There’s a beautiful little gilded writing desk by the window and I conjure her up in my mind, sitting there sipping green tea with lemon, humming to herself, writing a little, pausing to look out at the comings and goings in the street below.

I sit on the sofa while Anton makes coffee. He seems familiar with the layout of Leah’s apartment and effortlessly locates the coffee pods and the sugar in the cupboards, placing them on a little lacquered tray. He pours milk into a jug and I wonder whether Leah bought it, or if Anton did. Has he hurt her and is he posing as the concerned boyfriend, staying at her apartment and pretending to wait for the woman he claims to love to come home? It wouldn’t be the first time a violent, jealous man has done something like that. I feel a dull ache in the pit of my stomach. It’s that breathless sensation that follows a punch, before the pain fully sets in.

‘When did you last see Leah?’ I ask as Anton sits down across from me.

‘I told you. A few days ago. Uh, Saturday.’

‘When did you see her before then?’

‘On Friday morning last week.’

‘You were with her on Friday morning?’

‘Yes. I stayed over and in the morning we had breakfast, then went for a walk. I left around ten thirty.’

‘Right.’

‘Look, I took a picture of us.’ Anton pulls his phone out from his jeans pocket and scrolls down until he finds what he is looking for. He turns the screen to show me. It’s a selfie of himself and Leah posing in front of a fountain I recognize as the one in St Hanshaugen park, drained for the winter season. They are both smiling and Leah is looking slightly off into the distance, as though she didn’t know exactly where to look into the phone camera.