Karen cross-references the names that turn up in the printouts. The man who played his music too loud for Loa Marklund’s tastes, Felix Baard, is not one of the people whose statement has been taken. The explanation for that is simple: shortly after the complaints were made against him, young Mister Baard moved. A quick search reveals that he has been arrested twice for vandalism and possession of marijuana. Current address unknown.

She makes a note.

The man on the lower-ground floor, Jaan Utered, on the other hand, still lives in the same flat. Loa Marklund’s complaint about drug dealing prompted New Builds to report him to the police. But there had been no drugs involved. The constant stream of young men visiting at all hours had instead been explained by the fact that Jaan Utered spent his ample free time shooting what he himself called ‘art house films’, but which had been given the slightly superfluous description ‘Pornography of a homosexual nature (gay porn)’ in the police case file.

No charges had been brought since everyone involved had been a consenting adult.

Karen leans back. She vaguely remembers that case. Or, rather, she remembers Evald Johannisen’s outburst when word leaked out from their colleagues in narcotics and vice.

‘I can’t believe I live in a country where men volunteer to film each other,’ he’d bellowed.

‘So it’s the filming that upsets you?’ Karen had calmly asked. ‘Or the consensual nature of it? Because if not, people might think it’s the homosexuality you find objectionable.’

Well, what do you know, all of that had happened in Loa Marklund’s building. Two check marks in the door-knocking report confirms that Jaan Utered has been both questioned and swabbed. He had, according to his own information, made no observations of any kind in connection with the attacks, but the report also mentions that he has no alibi.

Karen makes another note. Granted, Jaan Utered isn’t exactly a red-hot prospect, but his connection to the porn industry and the stream of visitors to his flat might be worth a closer look.

It’s all but certain to be more interesting than the young couple whose wailing child had Loa Marklund make yet another complaint to New Builds, anyway. Or Ethel Freske, Loa’s next-door neighbour, who had no less than four charges of balcony smoking against her.

Karen rubs her eyes and gazes out the window for a few minutes. Then she picks up another orange, bites into the peel, and reads on.

The emails Loa Marklund sent New Builds are bristling with anger and frustration. But there’s something else there, too, she muses. Something fragile. Loa Marklund had never seen a mental health professional, not so far as they’d been able to establish anyway, but she had been unemployed for three years and likely spent most of her life in the flat that had gradually come to be something of a prison.