‘At a patisserie in Lund. I was there with some friends, and he was sitting at a table all by himself. When he came to pay, he’d forgotten his wallet. He was so embarrassed that I felt sorry for him. At first he refused to let me pay, and didn’t give until I promised he could take me to the cinema. We saw Catch-22, I remember that. It turned out we’d both read the book. He invited me back to his little flat for a glass of wine and we spent all night talking about books. Shall we sit?’

Elisabet gestures towards the armchairs and sinks down with an air of relief.

‘How are you, Elisabet?’

Anna has really come to get some answers, but Elisabet seems so frail that she can’t bring herself to press the woman. Elisabet waves the question away.

‘Don’t take any notice of Klein, he’s a real mother hen. I’m just a little tired. Tell me why you’re here.’

Anna takes out the letter, unfolds it and places it on the table.

‘You told Lasse Gunnarsson to send this.’

Elisabet nods, showing no hint of embarrassment. She clearly doesn’t feel the need to apologise.

‘In the letter you refer to me and suggest that I am willing to revisit the investigation into Simon’s death.’

‘I don’t suggest anything.’ Elisabet purses her lips. ‘I’m merely asking those involved to think back and search their consciences. That’s not illegal, is it?’

‘But you want the case reopened. That’s what you’ve been fighting for all these years, but Henry Morell has always blocked your request.’

‘Henry Morell should never have been involved from the start. He’s incompetent.’ Her voice is calm, but there is no mistaking her anger.

‘You tried to get rid of him, and when you didn’t succeed you had to wait him out. For twenty-seven years.’

Elisabet lets out a snort. ‘To be honest, I never imagined that he would cling on for as long as he did, but it proves I’m right – he has something to hide.’

‘So you had Tabor renovated in double quick time, and got Gunnarsson to contact me, offering a fantastic place to live at a low rent, to make sure I’d get dragged into the whole thing. You knew I’d see the m . . . mm.’ She stops herself, but a fraction too late. Elisabet raises her eyebrows. ‘M . . . mmural.’

‘You have a stammer.’ An assertion, not a question.

‘Only sometimes.’

‘Does it bother you?’

‘Not really. I’m used to it.’

Elisabet nods slowly. ‘Karl-Johan had a stammer too – worse than yours. He was teased about it when he was a child. Did that happen to you?’

‘No.’ Elisabet has made her lose her thread, and she searches for a way to get back on track.