Fabian continued into the hallway.

‘His name’s John and he doesn’t work for Hjalmarsson’s Pipes.’

Framed photographs from various sporting events hung on the walls. He had never taken much of an interest in sports, but the pictures drew him in. They were all black-and-white and taken from a distance, though with impressive sharpness, and showed everything from a young Zlatan Ibrahimović when he was still playing for Malmö FF to Patrik Sjöberg when he cleared the bar at 2.42 and broke the world record at the Stockholm Stadium.

The pictures continued up the stairs, and it was only when he stopped to have a closer look at the iconic picture of Björn Borg on his knees, kissing the Wimbledon trophy, that he realized he was on the first floor.

At the other end of the landing was a balcony door, and to the left a bedroom with a double bed, a bedside table and built-in wardrobes. Immediately to the right was a bathroom with a bath, a toilet and a washbasin all in the same shade of green as the dishwasher.

Next to the bathroom was a room with a big desk on which sat, among other things, a sewing machine and a half-finished quilt. One corner was occupied by a reading chair filled with patterned fabrics; a bookcase that completely covered one of the walls was crammed full of photography books, old photography magazines and a large collection of camera flashes.

On the opposite wall was a breakfront filled with lenses of every conceivable size, from small wide-angle ones to three-feet-long telephoto ones. A collection of tripods jostled for space in front of the wallpapered door of a built-in cupboard.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe they were just somewhere else in the house. But the fact was that, so far, he hadn’t come across any camera bodies. A professional photographer of Einar Stenson’s calibre without a single camera body in his studio was much too improbable. He should have owned countless models.

He guessed it was Molander. That he’d got rid of them and that this was where the key to his motive was hidden. On a strip of film or a memory card.

To make sure he hadn’t missed anything, he moved one of the tripods and opened the cupboard door, only to discover it wasn’t a cupboard at all but a staircase to the attic.

The attic was every bit as cluttered and chaotic as you would expect an attic to be after a long life. The ceiling was low; he could only stand upright under the roof ridge.

In the light from a grimy window on the short side of the house, he could see stacked moving boxes and woefully overloaded shelves vying for space between the trusses. Two free-standing cupboards flanked an old brown desk, which in turn was littered with enlargers, processing trays and bottles full of processing chemicals.