Reidar Lindgren lived in Schleppegrells gate in Oslo, right next to Dælenenga – the sports field that, over the years, had been used for bandy hockey, athletics, speed skating and speedway, but now was crawling with footballer players – children as well as grown-ups. When Yngve finally found a parking space close by and stepped out into the cold Oslo afternoon, he was struck by how many people were out, despite it being windy and no more than five degrees. They were coming in and out of Birkelunden, a small park in the centre of Grünerløkka. Some were just on their way home from work, it seemed, arms full of groceries. Nearby, kids were playing in a school yard, dressed far too sparsely. What this part of the capital would look like on a hot summer’s day, Yngve could only imagine.

Reidar Lindgren met Yngve in the doorway of his apartment building. He was a robust man in his late forties. He wore a thick grey sweater on top of dirty working clothes and his long hair was tied up in a ponytail.

‘I could see you coming from the window’, he said with a smile as he firmly shook Yngve’s hand. ‘The bell isn’t working, you see.’

Yngve noticed his friendly ice-blue eyes.

‘Come on in.’

Yngve followed him up the stairs. It smelled like wet dog fur. ‘We don’t have a lift,’ Lindgren complained. ‘And I live on the fifth floor. It’s going to kill me one day’.

They were both breathing heavily when they finally reached the top. ‘Come on in,’ Lindgren repeated with a heavy exhale. ‘Want a coffee or something?’

‘I’m fine, thanks. Just show me to your brother’s room.’

‘You know, I wasn’t sure if I should even say anything,’ Lindgren said. ‘Frode being my brother and everything. I don’t know what he’s got himself mixed up in, but I do know that he would never do anything to hurt his own daughter. Don’t bother taking your shoes off.’

Lindgren took Yngve through a small hall and into a room with an exposed-brick wall. The curtains were pulled aside, giving the room some much needed light.

The bed was unmade. A sports bag was sitting open on the floor. A bloody T-shirt was lying beside it. Yngve bent down and using a pen from his jacket pocket, moved the T-shirt a little. It had blood stains all over it.

‘You know when he wore this?’ Yngve asked.

‘No’, Lindgren answered. ‘I’m afraid not.’

Yngve noticed a couple of pairs of boxer shorts in the bag. Some trousers, a shirt, a few pair of socks. A mobile phone charger was plugged into a wall socket. A bottle of vodka was on the floor as well, almost empty. The room was pungent with the smell of stale alcohol.

‘What has your brother been doing while he’s been here?’