Photos of the Vidje family are displayed on the next shelf. There are the picnic snaps she’s already seen, pictures on the beach, pictures from Karl-Johan’s studio at Tabor with little Simon spattered in paint, or sitting on the blue slide. Pictures of Simon and Elisabet, side by side at the piano. Then another picture of Simon in his student cap by the summer car, but this time flanked by his parents. The wind is blowing Karl-Johan’s blond hair, and even though Elisabet’s expression is more severe than her husband’s, it’s clear how proud they are of their son.

The third shelf is a collection of pictures showing Elisabet and Karl-Jo together, starting with their wedding photo, but there are plenty of others taken at about the same time. Klein isn’t in a single one, which strengthens her suspicion that he is the photographer. The last few are black and white: Karl-Jo, aged about twenty-five, perched on the back of a park bench, leaning forward. He is looking straight into the camera, and his gaze is so intense that its power can still be felt. Anna takes a step back. There is something so sad about this whole display. A rainy night, one false step on a slippery rock, and the love and happiness that shines from almost every photograph is gone, replaced by a dark tragedy.

She notices a record player just like the one her grandfather had. There is an LP on the turntable. It isn’t dusty, which must mean that Klein plays it often. She reads the label: Edith Piaf – Les Feuilles Mortes.

At the far end of the room there is a small door. Above it hangs a portrait of a young man. It isn’t his usual style, but it is obviously Karl-Johan’s work. The subject is lying on his stomach on a bed. His upper body is bare, and it is just possible to make out the edge of a sheet. A patio door is ajar behind him; something about the door and the light outside tell her that the portrait wasn’t painted in Sweden, but somewhere in Southern Europe – maybe France.

The man’s face is half-turned towards the observer. His fringe flops down over his forehead, he is wearing a wry, happy smile, and it takes her a few seconds to realise that she has seen that smile before. She moves closer, but there is no doubt. The young man in the painting is Bror Klein.

She stands there for a little while, trying to work out what this means. The portrait is intimate, a private moment between two people, not meant to be shared with anyone else.