‘What’s happened?’ Anna asks. ‘We met an ambulance by the lodge.’

Marie tries to compose herself.

‘It’s Aunt Elisabet,’ she says quietly. ‘I found her on the floor.’

‘Is she alive?’

‘Yes, but it doesn’t look good. Klein went in the ambulance with her. I’m going to follow them as soon as I’ve . . .’ Marie gestures towards the mess on the floor, then tries to lift the armchair. Anna helps her. She’s only known Elisabet for a few weeks, and they’ve had their differences, but the news has upset her. Lisa looks shocked too.

‘What are you doing here anyway?’ Marie asks once the chair is upright. ‘It’s gone eight o’clock.’

‘We thought we’d call in and see Elisabet,’ Anna says, turning her head to try and signal to Lisa not to give anything away, but Lisa has gone over to the fireplace and is looking at the photographs on the mantelpiece.

‘I’m guessing this must be Simon?’ She picks up the baby photo of Simon and his father.

‘Yes.’ Marie straightens up, adjusts her glasses.

‘We’re alike,’ Lisa murmurs.

‘Sorry?’

Lisa turns with the photo in her hand, realises what she’s said. ‘They’re alike,’ she says quickly. ‘Simon and his dad.’

After a second or two, Marie nods.

‘I have to go. Anna, could you possibly pick those up while I turn off the lights, then I’ll lock up?’ She gestures towards the packaging on the floor.

‘Of course.’ Anna drops to her knees as Marie closes the door behind her.

‘What if we don’t get to tell her?’ Lisa says. ‘What if Elisabet dies without knowing I’m her grandchild?’

Anna has already had the same thought. It would be terrible if Elisabet Vidje has waited twenty-seven years for some kind of justice, then dies just before the whole story takes a fresh twist.

‘We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed that she recovers,’ she says, getting up and going over to the wastepaper basket. There is a small picture of a lynx above the desk, painted by Karl-Jo. The animal is alive, unlike the poor creature in Mats’s basement. She sees the stuffed lynx in her mind’s eye, the pain etched on its face, the trap that has bitten through its flesh, all the way to the bone. She thinks about the poor Pole who has apparently suffered the same fate, and she suddenly remembers something. In all the confusion after the car accident, she has almost forgotten the recently bandaged wound on Joe Rylander’s leg. An injury like that could easily have been caused by a gin trap.

She turns to the phone with the extra-large buttons and the sticky labels on the desk. She picks up the receiver and presses 3 for Mats. It rings out four times before he answers.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Anna Vesper. I want to ask you about your gin traps.’