‘Wow,’ Agnes says, fiddling with her camera. Anna doesn’t know whether it’s her daughter’s tone of voice, the light or the explosion of different hues spread before them, but suddenly she has a lump in her throat.

Coming here was the right thing to do, she thinks as Agnes starts clicking away eagerly. Everything is going to be fine. She has repeated that mantra so often over the past few weeks, but for the first time she almost believes it.

‘The roof of Skåne,’ Call-me goes on with great satisfaction. ‘On a really clear day you can see the towers of the Öresund Bridge with a decent pair of binoculars. The bridge is over forty miles from here.’

He allows Agnes to carry on taking photographs for a minute or so before he continues his tour. He explains that the narrow staircase they’ve just climbed used to enable the preacher to sneak down into the house. He shows them the wheezy old organ on the right-hand side – apparently it still works. Then he moves on to the main staircase, which leads down to the barred door Anna noticed earlier. Agnes’s camera records every detail, and Anna clings to the sense of security. Tries to convince herself that they are here to stay.

‘As I wrote in my email, Tabor is one of the most attractive properties in Skåne,’ Call-me informs them. ‘Over the years Elisabet Vidje has had plenty of offers for the house; a member of Abba was particularly keen. But Elisabet has always refused, no matter how much money was involved. Isn’t that right, Klein?’

The older man doesn’t answer. He is still standing by the stairs.

Call-me and Agnes head over to the left-hand side of the room where the altar must once have stood. Anna is about to follow them, but Klein seems unwilling to come any further into the room. Milo is sitting on the floor beside him, gazing up at him with that submissive, admiring look she’s never seen before. Klein doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move, and yet his behaviour arouses her instincts as a cop. It’s as if he’s working very hard to hide something behind that stiff mask.

‘What’s this painting?’ she hears Agnes ask. ‘Was it the altarpiece?’

‘No, the mural was done later. Are you familiar with Karl-Jo?’

‘Karl-Johan Vidje?’ Agnes almost sounds insulted. ‘Of course. We’ve studied all the great artists. My school specialises in aesthetics.’ She lowers the camera, flashes an angry glance at her mother. ‘The school I used to go to, that is.’ Her acidic tone sweeps away the illusion of security and replaces it with the usual gnawing anxiety.