‘It would be foolish to pretend otherwise,’ he said. ‘However, I can’t remember a single occasion when our rivalry led to any kind of conflict. We had an enormous amount of respect for each other.’

The smile faded. Fredrika liked his voice, his attitude. He had presence and focus. There was a precision in the way he expressed himself; he didn’t want to be misunderstood.

He misses his friend, she thought. And he’s not the one who shot him.

Alex brought out the photograph they’d found on the trolley.

‘When was this taken?’

Sten took out a pair of glasses from the breast pocket of his shirt and put them on. He looked closely at the picture, and his face changed. The sorrow was replaced by something else, something . . . more severe.

‘I don’t remember,’ he said, putting down the snap.

Fredrika picked it up.

‘We’re not expecting you to give us an exact date,’ she said. ‘But surely you can give us a rough idea?’

Sten folded his arms. ‘It might have been on a business trip, but I can’t remember which one.’

‘A business trip? Okay – which country are we talking about?’ Alex said.

Fredrika’s eyes were fixed on the wallpaper Karin had recognised from her daughter’s home in London.

‘Probably France,’ Sten said. ‘We often went over there. Paris.’

Fredrika leaned back; every scrap of sympathy she’d felt for the man was gone in a second. So he was playing games? He would have cause to regret that. She folded her arms, mirroring his posture.

‘I’m sure you did. Go to Paris, I mean. It’s a wonderful city. But this photograph wasn’t taken there, as you well know.’

The ensuing silence became uncomfortable for all three of them.

Tell us what you know, Fredrika thought. Because we don’t have the patience to play the waiting game.

‘Have another look.’ Alex took the photo from Fredrika and passed it across the table.

Fredrika was in no doubt: Sten Aber knew exactly where it had been taken, but for some reason he didn’t want to explain the context.

She cleared her throat and said firmly:

‘Okay, let’s temporarily ignore the fact that you’re pretending you don’t remember. Tell us who the other people are.’

The acrimonious tone of her voice provoked a reaction from both Alex and Sten. A smile played around the corners of Alex’s mouth for a second, while Sten looked furious.

‘I’m not pretending. I don’t remember.’

‘Whatever. So who are the others?’

Sten glared at her.

‘Well, that’s obviously Malcolm,’ he said, pointing. ‘The guy next to him is Eskil, a mutual friend of ours who died a few years ago.’

He fell silent.

‘And the fourth man?’

To Fredrika’s surprise, Sten leaned back in his chair and spread his hands.