Agnes’s face comes into Anna’s mind. Her daughter, her little girl, whose name Santesson is using as if he knows her. She opens her eyes, licks her lips. The camera lenses are staring at her. Santesson leans even closer, as if he’s desperate to hear what she has to say.

‘Which year did you do the course?’ she asks with exaggerated calmness.

‘What?’

Santesson’s fake sympathy disappears in an instant, and one eyelid twitches.

‘The FBI course on interrogation techniques. Which year did you do yours? I did mine in New York in 2010.’ She feels the anger constricting her throat, but keeps it in check.

Santesson’s eyelid twitches a little faster. He narrows his eyes, but can’t stop it.

‘You’re very good,’ Anna goes on. ‘First there’s the file, which you’ve stuffed with papers so that it looks full. The last time I was here it wasn’t even a quarter of that thickness.’ She demonstrates with her finger and thumb. ‘Then there’s the discreet way you drum on it intermittently with your fingers, to make sure I keep thinking about what it contains. All the evidence piled up against me. Nicely done.’

Santesson’s mouth is a thin, hard line, not unlike the expression Elisabet Vidje frequently adopts.

‘That little trick was also nicely done,’ she goes on. ‘You didn’t actually say you’d found my fingerprints on the infusion pump; instead, you asked if I could think of any good reason why my prints should be on it. It sounds the same, but it isn’t. However, if a person is stressed, he or she doesn’t pick up on the difference.’

Santesson doesn’t move a muscle, but the bulldog hasn’t mastered the necessary poker face. His eyes dart from side to side, avoiding her gaze and glancing at his boss for guidance.

‘The dot over the “i” is your final masterstroke, when you minimise the significance of the act itself in order to make it sound more acceptable. Not murder, but an act of mercy. Not manslaughter, but an act of kindness and love. Because it’s so much easier to confess to an act of love. After all, that makes you a good person, not a real criminal, doesn’t it?’

Santesson sits up straight; his lips have practically disappeared now. A tiny, almost imperceptible bead of sweat has broken out on one temple, and he irritably wipes it away.

‘Listen to me, Santesson,’ Anna continues, her voice firm and steady. ‘Yes, I did ask one of the nurses about how the infusion pump worked. There’s nothing strange about that. Morphine was the only thing that helped Håkan to get through those final weeks, so it was hardly surprising if I was interested in how the pump worked and what dosage he was on.’