‘There’s an empty plate on the table next to the armchair,’ he said. ‘We think he made a sandwich and ate it in front of the fire.’

Fredrika wondered what Benke would have chosen if he’d known it was to be his last meal. Probably not a sandwich. She continued into the hallway, past what appeared to be a study. There wasn’t a single sheet of paper on the desk. She felt the same as she had in the kitchen: did he ever work in there? She stepped inside, examined the well-organised bookshelves (so well-organised that it was hard to envisage anyone ever picking out a book). She went upstairs and found more rooms with clear functions; again, she couldn’t imagine Benke using them himself. Two guest rooms and a TV room furnished with two Chesterfield sofas. She tried one and thought it would be impossible to find a comfortable position. Finally she reached a large bedroom that must be Benke’s. The bed was made, a tie lying on top of the covers. Yesterday’s paper was on the bedside table.

She opened the wardrobe and stared at the shirts, trousers and suits. She didn’t know what she was looking for, what she thought she might find.

She went back downstairs. Alex was on the phone to his partner Diana.

‘I’m not sure when I’ll be home – I’ll call you later. Love you.’

Love you.

Wasn’t that too personal? Or had Fredrika become oversensitive? She’d never been one for exposing her private life, or for involving herself in the affairs of others. However, she knew she’d been unusually quiet during the spring – even for her. She never asked Alex if everything was okay at home, mainly to avoid similar questions in return.

How are things with you and Spencer?

Pretty bad, actually.

Fredrika blinked and focused on the living room. There were several large paintings on the walls, acquired presumably because they were expensive and impressive rather than because Benke appreciated the artists. There were only three framed photographs, arranged on the mantelpiece. They were all of children, and Fredrika guessed they were taken during the 1980s. Once again, the balance seemed wrong; why so little of a personal nature in his own home?

‘How many children did he have?’ she asked Alex, who’d finished his call.

‘Two.’