‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ Marie adds scornfully. ‘The commissioner has asked Uncle Henry to step in until they find a replacement for you. Jens Friberg turned out to be almost as much of a disappointment as you, so Henry will be in charge. And you already know what he thinks of Aunt Elisabet and her Polish tradesmen, who are putting his beloved Alexander out of business.’

Another wave of the gun.

‘OK,’ she says. ‘For obvious reasons, I’m not going to tie you up. Even Uncle Henry would find it hard to ignore that kind of evidence. As I’m sure you know, there are only two ways out. It’s up to you whether you choose to jump out of the window or die of smoke inhalation.’

Marie backs away, accompanied by the dogs, and disappears down the stairs. A second later they hear a thud, a rustling sound, then the front door closes. Anna leaps to her feet and runs to the top of the stairs. The two bales of hay are already burning, the flames half a metre high and spreading fast. Thick black smoke is rapidly finding its way up to the chapel. There is no chance of escaping by that route, and even if there were, Marie, Bruno and the dogs would be waiting for them.

Anna races down the other staircase, the one leading to the main door. She remembers the sturdy iron bar on the outside, but it’s worth a try. The door doesn’t move.

‘Anna!’ Lisa shouts. She hurries back to the chapel. The flames have already taken hold of the stairs, the bannister and the walls, licking up the dry wood with terrifying speed. The smoke makes her cough. She runs over to the window, grabs one of Agnes’s camera bags and slams it against the glass as hard as she can. The hole she makes is the size of a football. She keeps on bashing, shards of glass and splinters of wood from the frames whirl around her, and the wind and rain come rushing in. She takes several deep breaths; the fire behind her is eagerly sucking up the oxygen. She pushes her head out through the hole and looks along the side of the building, desperately searching for something to help her climb or cling to, but there is nothing, not even guttering, just a steep roof and shiny tiles, as slippery as ice from the pouring rain. She avoids looking down.

‘Anna!’

She turns and a wave of heat hits her full in the face. The fire has reached the top of the stairs, and a long orange pillar is climbing one wall – tall enough to lick the beams on the ceiling. The roar of the flames is mixed with the crackling of old wood, which is burning faster and faster. The acrid smoke sears her eyes and nose.