Alex stared at him.

‘Is that how you deal with builders you’ve engaged? By shooting them?’

The other man flushed.

‘You have to think outside the box,’ he mumbled before jerking his head in Benke’s direction. ‘Was he a poof?’

Alex was taken aback. A poof? Did he have the energy to point out that this was unacceptable language? To be the stickler who demanded political correctness? Who knew what the idiot would come out with next – maybe some racist term that would make Renata Rashid hit the roof. She was married to an Iranian, and knew exactly what it was like to be perceived as different. Alex suppressed a sigh. There were days when he seriously doubted whether talking could change the world, and this was probably one of those days, in spite of everything.

‘What makes you think he was gay?’ he asked, hoping his own choice of words and his tone would convey the right message.

‘His hands.’

‘His hands?’

‘The rings. He’s wearing a lot of jewellery for a straight guy – and isn’t that a woman’s ring?’

Alex frowned. He counted three rings: an ordinary signet ring and a freemasons’ ring, plus the one that his colleague thought was a woman’s ring. It was on the little finger of Benke’s left hand – gold, with what Alex assumed was a small diamond inset. Reluctantly he had to concede that it did indeed look as if it had been designed for a woman. Which didn’t mean that a man couldn’t feel good wearing it, of course.

But not this man, he thought grimly.

There was something archetypally masculine about Malcolm Benke and his home. Besides, the ring was too small, even for his little finger.

‘Can we take a closer look?’ Alex said to Renata.

She removed it from the finger, and Alex held it up, examining it by the light of the chandelier. The blasted latex gloves made his hands itch.

‘There’s an inscription.’ His young colleague was so close he was almost on top of him.

ALWAYS AND FOREVER. BEATA AND RICHARD

‘Beata,’ Alex said.

‘Wasn’t that his daughter’s name?’

‘It was.’

He dropped the ring into an evidence bag and handed it to his colleague. If this was Malcolm Benke’s daughter’s wedding ring, then why was he wearing it on his little finger?

Chapter 3

Hadn’t this been the worst summer ever? Fredrika Bergman thought so. She had searched her memory for one that could be classified as worse, but without success. She could remember summers that had evoked anxiety – who couldn’t? – but nothing like this.

I don’t want to do this any more.