‘There was quite a pile, actually. Michael Jackson’s Thriller . . . Joe and I . . .’ She pauses. ‘I call him Joe, not Dad. Anyway, we joked about Mum’s taste in music. I work for a record company, so music is both my job and my hobby. Joe thought that sounded exciting. He asked me lots of questions.’

‘Did you happen to notice whether any of the tapes went missing? Whether Joe took one with him?’

‘No, why?’

Because that’s probably where he found the tape Simon Vidje had recorded, Anna thinks. But why did Tanya have it in the first place?

‘Anyway – that letter from Elisabet Vidje,’ Lisa continues. ‘Joe had had one exactly the same, so I asked him to tell me what it was all about.’

‘And what did he say?’

Lisa picks at one sleeve of her sweater.

‘That’s partly why I’m here. He suddenly became very secretive. He said something about he and Mum being at a party in an old quarry, and that he hadn’t worked out what really happened that night until recently. He refused to say any more, but I realised that money was involved somehow. That was nearly always the case with Joe.’

‘And your mother? Did she ever mention the quarry?’

Lisa shakes her head. ‘Never – not to me or my foster parents. It was before my time, of course – I wasn’t born until the following year, but I was wondering . . .’ She falls silent, looks a little uncomfortable. ‘I was wondering if you could tell me a little more about what happened when that boy died. Do you think it had anything to do with my parents? I mean . . .’ She sighs. ‘Joe always thought that he was a little bit smarter than everyone else, that the world ought to fit in with him. I’ve met his type before – they’re not uncommon in the music business.’

Lisa’s ironic grimace makes Anna smile.

‘What they have in common is that they believe the whole world is made up of idiots – apart from them. It might sound stupid, but I can’t imagine Joe taking his own life. He was much too fond of himself to do something like that.’

Anna is about to respond when her mobile rings. Normally she would have rejected the call and switched her phone to silent, but it’s Agnes. ‘Excuse me, I have to take this,’ she says, slipping out into the corridor.

‘Hi, sweetheart!’ she says. Too much.

‘Hi, Mum – are you busy?’ Agnes doesn’t sound angry or accusatory.

‘Kind of – why?’

‘Mats is here. He says he wants to talk to you, it’s important.’ There’s a crackling noise as if she’s covering the phone with her hand, and she whispers: ‘I think it’s about Simon Vidje.’

‘I’m on my way.’