‘What are you trying to say, Ivan?’

‘I had the letter checked for prints. Noah’s were there, and one other person’s. I want to know who that other person is, because it isn’t Ross.’

‘What’s your plan?’ Alex asked.

‘I need access to the wills, then we can check the prints on those against the letter to find a match. Because by definition a will is not anonymous.’

Silence once more. Alex didn’t know what to say.

‘How are these wills stored?’ he asked eventually. ‘You mentioned a secure filing cabinet.’

‘Each will is in an envelope, and they’re kept in suspension files in the cabinet. Some of the envelopes are sealed, some aren’t.’

‘And you want to open all the envelopes and ask forensics to lift prints from the original documents?’

‘Yes.’

‘We need to be very clear about what we intend to do with that information,’ Alex said. ‘We already know that we probably won’t be able to link the letter to Ross.’

‘I’m thinking that if we get a match on the prints, then we might be able to rule out the letter as a lead,’ Ivan said. ‘Depending on the identity of the writer.’

Berlin shook her head. ‘Good idea, but I can’t see the prosecutor agreeing.’

‘From a purely legal point of view . . .’ Ivan began.

‘It’s worth asking,’ Alex insisted.

‘I spoke to our helpdesk,’ Berlin said. ‘They’re already inundated with worried callers who’d been dealing with Noah Johansson. They’re fielding queries about everything from postponed funerals to unpaid invoices.’

‘Didn’t he have any employees?’ Alex wondered.

‘One assistant,’ Ivan replied. ‘She’s on holiday, but she’ll be back this evening.’

Berlin went to fetch some coffee. She stopped in the doorway and turned back.

‘Contact the prosecutor. I want those wills opened; we have to find out who wrote that letter.’

Chapter 19

Back in the day, Spencer Lagergren had been a real romantic. He still was, but he was running out of energy, and more often than he was prepared to admit the pain in his head was so agonising that he saw stars.

Fredrika was late home from work again. For once he hadn’t cooked a meal. She arrived at seven o’clock. The door opened, her handbag landed on the floor. The clatter of a coat hanger falling. He went out in the hallway as she picked up the hanger and took off her jacket. She must have heard him, but she didn’t look up. Instead she bent down and took off her shoes.

Something had happened.

Does she know?