The Andersson on the far left seemed the tidiest. Unlike the other two, he had neither bin bags nor shoes outside his door. If it even was a he? Judging from the postcard of roses on the door, it was more likely to be a woman. The Andersson on the right, on the other hand, was definitely a man, unless she was the owner of giant, Guinness World Record worthy, size-nineteen shoes. If not for the row of children’s shoes, she might have rung the bell. Instead, she turned her attention to the bin bag outside B. Andersson’s door.

She walked over, squatted down and opened it. A cloud of fruit flies swarmed up at her, causing her to back away instinctively, which made the bag tip over and spill its contents on to the floor.

In addition to various mouldy food remnants, she could see advertisement flyers from low-cost chain Alfo Gross, an old bottle of neon-blue nail polish and a push-up bra from H&M.

B. Andersson was most likely a relatively young woman who had nothing to do with the man they were after.

But, then, what had she expected? That he would jump out and turn himself in, just because she was poking through people’s rubbish? No, she should just quickly scan each floor and then turn the door-knocking over to a couple of uniformed officers, so she could be put to better use in the office.

The first thing she saw when she reached the next floor down was the note on the middle door.

Nice one-bed sublet from 1 July. 5,300 kronor/month.

Without knowing if she was really going to call, she ripped off one of the tabs with the phone number before turning to the door on the right.

P. Milwokh.

She definitely recognized it. But just like when you ran into someone from primary school who looked different now or hadn’t made a lasting impression, the name was little more than a combination of letters.

There was only one way to find out, she thought to herself, and she walked over and rang the bell. But she couldn’t hear it ring, so she pressed the little beige button again, harder this time. Still no sound. She knocked instead, so hard her knuckles smarted.

When that went unnoticed too, she decided to do a search for the name instead, as soon as she got back to the office. But just as she turned to leave, the tiny pinprick of light in the peephole darkened.

So there was someone inside.

She knocked again. ‘This is the police! Please open the door!’ She held out her ID and waited a few more seconds, during which nothing happened, and then pulled out her phone. ‘If you don’t, I have no other choice than to call for back-up to break the door down.’

The peephole remained dark.

Was she mistaken? Had the peephole in fact been dark all along?