As Jens gets closer the Rottweiler darts forward and snaps at thin air, then backs away as the distance between them diminishes. Jens still keeps on walking, without even glancing at the dog. With three metres to go, the powerful animal decides to go for Jens’s legs. Jens doesn’t slow down, he simply delivers a well-aimed kick. The Rottweiler whimpers, staggers backwards then limps away, managing the odd half-hearted bark. It is impossible not to be impressed by Jens’s composure. He doesn’t stop to receive the accolades of his colleagues, but continues towards the house.

The impression of neglect is even stronger when they round the corner of the main building. The yard is full of muddy puddles with dark, rainbow-coloured surfaces. Scrapped cars piled on top of one another lean against the wall, presumably placed there by the yellow Volvo wheel loader parked at an angle in front of a door marked OFFICE.

The door opens and a man in his early seventies emerges. He is wearing a pair of stained green trousers and a flannel shirt that might once have had a check pattern, but these days has degenerated into fifty shades of shit. His hair is long and greasy, he hasn’t shaved for at least a week, and even though he is some distance away, Anna’s nose detects that he probably hasn’t showered for quite a while.

‘Whatdoyouwant?’ he says, running the words together.

‘Kent Joakim Rylander,’ she replies.

‘Jocke? What’s he done now?’

‘Can we go inside?’

After a brief hesitation the man reluctantly steps aside and lets them into a cramped little room. Virtually every surface is occupied by plies of paper and filthy car parts. The stench is so overwhelming that Anna has to breathe through her mouth. The Rottweiler is lying on a disgusting blanket in one corner; it must have slunk in through the crooked dog flap in the door. It lets out a low growl, but lowers its head and falls silent when Jens takes a step closer.

‘How do you know Rylander?’ Anna asks. The man sits down behind his cluttered desk. He doesn’t offer them a seat, which is hardly surprising since all the chairs are occupied.

‘I was with his mother for a while in the ’80s. You could say I’m his stepfather. Or I was. As I always say to the police, whatever Jocke’s been up to, it’s nothing to do with me.’

‘But he does live here?’

‘He’s still got his old cabin. He comes and goes as he pleases. I intended to clear out all his crap years ago, but I never got around to it. I didn’t realise he’d given this place as his address until his post started arriving.

The man gestures towards the chaotic room.