‘No . . . I’m sorry. But, look, I don’t get what it is you want me to—’

‘That’s OK, you should only tell us things you definitely remember.’

A short pause. Then Karen braces herself.

‘Have you been in contact with someone in the neighbourhood called Gundar Freske?’

Her question hangs in the air while Sandrine seems to search her recollection.

‘A man who may or may not be in a wheelchair,’ Karen adds.

‘Freske? No, I don’t think so. I don’t think there’s anyone in my building by that name. No one in a wheelchair either, for that matter.’

‘No, we know that. The person I’m asking about lives a few doors down.’

‘Well, then I have no idea. It’s not exactly the kind of place where neighbours know each other. Not me, at least. And I’m not likely to get to know anyone, either, because I’ll be out of that dump soon.’

‘You’re moving?’

‘I’ve actually managed to find a one-bed here in Joms and I’m moving on the first of June.’

‘Congratulations. This is a much nicer area. Close to work, too,’ she adds just as her phone dings. ‘Excuse me.’

She glances down at the short text.

Freske’s driving licence. Issued 07

She clicks the attachment. Studies the round, unremarkable face and the solemn eyes before turning back to Sandrine.

‘I would like to ask you to look at a photograph. Do you recognise this man by any chance?’

She holds up her phone and studies Sandrine Broe as she looks at the picture. Notes her expressionless face, the start of a headshake that’s never fully realised. And then the small wrinkle between her eyebrows.

‘Can I?’ Sandrine says and holds out her hand.

Karen gives her the phone and feels her pulse rise as she waits.

‘Look, I don’t know, but it could be him.’

‘Could be who?’

Sandrine doesn’t seem to hear her.

‘Except, no, not really,’ she says. ‘He must have been ten years older and he was bald, or at least shaved. You know, one of those pudgy types.’

Karen forces herself to keep still while Sandrine peers at the picture.

‘Though he does remind me of that guy in the pub. Like, around here,’ she says and indicates a rectangle with her thumb and forefinger in front of her own nose and eyes.

Karen takes a deep, silent breath. Searches for the right words, the right tone, afraid the moment might slip through her fingers.

‘The pub, you said. Which pub would that be?’

Sandrine looks up, seemingly surprised, as though the answer were obvious.

‘The Pirate. Though I guess pub might not be the right word, it’s kind of a restaurant with pizza and fried stuff, like, anything you can deep-fry. But they mostly serve beer and wine. Either way, it’s in the town centre, right next to the bus stop.’