Morell pulls a face. ‘Jesus Christ . . .’ He scratches his beard, considers for a moment. ‘And now you think one of them is involved in his death – is that how I’m supposed to interpret your visit?’ His voice has hardened. Only a fraction, but she doesn’t like it.

‘At the moment we’re keeping all our options open—’ she begins, but stops when he waves a dismissive hand.

‘Anna, I’ve been a police officer for far too long to listen to this nonsense. You have a death which, in spite of the lack of solid evidence, you are treating as a murder. You’ve also got it into your head that this case is linked to an incident that happened twenty-seven years ago, which was investigated and dismissed as purely accidental. And now here you are, ready to move heaven and earth to prove . . . what? I’m right, aren’t I?’ Morell shakes his head. ‘I have to say I’m very disappointed in you, Anna.’

Something in his tone makes her feel a stab of pain. She has no problem with anger, but disappointment is harder to deal with. Her father used exactly the same tactic. He never raised his voice, he just made it clear that he was ‘disappointed in her’.

‘I tried to warn you about Elisabet Vidje,’ Morell goes on. ‘She gives the impression of being old and frail, but behind the façade there is a cunning, manipulative woman who holds a grudge. I thought someone with your experience would realise that.’

He shakes his head again.

‘As I told you on the first day we met, in a small town like Nedanås police work is largely about building relationships with people. I thought we were on the same page, that we saw things in the same way. I invited you into my home, I even stood up for you when certain individuals questioned whether you were the right candidate to take over from me.’

His mouth twists, conveying his inner torment.

‘The fact that you’ve started running Elisabet Vidje’s errands shows that I’ve misjudged you.’

Anna searches for a suitable response, but her mind is blank. She hadn’t expected him to be pleased at her revelations, but she had at least hoped for some level of resigned understanding.

Morell puts his reading glasses back on. His face is set in grim lines.

‘Well, it’s your police station, Anna, and of course I can’t stop you. You don’t need my approval to rip open wounds that have taken almost thirty years to heal, but I have no intention of giving you my blessing, if that’s what you’re looking for.’

He focuses on the screen once more, with a brief nod in the direction of the door to indicate that the conversation is over. Anna can’t think of anything else to say, so she turns to leave.