Anna gives in, of course; the money isn’t a problem. The house in Äppelviken sold for four times the price she and Håkan originally paid, plus she received a large life insurance payout from the policy he had with the police officers’ union.

At least something good came out of all this, Håkan says with a grin. I bet you were surprised that you were still the beneficiary, even though we were divorced. Then again, you know why. You know it was my way of saying—

She closes her eyes, rubs her fingers over her ears. The trick works, and Håkan’s voice disappears.

A powerfully built bald man with impressive sideburns appears and introduces himself as the owner. He has a large plug of snus beneath his top lip. He is open and talkative in the way that some salesmen are, and she lets him chat for a while. Lets him add in a helmet, gloves and a lock that she was intending to buy anyway, then counters by negotiating a reduction of a thousand kronor, plus home delivery and a full tank of petrol, which seems to impress him.

‘We can have it ready for the weekend,’ he says in a strong local accent. ‘Where do you live?’

She gives him the address. He frowns, then the penny drops. ‘Oh – you’re the police officer who’s renting from Elisabet Vidje.’

‘Do you know her?’

The man shrugs. ‘I used to, but it’s many years since I spoke to her. However, I do bump into Bror Klein from time to time. He takes care of most things to do with the estate and the business.’

‘And Karl-Johan?’

‘The poor guy is in a nursing home in town – has been for many years. He doesn’t really know what’s going on, or so I’ve heard.’ He clicks his tongue sympathetically. ‘But no doubt Bror Klein takes good care of Elisabet.’ He winks suggestively, then takes out his receipt book. ‘You’ve got yourself in a bit of a pickle there.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re renting from Elisabet Vidje and working for Morell.’

‘I’m not working for Morell – I’m replacing him.’ Anna hears the irritation in her voice.

‘Of course. But you are aware of the situation?’

‘You mean Simon Vidje’s accident?’

‘Yes. If it was an accident . . .’

‘You don’t believe it was?’

He shrugs. ‘All I know is that twenty-seven years have passed, and people still don’t want to talk about it when anyone else is around. That has to mean something.’

‘But you don’t mind talking?’

The man grins so broadly that the plug of snus is visible.

‘I’m an old-fashioned pedlar, as you’ve no doubt realised. People like me can never keep our mouths shut, even when we probably should.’ He turns his attention to the receipt book. ‘Will you be paying by card, or cash?’