The wire fence from Grönwall’s pictures appears to be in even worse condition in reality. It’s no more than a metre high, and sags in several places. If you came running down the slope in the dark and the rain, it wouldn’t provide much of a barrier. She cautiously moves forward and peers over the edge of the cliff. Fifty or sixty metres below she can see the damaged crown of the birch, and a pale scar of broken branches.

So, could it have been an accident rather than a suicide? She considers the possibility. It can’t be ruled out, of course, but an accident doesn’t explain why the bearded man was up here, or why he ran down the slope with no shoes on. Nor does it explain the absence of his phone, or the position of the driver’s seat. To summarise: the scene itself provides no clear evidence for either scenario. All doors are still open, at least for the time being.

She gets back in her car and heads home. Her mind is elsewhere and she takes the wrong turning, but doesn’t realise until she drives into someone’s yard. The house itself is a beautiful old Skåne long house, but right now it looks anything but inviting. A huge trench has been dug out in front of the door. A wooden pallet serves as a bridge, and building materials cover half the yard: concrete drainage pipes, piles of wood, bricks and tiles, and beyond them a huge diesel tank next to a digger. She recognises the company logo from Morell’s basement. Alexander Morell’s construction firm is working here, and for a second she wonders if she risks bumping into him. However, even though it’s Tuesday afternoon, there doesn’t appear to be any activity going on, and the builders’ hut is secured with a sturdy padlock.

She turns the car around and ends up with her back wheels in a pool of water. She doesn’t realise how deep it is until the suspension complains. She is about to change gear in order to get out when someone emerges from the house – a tall, slim figure in overalls and a cap, with two large German Shepherds on the leash. Both dogs are on full alert, ears pricked up, eyes fixed on her car.

It takes her a few seconds to recognise Marie Sordi, who looks uneasy.

Anna lowers the window and sticks her head out.

‘Hi, Marie – it’s only me. Anna Vesper.’

‘Oh, hi.’ Marie’s expression softens slightly, but she doesn’t relax completely. Hardly surprising, in view of what happened the last time they met. She walks over to the car, and as soon as she stops, the dogs sit down, one either side of her.

‘Sorry about the reception – I didn’t recognise the car. This place attracts all kinds of weirdos.’

‘Is this Kotorp?’ Anna asks.