‘A search had been carried out on a co-worker’s computer for a manual for an infusion pump – the same model that was used in the care of your ex-husband. The time of that search was just after midday, and your co-worker has told us that he doesn’t always log out of the system when he goes for lunch. He has also said that because you were his team leader, you often had a good reason to be in his office.’

Santesson pauses again, exchanges a quick glance with her solicitor, then delivers the killer blow with a smug little smile.

‘One more thing. The infusion pump that gave your ex-husband the overdose that killed him . . .’ That horrible finger taps the file again. ‘We’ve re-examined it. Can you think of any good reason why your fingerprints should be on it?’

The finger executes a little dance of triumph. Out of the corner of her eye Anna sees her solicitor straighten up, but before he can speak, Santesson leans across the table, his tone softening.

‘Håkan didn’t have long left, Anna. A week maybe, no more. Helping someone out of their suffering is neither murder nor manslaughter; it’s an act of mercy. Love, even.’ Santesson’s smile is sorrowful and sympathetic this time. Anna doesn’t manage to quell the swallow reflex.

‘I think I speak for everyone in this room, when I say that we can all put ourselves in your position. It’s possible that one or more of us would have done exactly the same.’ He tilts his head on one side. ‘That’s what it was, wasn’t it, Anna? An act of mercy?’

The silence in the room is intense, the atmosphere so thick that she can barely breathe.

‘I . . . I . . .’

The stammer comes at exactly the wrong moment. It’s a big one, the kind that only affects her once or twice a year. She gasps for air, tries to employ the usual methods to regain control, but to no avail. Her vocal cords cramp uncontrollably and refuse to stop, even when she clenches her fists and stares down at the floor. The lack of oxygen is making her head pound.

She feels her solicitor’s hand on her shoulder, holds up her own hand before he can suggest a break. ‘W . . . wait!’ she manages to say.

She swallows hard and finally the cramping stops. She fills her lungs with air. Once, twice. The pressure on her temples slowly eases. She looks up, meets her solicitor’s troubled gaze, then Santesson’s. His bald head is still tilted on one side, and his smile is still full of false empathy. The bulldog leans forward as if he has scented blood. Anna closes her eyes, takes another deep breath.

‘Think of your daughter,’ Santesson says softly. ‘Doesn’t Agnes deserve to know the truth about how her father really died?’