He quickly closed the door again, bolted it for security’s sake and stepped back into the apartment. He glanced to the right into the kitchen and saw nothing unusual, yet he couldn’t shake this unpleasant feeling. How could the door have gotten unlocked?

He bit his piercing, pulled it back and forth through his lip, quickly and nervously. He checked the bathroom to confirm that it was empty, too. Looking at the flickering, silent television in the darkened living room, he saw the light from the screen disappear before returning just as quickly. He sensed that the apartment was somehow suddenly different. It was as if the air had a different density, as if someone else was there. He looked behind the door and in the closet.

He found nothing, but he still couldn’t shake the unpleasant feeling of being watched.

* * *

“There must be thousands matching the description of the man at Central Station,” Mia Bolander said. “But I don’t think our man is in this pile. Unfortunately.”

“That’s what I told you,” Henrik Levin replied.

“And now I’ve told you,” she said, warming both hands around her coffee cup. She had a ham and cheese baguette in front of her.

“Okay, I admit it,” she said a moment later. “The tip from that teacher was worthless.”

It was late in the evening, and Café Fräcka Fröken was empty. They were taking a break after all of the questioning. Both were turned toward the picture window that faced Skvallertorget, where bicyclists, motorists and pedestrians usually combined into a sort of organized chaos without yield signs or traffic lights. Now, the cold had scared off the residents; the sidewalks were empty except for a few people who hid inside thick layers of clothing and longed for warmer climates.

“And nothing new about the girl who disappeared from the train, either?” Mia asked.

“No. I just hope she’s inside somewhere warm,” Henrik said. “No chance she’ll make it otherwise. She’ll freeze to death in just a few hours the way she was dressed.”

“But she seems to have been picked up,” Mia said. “Someone is keeping her somewhere, to make sure she delivers. Then they’ll let her go. If we’re lucky, we’ll find her in some airport somewhere. Or Central Station.”

“If she hasn’t already crossed the border,” Henrik said, concealing a yawn.

Mia nodded, taking two bites of her sandwich. A sunflower seed fell from the baguette to her plate.

“And The Old Man, then?” Mia said between bites. “Whom everyone knows of, but no one has heard or seen? The name itself, The Old Man, sounds like a sick longing for the father they never had when they grew up. I doubt he even exists.”

“Of course he exists,” Henrik objected. “Something’s going on, someone has taken over the market...”

“So you buy it? About The Old Man?”