Everything was quiet, apart from a man in tracksuit bottoms and a black hoodie who was standing by a lamp post, speaking Arabic into his phone while waiting for the dog he was holding by the lead to do its business. Further down the street, a gangly man who had pulled up his trousers far too high crossed at the pedestrian crossing and hurried past a young mother pushing a pram, probably on his way to Bjuv Mall, which would win first place in a competition to find Sweden’s most depressing place, hands down.

The stairwell was painted white and stippled in different colours, as though the painter had walked around flicking his brush at the walls. Probably to make it look just a little bit grimy even when it was freshly painted. There were about as many Swedish as foreign names on the board.

Moonif Ganem, as the boy was called, lived on the third floor with Aimar, Adena, Bassel, Jodee, Ranim, Rosarita and Nizar. At least, that’s what the multicoloured fuse beads on the door said.

After a few attempts at ringing the doorbell went unanswered, she opened the door and stepped into a hallway full of a chaotic jumble of shoes and clothes. The sound of agitated voices mixed with sobbing was coming from a room further in.

The boy’s parents were sitting by the table in the crowded kitchen. His mother, who was wearing a long dark dress and a purple headscarf that covered everything except her face, was crying, despite her husband doing his best to console her. On the table, among the cheese, butter, juice and other breakfast things, lay a number of tarot cards, and a baby was playing with a collection of measuring cups on a blanket on the floor.

‘Hi. You must be from the police.’

Lilja turned around to see a woman in her sixties with short grey hair and energetic eyes enter the kitchen.

‘Ingrid Samuelsson.’ The woman held out her hand. ‘I was the one who called it in. I live in the flat across the hall.’

‘Then maybe you can tell me what happened.’

The woman exchanged a glance with the mother, who nodded. ‘Adena came over to me at half eight, beside herself with worry. Moonif’s teacher had just called to ask why he wasn’t in school.’

‘And why are you so sure something bad has happened? Is there a reason to believe he’s not just playing hooky?’

‘Hooky? I no understand,’ the boy’s mother said, trying to collect herself.

‘She means to say Moonif might have not bothered going to school.’

The mother looked nonplussed. ‘My Moonif would never… He is very good in school. It’s his favourite.’

The woman nodded and turned back to Lilja. ‘Adena’s right. I know, because I used to be a teacher and I help him with his homework sometimes.’