said, grimacing. ‘No one should be able to recognize themselves in my story. You’ve read the manuscript. Does it seem autobiographical to you?’
‘That’s not something that I would be able to tell,’ said Erica with a shrug. ‘But I know from my own experience that writers weave parts of their own lives into their manuscripts, whether consciously or not.’
‘Well, I didn’t!’ exclaimed Christian, pushing back his chair and standing up.
Realizing that it was time for her to leave,
