‘There’s probably more, but he did delete his browser history. Don’t worry,’ he adds when Jounas Smeed opens his mouth. ‘We’ll get it all back.’

‘Good,’ Björken says. ‘That he deleted it, I mean. Suggests there’s something there he didn’t want us to see.’

They quickly skim the handful of emails sent to Gundar Freske that don’t have subject lines like ‘Sexy girl waiting for you’ or ‘Congrats! You’ve won $5,000’. The subject lines of the emails from New Builds are considerably grimmer, such as: ‘Notice of received complaint’, ‘Reminder of failure to pay rent’, and ‘Eviction notice’.

Jounas Smeed opens them and reads. The sentences seem cut and pasted from a standard template, indicating routine procedure: dry, neutral, and impersonal. All sent from [email protected]. All signed by Anita Kollbar.

‘So that thing’s our best hope,’ Smeed says gloomily with his eyes fixed on the technician who is now carefully packing up the computer. ‘I guess we should have a look at the rest of the place.’

The rest of the place turns out to be exactly the depressing, smoke-infused, yet relatively tidy, flat Karl Björken remembers from his previous visit. Judging by the fine layer of dust on them, the floors appear to have been vacuumed no more than a week or two ago. Nothing on the kitchen counter aside from an upside-down drinking glass and the kitchen table is spotless. A handful of crumbs on the floor are the only sign that anyone ever ate at it. The fridge is still surprisingly well-stocked, and a few folded-up paper bags wedged behind the kitchen doors reveal that Gundar Freske was a regular customer of homedelivery.dg.

Jounas Smeed flips through a stack of unopened window envelopes sitting next to the coffee machine.

‘Late notice, debt collectors, pension statement . . .’ he says dully. ‘I’ll have Loots go through it.’

They move through the rooms increasingly glumly, following the technicians as they brush and scrape – God knows why, Björken thinks dejectedly – and finally end up in what used to be the mother’s bedroom.

‘Bloody hell,’ Smeed exclaims.

Together, they study what might best be likened to a freeze-frame of Ethel Freske’s last moments in the flat. Nothing seems to have been moved, or even touched. The unmade bed, the imprint in the pillow, the dress and socks neatly hung over the arm of a chair, a pair of knickers that have slipped onto the floor. The bedside lamp that’s still on.

A sudden feeling Ethel Freske might appear behind them at any moment and ask what on earth they’re doing in her bedroom.

Or be found mummified under the bed, Karl Björken thinks with a shudder.