Julia agreed, albeit a little too readily for Roger’s liking. “Yes! Let Roger go! Who knows? We might manage to come up with a way to help you escape, and then the police will never know that you’re a woman. Everyone will just assume that the bank robber’s a man!”

“Why?” Roger wondered.

“Because women aren’t usually that stupid,” Zara interjected, ever helpful.

The bank robber sighed hesitantly. But Anna-Lena took a tiny, tiny step toward the middle of the room and whispered: “Please, don’t open the door, Roger. What if they shoot?”

Roger got some smoke in his eyes, even though there wasn’t any now. He didn’t say anything. So Lennart stepped forward and said: “Oh, let me do it! Give me the mask and I’ll pretend to be the hostage taker. I’m an actor, after all—I was in The Merchant of Venice at the local theater.”

“Isn’t it The Merchant from Venice?” Anna-Lena wondered.

“Is it?” Lennart asked.

“Oh, I like that play, there’s a lovely line in it. Something about a light!” Estelle declared happily, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember what it was.

“God, just stop babbling and concentrate for a minute!” Julia snapped, because there had just been another knock on the door.

Lennart nodded and held his hand out to the bank robber. “Give me the mask and pistol.”

“No, give them here, I’ll go!” Roger snapped, with a renewed need for validation.

The two men squared up against each other, as well as they could. Roger would probably have liked to hit Lennart again, all the more so now that the rabbit’s head was gone. But perhaps Lennart could see how much Roger was hurting, so before Roger had time to clench his fists, he said: “Don’t be angry with your wife, Roger. Be angry with me.”

Roger still looked angry, but that must have struck home somewhere, making a tiny crack in his anger where the air slowly seeped out of it.

“I…,” he grunted, not looking at Anna-Lena.

“Let me do this,” Lennart asked.

“Please, darling,” Anna-Lena whispered.

Roger looked up, only as far as her chin, and saw it was quivering. And he backed down. It could have been a touching moment, actually, if only he could have stopped himself muttering: “For what it’s worth, I hope they shoot you in the leg, Lennart.”

* * *

It was nicer than it sounded.

* * *

At that moment Estelle managed to remember the line from the play, so she declared: “That light we see is burning in my hall. How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.”

There was another she remembered now, such a want-wit sadness makes of me, but she didn’t say that one out loud because she didn’t want to spoil the mood. The bank robber looked at the little old lady.

“I’m so sorry, I’ve only just remembered that you were waiting for your husband—Knut, wasn’t it? He was parking the car when I… he must be so worried!” she said, distraught with guilt.

Estelle patted the bank robber’s arm.

“No, don’t worry about that. Knut’s already dead.”

The bank robber’s face turned white.

“While you’ve been in here? He died while you were here…? Oh, dear Lord…”

Estelle shook her head.

“No, no, no. He’s been dead awhile. The whole world doesn’t revolve around you, dear.”

“I…,” the bank robber managed to say.

Estelle patted her arm.

“I just said Knut was parking the car because I get lonely sometimes. And it feels better to pretend that he’s on his way. Especially at this time of year, he always used to like New Year, we used to stand at the kitchen window watching the fireworks. Well… we used to stand on the balcony for years… but I couldn’t bring myself to go out there after something that happened down on the bridge ten years ago. It’s a long story. Anyway, Knut and I used to stand in the kitchen watching the fireworks through the window, and… oh, you miss such peculiar things. I almost miss that more than anything. Knut loved fireworks, so I suppose I always feel extra lonely at New Year. I’m such a silly old woman.”

Everyone else had fallen silent, listening as she related this. It could have been a touching moment, actually, if Zara hadn’t cleared her throat at the other end of the room.

“Everyone thinks Christmas is when most people kill themselves. That’s a myth. Far more people commit suicide at New Year.”

* * *

That spoiled the mood. It’s hard to deny that it did.

* * *

Lennart looked at Roger, Roger looked at the bank robber, the bank robber looked at them all. Then she nodded decisively. When the apartment door was finally opened, Jim the police officer was standing outside. A short while later he went back down to the street and told his son he’d spoken to the bank robber.

63

Jack stomps out of the interview room, exhausted with anger. The real estate agent is still sitting in there, terrified, looking on as the younger of the two police officers starts to march up and down the corridor. Then she turns hopefully to the older officer, who is still seated in the room, looking sad. Jim doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, or any other part of his body, for that matter, so he just passes the glass of water to her. It shakes, even though she’s holding it with all ten digits.

“You have to believe me, I swear I’m not the bank robber…,” she pleads.

Jim glances out at the corridor, where his son is walking around hitting the walls with his fists. Then Jim nods to the Realtor, hesitates, nods again, stops himself, then finally puts his hand very briefly on her shoulder and admits: “I know.”

* * *

She looks surprised. He looks ashamed.

* * *

When the old policeman—and he’s never felt older than he does right now—lifts his hand, he toys with his wedding ring. An old habit, but scant comfort. He’s always felt that the hardest thing about death is the grammar. Often he still says the wrong thing, and Jack hardly ever corrects him, sons probably don’t have the heart to do that. Jack mentions the ring once every six months or so, saying: “Dad, isn’t it time you took that off?” His dad nods, as if he’d just forgotten about it, tugs it a little as if it fits more tightly than it actually does, and mumbles: “I will, I will.” He never does.

The hardest thing about death is the grammar, the tense, the fact that she won’t be angry when she sees that he’s bought a new sofa without consulting her first. She won’t be anything. She isn’t on her way home. She was. And she really did get angry that time Jim bought a new sofa without consulting her first, goodness, how angry she was. She could travel halfway around the world to the worst chaos on the planet, but when she came home everything had to be exactly the way it always was or she got upset. Of course that was just one of her many strange little habits and quirks: she put onion flakes on breakfast cereal and poured béarnaise sauce on popcorn, and if you yawned when she was next to you, she would lean forward and stick a finger in your mouth, just to see if she could pull it out again before you closed your mouth. Sometimes she put cornflakes in Jim’s shoes, sometimes little bits of boiled egg and anchovies in Jack’s pockets, and the looks on their faces when they realized seemed to amuse her more and more each time she did it. That’s the kind of thing you miss. That she used to do this, that she used to do that. She was, she is. She was Jim’s wife. Jack’s mom is dead.