The area had been pinpointed by five masts and looked like an oval with a sixty-five-foot semi-major and a fifteen-foot semi-minor axis. The centre of the oval was at the junction of Furutorpsgatan and Carl Krooks Gata, and even though she had no memory of ever having been there before, it didn’t take her long to conclude that it was one of Helsingborg’s most depressing intersections.

Four buildings, one on each corner, each uglier than the last. And that was despite three of them having large corner balconies. Even though the sun was out, there was nothing on them but satellite dishes, rubbish and the occasional pigeon. Clearly, this was a forgotten corner of the city and in many ways a perfect location for a furtive child murderer.

That said, he could, of course, simply have been walking that way when he realized he’d forgotten to turn his phone off. Maybe he’d been on his way to the South Harbour via the underpass. There were a handful of residential buildings there. But apart from those, that area of town was mostly offices, industrial buildings and, in the main, a lot of freight and container ships. A possible way out if you didn’t want to leave signs of your departure.

If, on the other hand, he was holed up inside, there were, as far as she could make out, only two possible entrances within the confines of the oval. Furutorpsgatan 26 and Carl Krooks Gata 55. Of the two, the entrance on Furutorpsgatan was further from the centre of the oval, so she decided to start with the other one.

The building had five floors, and each floor had three flats. Among the fifteen names on the blue felt board with pinned-on plastic letters there were two Perssons, two Nilssons and no less than four Svenssons. On the third floor lived a P. Milwokh. She’d never heard the name before. At least not as far as she could remember. And yet it sounded vaguely familiar.

When she couldn’t think of why, she continued towards the lift, which jerked to life and started ascending at an uncommonly slow and uneven pace. She’d never been scared of lifts, but this particular one added to her unease, which had been growing since she walked past the funeral home.

When the lift finally came to a stop, she couldn’t get out fast enough. She proceeded to examine the three front doors, which looked like they were being cared for about as tenderly as the lift.

A. Andersson, B. Andersson and C. Andersson.

Was someone having her on?