‘I told him I had my hands full – it was up to him to take care of his own affairs. But he didn’t give a shit about what I said – as usual.’

Anna takes out her phone and shows him a photograph of Rylander. On an impulse she chooses a recent one, taken after his death. His face is black and blue, but because the picture was taken at an angle from one side – the empty eye socket isn’t so visible. The old man picks up a pair of reading glasses, perches them on the end of his nose and reaches for the phone. His hands are black with ingrained oil, his nails long and yellow. Anna quells the urge to look away and holds the phone at a distance so that the worst details can’t be seen. People don’t usually want to speak ill of the dead, so she is keeping Rylander’s fate to herself for the moment.

‘Yes, that’s Jocke. Looks as if someone’s given him a beating. Well deserved, no doubt.’

‘Why do you say that?’

The man snorts, takes off his glasses.

‘Jocke cons people – that’s one thing. But he likes to mess with them too, provoke them, often for no reason. He’s done it ever since he was a kid. Have you heard the story of the scorpion who asks a frog to give him a lift across a lake? He promises not to sting the frog, because then they’ll both drown, but he does it anyway. That’s Jocke. Somewhere deep inside he knows he’s fucking things up for himself, but he just can’t help it. That’s not the first time he’s taken a beating, and it won’t be the last.’

A gob of spit accompanies the final word.

‘It sounds as if you’re speaking from experience.’

Another snort. ‘I’ve known Jocke since he was a kid. I’m immune to his tricks.’

‘Yet you still allow him to live here?’

The old man shrugs. ‘His mother and I were happy together. He was a nice little boy. Back then this place was buzzing . . .’ He falls silent, his gaze turns inward.

Jens Friberg interrupts his train of thought. ‘Rylander’s cabin – where is it?’

*

They find the cabin at the end of a gravel track, some three hundred metres behind the main buildings. It’s more of a hut than a cabin. The muddy yard is full of puddles and tyre tracks, and half of the low roof is covered with a tarpaulin. The wooden walls are so rotten and mouldy that it’s impossible to tell what colour it might have been. The door is padlocked, but the old man has a key.

‘Don’t tell Jocke,’ he mutters. ‘He doesn’t like people poking around among his stuff.’

Anna tells him the truth. He takes it well, with little more than a grim nod.