christian unge works as a senior doctor at Danderyd Hospital in Stockholm. He spent the early part of his career working for Médecins Sans Frontières in Congo (DRC) and Burundi, later publishing a memoir about his experiences. Blood Will Tell is the third in a series of thrillers starring ER doctor Tekla Berg. Film/TV rights have been sold to FLX, producers of the Netflix series Quicksand.

george goulding’s translations from the Swedish include The Girl in the Spider’s Web, The Girl Who Takes an Eye for an Eye, The Girl Who Lived Twice and Fall of Man in Wilmslow, all by David Lagercrantz, The Carrier by Mattias Berg and The Rock Blaster by Henning Mankell.

sarah de senarclens was born in Sweden and educated in Sweden, Austria, England and Switzerland. After a career as a simultaneous conference interpreter based in Geneva, she now works as a translator of fiction.

Also by Christian Unge in English translation

Through Hell and High Water

A Grain of Truth

BLOOD WILL TELL

CHRISTIAN UNGE

Translated from the Swedish by George Goulding and Sarah de Senarclens

MACLEHOSE PRESS
QUERCUS . LONDON

First published in the Swedish as Det första skottet, det sista steget

by Norstedts Förlag, Stockholm, in 2022

First published in Great Britain in 2025 by
MacLehose Press

an imprint of Quercus
Part of John Murray Group

Copyright © Christian Unge 2022

English translation copyright © 2025 by George Goulding and Sarah de Senarclens

The moral right of Christian Unge to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

George Goulding and Sarah de Senarclens assert their moral right to be identified as the translators of the work.

Cover design: Richard Jones @ PPC. Cover images © Yegorovnick / Alamy Stock Photo

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

ebook ISBN 978 1 52941 820 0

Quercus

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

John Murray Group

Part of Hodder & Stoughton Limited

An Hachette UK company

The authorised representative in the EEA is Hachette Ireland, 8 Castlecourt Centre, Dublin 15, D15 XTP3, Ireland (email: info@hbgi.ie)

I

DJURSHOLM

Friday, 14 October

Tekla looked out of the polychrome, leaded windows, which were at least a hundred years old. “Classy,” is how Ragna Sigurdsdottir put it when they were taking off their coats. More like ostentatious, Tekla thought, but she had to admit that the size of the house was impressive. She lingered for a while as the hubbub rose, with all the guests in their finery crowding into the dining room. She wanted to stay put, didn’t feel like mingling. The windows were so beautiful. She ran her finger over the uneven surface, thinking of the craftsmanship and the artisans who had made that glass at the beginning of the last century. Darkness already cloaked the palatial gardens, autumn had taken a turn, and the temperature had dropped by at least ten degrees in recent days. They were heading for the long Scandinavian martyrdom. “Winter is coming,” she said to herself.

“What?” Sigurdsdottir asked, handing her an empty white plate.

“Nothing.” Tekla followed her Icelandic colleague, moving away from the window.

“Freebies always taste good,” Sigurdsdottir said when they reached the buffet.

“What on earth is all this?” Tekla said in horror. She put a twisted bread roll with rosemary and flaked sea salt on her plate, then added two cherry tomatoes on a toothpick topped with a mozzarella ball.

Leaning over the large table, Sigurdsdottir harpooned slices of salmon and dropped them onto Tekla’s plate. “Salma salmon. Top stuff.”

Hoping to take a cue from her boss Hampus Nordensköld, Tekla tried to see what he was piling onto his plate. After all, he grew up in the swanky neighbourhood of Östermalm and would know what to go for and what to avoid – like offal. Did anyone of their generation eat intestines and hearts? She helped herself to some things that looked like small pies.

“Those are mussels,” Sigurdsdottir whispered. “Just so you know.”

Too late, Tekla thought. There was bound to be some rule about not putting back anything you’d touched. “What about those?”

“Elkburgers.”

Tekla decided against it. Unhooking her champagne glass from the clip on her plate, she drained it in two gulps. She had the pleasant feeling that someone was pouring warm water over her neck. Her pulse dropped, and although she suspected she was about to faint, she didn’t fight it. The spell was broken by a light tap on her shoulder.

“Can I top you up?” A young, blond waitress with slicked-back hair and one arm tucked behind her back held out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

After getting her refill, Tekla followed the lemmings round the table. She did her utmost to avoid dropping her glass or knocking into any of the over-loaded serving dishes.

“Salmon tartar,” Sigurdsdottir whispered. “Probably scrumptious. And over there you’ve got genuine Beluga caviar next to the lobster claws. Go for it, who knows when there’ll be another chance.”

“Sounds as if you like this kind of food,” Tekla said, taking a tiny baguette from a silver bowl. “How do you know what it all is?” She broke off a piece of bread before realising that she probably shouldn’t begin eating until she was sitting down. At the same time, she wondered how anyone could possibly bake something that was so small yet had a crispy crust and a perfect fluffy interior.

“I’m not quite as out of my depth as you are,” Sigurdsdottir admitted, “but much of it is new even to me. Trust Anita to have bought only the very finest delicacies from the Market.”

“The Market?”

“The Östermalm Covered Market.” Sigurdsdottir pursed her lips and put on her Lady Muck face. It was the smartest, most expensive place to buy groceries in town.

“Oh that market,” Tekla said without a trace of sarcasm.

Once they had finished heaping food onto their plates, Tekla glanced over to where the top brass were sitting: Göran Collinder, Monica Carlsson and Klas Nyström. Collinder had been made division head, Carlsson was still the CEO and, for some inexplicable reason, Nyström had not been sacked as chief of the transplant unit. The atmosphere was anything but light.

“Come on,” Sigurdsdottir said, zigzagging her way past all the suits and dark skirts – Tekla appeared to be the only woman there wearing slacks. Sigurdsdottir proceeded across the large parquet floor and through one of the dining rooms, with its crystal chandelier and built-in glass-fronted cupboards along one wall. Two blue Chinese vases, which were at least one metre high, stood on either side of a bow window. About ten junior doctors were seated around an oval table. The chairs all had intricately carved legs depicting lion’s paws. It was noisy. Many of the senior consultants, including Tariq Moussawi, were sitting in the next room. In honour of the occasion he wore his dark blazer, and Tekla wondered if he had cut away the medals from the Iraqi armed forces or if the garment had actually been bought this century.

Sigurdsdottir sat down on a chair that must have been at least two hundred years old. It was upholstered in beautiful fabric with broad stripes and its backrest was decorated with gilt ornaments. Tekla settled into a similar chair by a low wooden table. She was afraid her plate might break when she set it down on the highly polished surface. After wiping her damp forehead with a napkin and downing half a glass of champagne, she gently breathed out through her nose. Had it not been for the fact that the sweat stains under her arms would be painfully visible on her brand-new pale-grey silk shirt, she would have taken off her jacket.

Sigurdsdottir laughed. “Are you stressed?”

“You can’t imagine.” Tekla looked around for someone to top up her glass. It was clear to her that she would be getting drunk.

“You’re looking great, Tekla.”

“And you’re a bad liar.”

“No, I mean it.”

“Picked it up cheap at H&M last night. Didn’t have the time or inclination to look any further.”

“But now you can relax. No-one is bothered by what you’re wearing or eating.”

“You’d be surprised,” Tekla said. “But I couldn’t care less.”

“Cheers,” Sigurdsdottir said, holding up her glass.

Tekla looked startled. “I thought you were still breastfeeding.”

“No, no,” Sigurdsdottir said. “I stopped this summer. Bjarni is perfectly capable of making up a bottle of formula.”

“Perhaps he’ll put Freya on a feeding tube?”

“Or an IV line with nutrients. Would be typical of a surgeon.” Sigurdsdottir smiled and patted Tekla’s arm. “You are looking great. I saw Klas checking you out over by the buffet.”

“Klas?” Tekla nearly choked on the mussel she had just washed down with some champagne.

“He’s not bad-looking, is he? Very sporty. I’ve heard that he—”

“Cut it out, Ragna. If you think I’d have anything to do with that lunatic, forget it. I’d rather be celibate for the rest of my life.”

Sigurdsdottir looked over at the table with the new junior doctors. “I sincerely hope it won’t come to that.”

Tekla was both hot and cold at the same time. There was something about the house and all the people that made her uncomfortable. Maybe she just needed some air? She felt threatened, confined, stifled and wanted out into the cold.

“Tell me Tekla, how are things? I haven’t been hearing that cheerful laughter of yours so much recently.”

Tekla met Sigurdsdottir’s eyes and took a deep breath.

“It’s what they did to Anita that pisses me off most.”

“Yes, that really sucks.”

“It’s worse than that. It’s a scandal.”

“Okay, take it easy now.”

“I’m not sure I can,” Tekla said.

“Well then you’re going to have a hell of a time. Think of something else. Go seduce one of those young studs over there. A good shag can do wonders.”

“A shag?” Tekla coughed champagne all over the table.

“Not so loud,” Sigurdsdottir said, looking around. “But you need someone,” she added, shaking her head. “Or something.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“You know perfectly well. Everybody needs to feel good every now and then, everyone needs satisfaction. And I’ve seen how frustrated you’ve been lately.”

“I manage just fine,” Tekla said, tasting the salmon. It melted like salted butter against the roof of her mouth.

“Rubbish,” Sigurdsdottir said. “I’m on your case, you know.”

As the tables filled up, the noise level rose. Tekla sought to change the subject. “How many people do you think she’s invited?”

“The entire clinic,” Sigurdsdottir said.

“I can believe that. Typical of Anita to be so inclusive.”

“I suspect she wants as large an audience as possible.”

“Audience?”

“Wait and see,” Sigurdsdottir said with a mischievous grin.

Tekla studied the walls around them, which were covered with paintings in gilt frames of varying thickness and patina. Some were still lifes with flowers or drab landscapes, others depicted seascapes or men in military uniform. One portrait stood out from the rest. It hung above the enormous fireplace and was larger than all the others. A middle-aged woman sitting on a sofa with a small girl. It didn’t look very old.

“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Sigurdsdottir said, reading Tekla’s thoughts.

“Indeed. Do you think it’s one of Anita’s relatives?”

Suddenly Sigurdsdottir hissed, “Boss incoming, brace yourself.”

Turning, Tekla saw Nordensköld’s glib smile. He stopped and leaned casually against the marble slab of the fireplace.

“Great party, don’t you think?”

“You sound surprised,” Sigurdsdottir said in a serious tone.

Nordensköld dropped his hand. “What? Never – no, of course Anita would only provide the very best.”

“And invite everyone. Without exception,” Sigurdsdottir said. “More than two hundred guests.”

“Truly generous,” Nordensköld concurred. His fake smile had disappeared.

“What about you, how do you feel?” Sigurdsdottir said. “I’ve been away for a while, so I missed all the drama.”

Nordensköld had his eyes set on the table where Moussawi and some of the other senior consultants were sitting. “About getting the top job, you mean?”

“I’m sure it suits you down to the ground. But did you actually manage to get everything done?”

The 36-year-old Nordensköld looked uncomfortable but soon regained his composure and broke into another fake smile. “I sent in the papers last week, so it shouldn’t be long now.”

“Are you planning to do any clinical work?” Sigurdsdottir asked.

“Of course. Can’t be a good boss if you don’t have your ear to the ground, so to speak.”

Sigurdsdottir nodded. “I hope you’ll be taking on some duty shifts as well. It tends to boost morale.”

“Thanks for your advice, Ragna,” Nordensköld said in a sour tone, looking as if he wanted to slap her. He turned to Tekla. “And there’s something you and I need to discuss next week.”

“I see, that sounds serious.”

“Not really. I’ve been checking to see what areas of responsibility you’ve all been assigned and it seems you don’t have any.”

“Areas of responsibility?” Sigurdsdottir sounded surprised. “Isn’t it enough that she’s on call twice as often as everyone else and about like a thousand times more competent a clinician?”

“Under the new business model, she needs to have an area of responsibility. It goes with her position as assistant senior physician.” The sound of metal on glass rang out from one of the neighbouring rooms.

“Come on,” Sigurdsdottir said. “I don’t want to miss this.”

They stood up and moved towards the large hall at the front of the turn-of-the-century house, where the four large reception rooms came together. Tekla now realised just how enormous the mansion was, at least four hundred square metres. The walls were covered in dark wood panelling, and the stuccoed ceiling must have been at least five or six metres high. An enormous gold or brass chandelier spread a warm light from the centre of the hall. Large portraits of men in profile were lined up along the walls high above the wainscoting. Maybe generations of Anita Klein-Borgstedt’s direct ancestors? It felt like something out of a British costume drama.

Klein-Borgstedt was standing halfway up the staircase that ran from one corner of the hall to the floor above. It was a minor work of art in itself, with a dark wooden handrail and ornate iron balusters. A beautiful leaded window made up of blue and green squares could be seen behind her. And over to the right, above the door, in pride of place, a large, twelve-point bull elk’s head. The sight of it made Tekla feel both uncomfortable and relaxed.

“Dear friends!” Klein-Borgstedt began, raising the glass of champagne in her hand. “Skål!”

“Skål!” Colleagues and friends responded in unison to her toast.

Klein-Borgstedt paused for effect and looked down at the assembled company. She was wearing a long-sleeved dark green dress with a beautiful pearl necklace and earrings. Her hair was shorter than usual, and Tekla had already noticed earlier that evening that her favourite colleague had applied more make-up than she normally did.

Klein-Borgstedt cleared her throat. “The darkness outside is a sign that autumn is well and truly here, and though one can practically feel the wind blowing through this draughty old house my parents left me . . .” She turned with a smile to her husband standing at the foot of the stairs. He raised his eyebrows and held his glass up to one of the oil paintings. A smattering of laughter could be heard in the room. “. . . I sense an enormous amount of warmth from all of you here.”

Sigurdsdottir’s hand was on Tekla’s shoulder, hot and damp. Did she know something that Tekla didn’t? What was Klein-Borgstedt about to say?

“There’s a time before and a time after this terrible epidemic. We all have someone close to us who was affected, some more than others.” Klein-Borgstedt was looking at Siri Karén, who, as everyone knew, had lost her husband in the early stages of Covid. He had been on a ventilator at the Nobel Hospital for more than three weeks and Tekla was part of the team that cared for him, but eventually he suffered a cardiac arrest and nothing could be done. Tekla felt a cool draft on her ankles. The autumn chill had found its way in, just as Klein-Borgstedt had said.

“But the coronavirus has done far more damage than that. It has put our lives on hold. Many of us have had to bid farewell to elderly relatives behind a facemask and a visor. In some cases, from the other side of a glass pane. The virus stalled relationships and research and development – it has also revealed how some people react under pressure . . .” Klein-Borgstedt took a sip from her glass. Tekla could feel Sigurdsdottir’s warm breath against her neck.

“I’m extremely grateful to all of you for coming here. My old Djursholm heart—”

“The caviar was amazing!” She was interrupted by the rasping voice of a man who, judging from the nasal accent, must have been one of her older friends.

Klein-Borgstedt smiled briefly, then her face hardened again.

“I was planning to work until seventy at least. My profession is my identity and my second great love – ” she shot a glance at her husband – “. . . but three months ago, at the age of sixty-four, I decided to hand in my resignation. I’m not finished, though. I still have things to do. And I don’t believe that my memory has started to go, not just yet.” Once again, Klein-Borgstedt paused for effect and assumed a look of surprise. “Has it?” Many of the guests called out “No!” and “Absolutely not!” “Only when it comes to your tax return,” her husband shouted. More laughter. She carried on: “But what this virus has shown, the face that coronavirus has revealed, is something I simply cannot endure. All of you, except my dear neighbours, know what I’m talking about. No need to labour the point. Let me just say that the hospital’s management has replaced quality and competence with process measures and statistics. Robots and algorithms should not be delivering health care. When I’m sick, I want to be looked after by people with the best skills. Nothing else.”

Klein-Borgstedt met Tekla’s eyes and nodded. Sigurdsdottir’s hand squeezed her shoulder.

“That’s all I wanted to say in my article. Yet I stand accused of being disloyal.”

Klein-Borgstedt raised her head and looked over at Carlsson and at Collinder, one of the divisional heads. The hospital’s CEO almost gave the impression of having some sympathy for her views, but Tekla knew what was going on inside that razor-sharp brain.

“But I stand by what I wrote,” Klein-Borgstedt said in a loud and clear voice. “I’d rather be loyal to my patients than to the hospital management.”

There was a long silence. Sigurdsdottir released her grip on Tekla’s shoulder and began to clap. More and more people joined in, until the room was filled with thunderous applause. Tekla turned to see if Carlsson was one of them, but Moussawi’s bulk was in the way. She thought back to what Klein-Borgstedt’s had said about her memory – it was definitely not failing her. But what about her own? When had Kristina fallen ill? Tekla did not need to rack her brains: 1981, when Kristina was thirty-five. Tekla was thirty-eight now, and she could picture vividly the morning of her thirty-fifth birthday, when she woke up convinced that dementia had set in. But so far, she had not noticed any signs.

Once Klein-Borgstedt had finished, a few colleagues took the floor for some restrained farewell speeches. She looked relieved, almost happy. Tekla was anything but. She wanted to push through the gathering to Carlsson and give her a piece of her mind. But the crowd was dispersing and Sigurdsdottir made for the drinks table, taking Tekla with her. Out of the corner of her eye Tekla had seen Carlsson put on her fur coat and head for the exit.

“Just drop it,” Sigurdsdottir said. “We’re going to get drunk now. Here.” She held out a glass filled with ice cubes and a clear liquid. A slice of lemon floated on top.

“What’s that?”

“The best G and T you’ve ever tasted. My speciality.”

Tekla sipped at the cold drink and had to admit that it was fantastic. “Is it liquorice?”

“A few drops of Pernod. Icelandic tradition!”

They sat down by the fireplace, where there was a comforting blaze. Outside, the autumn darkness was almost tangible.

A few moments later, Klein-Borgstedt came and sat down on an empty chair next to them. She put her bony, cold hand on Tekla’s thigh. “We need to talk. Come.”

Tekla glanced at Sigurdsdottir.

“Only you,” Klein-Borgstedt said abruptly as she walked off.

“I’ll be right back,” Tekla blurted out, but Sigurdsdottir did not seem put out.

Klein-Borgstedt took Tekla to a corner room. It was a typical library, with floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases full of leather-bound tomes, a large writing desk in dark wood, two leather sofas set at an angle and an octagonal glass table with four whisky tumblers and a crystal decanter on a silver tray. The single large window gave onto the rear of the property, but half of it was covered by a climbing rose. Tekla struggled with her high heels on the deep pile carpet.

Klein-Borgstedt closed the door and pointed towards one of the sofas.

“Sit down.”

The sounds from the party were all but inaudible thanks to the leather padding on the inside of the door.

Klein-Borgstedt broke into her warmest upper-class smile. “How are things really?”

Tekla stared down at the glass table. “It’s just all so bloody wrong.”

“Don’t get worked up over it.”

“We’ve got to push back against the management,” Tekla said defiantly.

“No you don’t. You’ve got to do what you’re best at.”

“Meaning?” Tekla asked.

“Your job.”

“That’s not enough. Those idiots won’t budge. We could have done with you as boss.”

“Me?” Klein-Borgstedt laughed, poured herself half a glass of whisky and downed it. Tekla shook her head when she was offered one.

“You really are nuts,” Klein-Borgstedt said.

“I’m going to organise an appeal on social media.”

“Do you know how?”

“No, but Ragna does.”

Klein-Borgstedt sat down next to Tekla on the sofa and crossed her legs. Tekla registered the double, thick tights and caught a whiff of her friend’s exclusive scent. “You’re the one who ought to be the boss.”

“Never,” Tekla said.

“Don’t you get it?” Klein-Borgstedt said.

“What?”

“That’s precisely why.”

“Why what?”

“It’s precisely because you don’t want it . . . that you’re the one who’s most suited.”

“Rubbish.”

“It’s true,” Klein-Borgstedt said. “Power corrupts. And the best doctor in the hospital should be leading the day-to-day work.” Then she changed tack: “How are things with your brother, by the way? Has he come home?”

Tekla was surprised by the personal turn the conversation had taken. “Err . . . soon. In, like, four weeks. I’ve moved so he can have a room of his own.”

Her mind was still occupied with the thoughts stirred up by Klein-Borgstedt. Tekla was certain she’d be a disastrous boss. What made her friend so sure she knew better?

“Does he have a job to come back to?” Klein-Borgstedt asked. “You told me that he’s good at sculpting and painting.”

“He’s brilliant but . . .”

Klein-Borgstedt quickly got to her feet. She moved with impressive speed for someone her age. “Come.” She opened the door and led Tekla over to the entrance hall.

“See the man standing by the elk’s head?”

Tekla recognised him as the one who had interrupted Klein-Borgstedt’s speech.

“That’s Anders Trolle. An old friend of Lasse’s and mine. He’s head of the Museum of Natural History and I know that they need skilled craftsmen for their renovation. Your brother has experience working on stage sets, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but—”

“So he knows how to build a display case and paint the backdrop for polar bears and things?”

“I’m sure he can but—”

“I’ll have a word with Anders.”

“No, wait.”

“Why?”

Tekla did not want to be indebted to Klein-Borgstedt or rely on her for help with her hopeless brother, who might then make a mess of any job he was given. “Let me have a few days to think about it.”

“Certainly. Do think it over, but I’m definitely going to introduce you to Anders.”

Before Tekla had time to protest, Klein-Borgstedt had called out the name of the museum director and waved her arm so that her gold bracelets rattled. Tekla could already see how much she would miss the most experienced colleague she had at the clinic. Seeing Anders Trolle out of the corner of her eye she knew what she had to do, even if it meant paying a high price.

SÖDERMALM

Friday evening, 14 October

Tekla climbed the stairs to the flat at Ringvägen 137, which she had just bought. It was smaller than the old one at Gullmarsplan, but now that Simon was coming home she wanted a new start and he needed a room of his own. As well as a sitting room that was much too big, her previous apartment had had an excess of cupboards and a bedroom in which the double bed did not even cover half the floor area. Here, she and Simon would have a room each, albeit a small one, and they could close their doors for privacy if they felt like it. This time, however, she was going to keep track of everything he did, every step he took. She had the feeling that this would be his last chance, he must not be allowed to succumb to drugs again. And it all hinged on her.

She kicked off her high heels in the tiny hallway. The previous owner had put down a grey rubber mat which she already loved because it was soft to walk on and easy to wipe clean. Knowing how untidy Simon was, she wanted to avoid starting their new life together by arguing endlessly about his muddy footsteps on the parquet floor. She had managed to squeeze her old plastic table into the kitchen, even though it did not go with the feel of the 1920s building. She would need more oak and pine furniture. Opening the fridge, she told herself that she would have to get into the whole shopping and cooking thing before Simon’s return. He was bound to have eaten well at the rehab centre in Spain and, from the selfies he’d posted, Tekla was happy to see that he’d put on some weight. Picking up a pen from the kitchen counter, she added to the to-do list on the refrigerator door: Shopping at Söderhallarna. Next she drank orange juice straight out of the carton, which she then threw into the recycling bin over by the window. She smiled to herself. Would she be able to get Simon to start sorting the rubbish? She wasn’t going to waste her energy on that kind of thing, though. She should actually add to the list: Have low expectations re S.

Tekla changed into jeans and a college sweatshirt and sat down on a white plastic chair. That too would be going out with the bulky waste, as soon as she bought a wooden one. She looked around the kitchen, which had been refurbished two years previously. The colours were probably not what she would have chosen, but she was cheered by the turquoise splashback lit by the recessed lights under the kitchen cabinets. The rest was mostly white. White walls, white cupboard doors, white fridge and microwave. Luckily, the floor was not painted white like all the others in the flat. Its soap-finished plain pinewood planks reminded her of the kitchen back home in Edsåsdalen. Her father had refused to install the click-fit flooring her mother had tried to insist on.

Opening the kitchen door, she stepped out onto the small balcony. Her flat was on the top floor, and she could look straight up at the sky and, even though it was a pitch-dark, damp night, it gave her a sense of airiness. Wherever she turned, she saw dark rooftops. It was remarkably silent considering that the house was on Ringvägen, only a few hundred metres from Skanstull. She closed the door and left the kitchen holding a very ripe banana. The fish served at lunch at the hospital had been inedible and, in the afternoon, she had been busy with two very sick patients before rushing off to Klein-Borgstedt’s party. She devoured the banana and wiped her sticky fingers on her jeans, which needed to go in the wash anyway.

She passed the empty floor-to-ceiling bookcases and decided it was time to tackle the contents of the cardboard boxes standing there. The room which was to be Simon’s was crammed with boxes, furniture, IKEA bags full of clothes, and her bicycle, since she had snapped off the only key to the storage room in the cellar and had not had time to contact anyone from the residents’ association. The second room would be both their sitting room and her bedroom. About fifty shoeboxes were lined up against one wall, containing olfactory memories from Tekla’s life, items she had saved because of their special scent – a boyfriend’s comb or a bag of cardamom seeds from a particular party, and so on. They were a supplement to Tekla’s otherwise perfect photographic memory. Her sense of smell had always been her Achilles heel.

She sank into the couch she intended to replace with a sofa bed as soon as she had a chance to get to IKEA at Kungens Kurva. But she would need to rent a van or a trailer. And who could help her carry it? The other walls in the flat were also painted white. A shade known as Stockholm white, apparently, with a touch of gray. Presumably because sooner or later every white object in the city takes on a gray hue thanks to all the exhaust fumes. As it was, she was grateful that the previous owner had had such good taste that she didn’t feel the need to change anything. The bathroom was a bit outdated, but she didn’t mind. Soon Simon would be coming home and creating a mess anyway. Although she had gone from a hundred square metres down to eighty, she’d still had to increase the mortgage substantially. The price per square metre was much higher inside the city limits than out in the suburbs. The bank had hesitated. By forcing Collinder to give her the rise he had been promising her ever since she started working at the hospital, she was able to show the bank that she had the salary of an assistant senior consultant. But if interest rates went up, she would struggle. She didn’t even want to think about it, just wished that her mother had stashed a fortune under her mattress at the dementia care home in Nynäshamn. But no large sums of money had materialised when her mother’s estate was settled. And she was certainly not going to call her uncle, Claes Nylander, in Dalarna. Her mother’s brother was welcome to his millions. He had no children, but Tekla knew that he would never leave any of it to her or Simon. She could not forgive him for what he had done to Simon, or rather, what he had failed to do. Her sense of pride and self-preservation would simply not allow it. Simon had once asked their uncle for help, and it wasn’t just his refusal that had made her hate him with such a vengeance, it was the contempt Claes had shown. She would never forget his words:

“I would have given you a hand if you weren’t throwing your life away on drugs. But now I know my money would only be spent on dope.”

She put those thoughts out of her mind. Indirectly, her uncle’s stinginess had resulted in her having to reorganise her own existence with Simon in mind. For much of her life, she’d had to provide for and look after a grown-up child, worrying about him constantly. Ever since she gave her father Johan that pledge on his deathbed.

“You’ve got to look after him, Tekla, otherwise he’ll never manage. Promise me!”

Tekla had kept her promise.

But the hatred she felt for her uncle was poisoning her brain.

She tried to think about something else, and turned her mind to Klein-Borgstedt’s speech. Tekla had mixed feelings. On the one hand, she wanted to fight, to ensure that her friend was rehabilitated regardless of the consequences for herself. On the other, she felt a listless resignation, because nothing ever changed at the Nobel Hospital, even with the passage of time. If anything, the grubby, ingrained management culture had been consolidated by the new structure, with its clear transfer of power to the nursing heads.

Then she remembered what Klein-Borgstedt had said about her memory. What about her own, Tekla asked herself, with an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach? Was it still intact? For example, could she remember all the guests at the party? According to Sigurdsdottir, there had been two hundred of them, all presumably standing in the entrance hall listening to Klein-Borgstedt’s speech. Tekla sat down at the kitchen table with a pencil and some paper. She closed her eyes and began to count. Then she looked up, took the pencil and wrote down the names of all the people there, one by one. Starting with Johannes, the registrar who had been standing by the bottom step, she worked her way around in a circle. Next to him was another registrar, Samantha. She also wrote down the people she did not know, “man around sixty” etc. There were some she could not visualise, so she recorded them as “group of three standing by Tariq”. Eventually, she had covered two A4 sheets of paper with her scribbles. She counted. Two hundred and thirteen guests. That was about it, roughly speaking. Tekla felt quite pleased as she put down her pencil. There did not appear to be anything wrong on that front after all.

She pulled off her hoodie and struggled out of her bra, which always chafed against her prominent collar bones. After switching on an IKEA standard lamp, she selected a playlist with gentle music on her MacBook and went to lie down on the sofa and think. She wondered how one went about making a real home and tried to remember what sorts of things Simon liked. It was not clear to her, and she failed to conjure up any specific images. Or rather, there were any number of disparate ones that fluttered across her field of vision like snowflakes: Simon had covered the walls of his boyhood room in Edsåsdalen with Iron Maiden posters. The bright blue wall-to-wall carpet was most probably not his own choice, it must have been there when they bought the house.

She searched through the room and then moved on to the flat he had rented at Katarina Bangata. There was nothing remotely cosy about that place, either. All he had were two plain wooden folding chairs from their childhood home, a simple pinewood folding table, blank, empty walls and a green bag filled with laundry sitting in a corner. The only bookcase in the room held four cans of Coca-Cola, a gilt sabre from grandpa, a pile of Fantomen comic books and a snow globe featuring the Eiffel Tower. It was as if Simon had never bought a single thing of his own or bothered to keep any nostalgic toys from when he was small. He had never been in any relationship with a girl long enough for her to move in and get him to start developing a style. The only thing Simon really cared about was his wardrobe. It might not be obvious at first sight, but every piece of clothing had been carefully selected from the various boutiques in Södermalm. Shops catering for hipsters, where most of the clothes looked as if they were second-hand, but the price tags told a different tale. Not to mention all his leather jackets. Together they probably cost more than all the clothes Tekla had ever bought in her life.

It was starting to rain outside, and the wind lashed against the windows. Tekla lit the two Iittala candlesticks presented to her the last time she’d been to give blood. She was hungry but she couldn’t be bothered to cook anything. Perhaps she would get an Indian takeaway from Shanti later on, unless she ended up watching a series and eating pot noodles and ice cream instead. She felt tired. And it was not just because it was Friday night and she hadn’t had a day off since July. She was exhausted from her frustrations at work. No-one could relieve her of the anger she felt at the way the hospital management had treated Klein-Borgstedt. She had a new card for the gym but couldn’t bring herself to get up and go there. Usually, a walk around Årsta bay would take the edge off any fear and anger, but tonight she felt too cold to brave the autumn winds.

Picking up her mobile, she saw that Sigurdsdottir had texted her: Check out Hampus’ latest tweet! #Letmepuke. Tekla smiled. She didn’t have a Twitter account but knew that Sigurdsdottir would be showing her all the pathetic tweets he posted. Instead, she scrolled through the contacts on her phone. Magnus was still there, even though they had not been in touch since the summer. She had no idea if he had a new girlfriend or if he would even want to hear from her, but a part of her really wished that he could be there to wrap his large arms around her on the sofa. And for them to tear their clothes off so she could ride him until the sweat dripped off her nose, until she was sore and he stretched out his hands, struggling not to come.

She had a look at Aftonbladet, which carried pictures from a shooting in a residential area in Segeltorp. One dead and one injured. Tekla glanced through the scanty details in the report, which described it as a likely case of gang warfare. A wounded man who was “known to the police” had been taken to the NSK in a critical condition. A woman died soon after being admitted to A&E at the Nobel Hospital. Tekla wondered who had taken care of her when she was admitted and if any mistakes were made. She was dead, after all. In Tekla’s book, that was the very definition of failure.

Fed up with reading about violence, she flung aside her phone – like many others, she’d had enough of TV pundits going on and on about young people in troubled suburban neighbourhoods getting hold of weapons – only for it to ring not thirty seconds later. At first, she was tempted to ignore it, but then she gave in and picked up the phone: unknown number. She didn’t answer. In the bathroom, as she got ready for bed, she made up her mind to buy a cabinet so that she could put away the contents of the four carrier bags full of toiletries on the floor. The phone beeped in her back pocket. A message. She listened to it.

Hi Tekla, it’s Claes, your uncle. There’s something I need to talk to you about. Could you call me back, as soon as possible please. I’ll send you my number in case you don’t have it.

Tekla’s pulse shot up when she saw that there was also a text on the screen, a mobile number. The phone in her hand was shaking. She was furious that he still triggered such a strong reaction in her, such a physical, automatic one. Damn it! No way was she going to call her mother’s brother. He could rot in hell.

Tekla went out into the hall, put on her thick down jacket, boots and a cap over her short hair. She slammed the door so hard that it echoed right through the stairwell.

Once out on Ringvägen, she stood for several seconds, hesitating. Her headache had got worse. Eventually, she made up her mind and headed off towards Shanti. But first she had to stop at one of the bars along Ringvägen for a beer or three to calm herself down.