‘Klein,’ he says as they reach the house. His handshake is firm and dry, his hands rough. He is clean-shaven in the same meticulous way as her maternal grandfather always was, without a hint of a shadow.

‘Look at Milo, Mum.’ Agnes points to the terrier who has sat down next to Klein’s left leg, gaze still fixed on his new friend. ‘I’ve never seen him like this.’ The tone surprises Anna. Her daughter sounds almost . . . happy.

‘You seem to have a way with dogs,’ she manages to say. Klein nods. His face is unnaturally stiff, like a mask.

‘So you’re the one who’s taking over from Henry Morell.’ A statement rather than a question. He looks as if he has more to say, but Call-me gets in first.

‘Klein, good to see you! I was about to go up to the chapel.’ He turns to Anna. ‘Klein here is Elisabet Vidje’s administrator. Any problems with the house, anything you need, just give him a call. Änglaberga is only a mile or so away along the main road, so he can be here in no time. Isn’t that right, Klein?’

The man grunts something that is presumably meant to be an affirmative response, then gazes over at the trees while Call-me introduces himself to Agnes. Anna hears him say that he has a son her age, then he leads the way back indoors.

‘Careful, the stairs are steep.’ The bannister on one side has acquired such a shine that it looks lacquered. Over the last metre or so there are oval patches in a multitude of different shades, and it takes a few seconds before she realises they are the impressions left by fingers.

The light from above grows more intense, and when they reach the top it is so strong that all four of them pause for a moment to let their eyes acclimatise. The chapel is roof-height and occupies the entire upper storey. Three of the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the chimney breasts and the old beams are painted white, and over on the far side there is a gigantic arched window that reinforces the sacred atmosphere. Admittedly it isn’t stained glass, but it makes no difference.

‘Behold the mountain of the Lord,’ Call-me says with a smile, spreading his hands wide.

The house must be perched right on the edge of a cliff, because there is no garden beyond the window. There is nothing but treetops and sky, with forests, fields and villages in the distance, a glowing, autumn-coloured patchwork quilt stretching all the way to the mist on the horizon.

Anna has seen this view in the pictures he’s sent, but the real thing is overwhelming. It is almost thirty-five years since the last time she crept into the parlour to admire the Karl-Johan Vidje print, but she recognises the motif immediately. The colours, the depth, the sense of calm. Of safety and security.