“Oh, nothing much happens there these days. I’m just waiting for approval from the zoning board on the building plans. We plan to renovate, make space for apartments and such. But the process takes time. So it earns basically nothing right now.”

“You mean it’s empty?”

“I used to rent rooms and such, but not anymore.”

“But you already have some tenants, right?”

“Well, it isn’t like I don’t know that the Wool Factory is used by squatters and addicts, but there’s not much I can do about that right now.”

“Otherwise is the building empty? No legitimate renters?”

“No, they’re hard to come by. I’ve tried to rent out space as storage areas in the attic to cover some of the costs—it’s relatively clean—but that hasn’t been easy. A few days ago, a woman actually wanted to rent one of the spaces.”

“Strange that anyone wanted to rent there,” Mia said. “Do you remember her name?”

“Not off the top of my head. She was a lovely little thing. Wore leather gloves. If I were only twenty years younger...well, maybe forty.”

“I believe you,” Mia said. “Can I see the contract?”

“Of course, of course. I’ll go get it,” Stig said, leaving the kitchen.

Mia stayed behind, staring into her water glass and thinking how she hated these routine visits.

Stig came back with a rectangular black binder and placed it on the table. He flipped through papers and rental contracts, stopping halfway through.

“Wait a second,” he said, starting over. He ran his finger over the names and dates. Page by page, property by property.

“It’s in here, the name you’re looking for. It starts with a J, that much I remember.”

Stig flipped through more pages.

“Here it is. Here’s the name you’re looking for.”

He turned the binder around to face Mia and pointed to the corner with his finger.

“JB,” he said. “Jenny Bengtsson.”

* * *

Henrik Levin’s shoes stuck to the vinyl floor as he moved his legs. He studied Axel Lundin. The first thing he noticed was the birthmark on his hand, then the wide furrow on his forehead. He had dark hair, dark eyes.

He hadn’t slept enough, he thought, because when he sat there with Axel Lundin in front of him, he couldn’t help but think about how his appearance didn’t only match the man who had been seen at Central Station last Thursday evening, but also the person Ida Eklund had seen outside Robin Stenberg’s apartment Friday night.

Next to Axel sat his lawyer, Peter Ramstedt, playing with his gold-colored cuff links.

Axel told Henrik that on Friday evening, he had been at home at his apartment. Henrik was unsure whether he should believe him since he had no real alibi.

“And Thursday evening, around ten, where were you then?”

“Probably also home.”