And that was all it took to make her turn the car around and head for Nacka instead. She would still have time for her meeting; it wasn’t for a few hours. And the violin could wait. Alex had called on behalf of the dead; that wasn’t something she could ignore.

*

The place was unusual, almost like a modern haunted house. If it had been in a children’s cartoon it would have been festooned with cobwebs, dust and dirt, and the odd broken window. In reality it was clean and tidy, but soulless. Fredrika got out of the car and walked towards the front door, which was wide open. A colleague supplied her with protective clothing before she was allowed inside. This was no longer a private residence, but a crime scene where every trace of the perpetrator must be secured, every trace of the police noted and eliminated.

Fredrika slipped on her shoe covers and thought how easy it was to switch into work mode. The transformation was blissful; all the bad thoughts were temporarily sent packing when she disappeared into her professional role.

She found Alex in the living room, the deceased seated in an armchair. There was a corner sofa facing a TV, but Malcolm Benke hadn’t been watching television when he died. He had been gazing at the open fire – at least that was how it looked to Fredrika.

‘Is he known to us?’ she asked Alex, wondering if he had a criminal record. She took in his silver-grey hair, his pleasant face.

He seemed to want to whisper ‘welcome’.

‘No,’ Alex said. ‘Not as far as we can tell.’

That didn’t necessarily mean a great deal, and they both knew it. Benke could have been involved in criminal activity without the police being aware of it; there were an alarming number of felons out there.

Fredrika glanced around. The decor exuded gravitas and a conscious attempt to appear stylish, giving the impression that everything was expensive and carefully chosen. It reminded her of an exclusive hotel. This wasn’t a home in the real sense of the word; it was just a place where Benke spent more time than anywhere else.

‘I’ll take a look around,’ she said. Alex didn’t answer; he was talking to one of the CSIs.

Fredrika moved silently through the house. The kitchen was one of the nicest she’d seen. Top-quality French tiles and glossy cupboard doors in a subtle shade. Perfect for someone who enjoyed cooking. But was Benke the kind of man who wandered into the kitchen and threw together a boeuf bourguignon? It seemed unlikely.

There was a loaf and a bread knife on a board.

‘Was he eating when he died?’ Fredrika asked a CSI who was busy examining the rubbish bin under the sink.