‘There’s a viewpoint at the top. People often go there in the summer, take a picnic and watch the sunset. Technically, unauthorised persons are not allowed access, but nobody bothers to keep people out.’

The rain sets in and Anna fastens her jacket. She’s glad she got herself a proper, classic raincoat that keeps out the wet. Morell switches off his torch.

‘I’ve spoken to the duty officer at the regional control centre. We’ve decided to wait until first thing tomorrow morning to bring in the technicians. It’s Sunday evening, the guy in the tree is going nowhere, and it’s not necessary to call anyone in on overtime. The budget is already under enough pressure. Glarea has offered to help guard the body overnight, but it’s not as if anyone can get at it up there. Maybe you and I could drive up onto the ridge, see if we can find his car? I think I know roughly where it should be.’

She isn’t sure what to say. Morell is behaving as if he’s still in charge, with an authority in his tone that irritates her. He notices her expression, which is some small consolation.

‘Listen, I’m sorry for jumping in. Olsson called me first, no doubt out of habit. I don’t live far away, so I thought—’

‘Who found the body?’ she interrupts, perhaps with unnecessary sharpness.

‘One of the drivers. This is one of the oldest parts of the quarry, and it’s been closed for many years. The driver decided to take a leak behind the tree, poor guy.’

‘Is he still here?’

Morell shakes his head. ‘Olsson had a chat with him, then sent him home to his family. He was very shocked – obviously.’

He switches on the torch once more, directs the beam at the body in the tree. A flash of light, a reflection, catches Anna’s eye.

‘Can you shine it right next to the trunk?’ she says.

She takes out a pair of blue plastic shoe covers she slipped into her pocket before she left home, and pulls them on. Then she switches on her own smaller but more powerful torch and moves towards the tree. The rain is hammering on her coat. The metallic stench of blood grows stronger, almost defeating the smell of burned clay.

She stops half a metre from the thick trunk, just outside the patch of blood-spattered leaves, and crouches down. Directs the torch towards the point where she saw the flash. Something has got stuck between the tree’s roots, diagonally below the body; she assumes it has come loose from his clothing, or fallen out of his pocket. She sees a piece of plastic and suspects she knows what she’s found.