Brian lived as a property guardian in a former Asian restaurant that stood by a lake in the park. The enormous building resembled a farmhouse and was in a state of complete neglect, with damp walls and a leaky roof. The red-and-gold awning over the entrance had once given an impression of grandeur, but it was now covered in black stains and hung askew. A developer had bought the property with the intention of erecting a chic apartment building on this idyllic spot, surrounded by old chestnut trees and close to town. Until that happened, fifteen or so rooms in the old structure were being rented to people who paid very little on the understanding that they might be evicted at any moment. Ralf thought there was something spooky about the place. Especially at night. It stood a considerable distance from the road and was barely lit. The front door was seldom locked; anybody could come in or out. Ralf and Brian had once come across a vagrant camping out in the former restaurant kitchen with his shopping cart and sleeping bag.

The odor of cigarette smoke and cooking fat penetrated Ralf’s nostrils as he entered the building. A few dim lamps were lit in the hall. Pots of bedraggled artificial plants cast a blur of shadows. He walked through the kitchen, still lined with stainless-steel counters and shelves. A narrow staircase at the end led upstairs. The smell grew stronger now, mingling with mold and damp. The staff had slept up here; their mattresses had still been on the floor and their posters and calendars on the walls when Brian moved in.

Ralf stopped at the third door on the right. He pushed down the handle, but it refused to open. Ralf knocked. “Brian?”

Nothing.

He banged the door with the palm of his hand. “Brian? Hey, dude?”

The next door along swung open. Brian’s neighbor had his arm thrown over the shoulders of a girl who regarded Ralf with curiosity.

“Maybe he’s asleep?” The guy closed the door behind him and walked past Ralf, toward the staircase. The girl giggled.

Ralf waited until they were out of sight, then fished his keys out of his pocket and opened the door.

Brian’s room was small and packed with furniture. A double bed with a glossy black duvet, a wardrobe, a sideboard, a coffee table with a tinted glass top, and a few chairs. The dusky-pink curtains were drawn—Brian never opened the window. Next to the bed stood a half-full glass of Coke with a plastic bottle next to it. On the coffee table lay a crumpled Marlboro pack and an overflowing ashtray.

Brian was nowhere to be seen.

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