Had she seen it was him? Was that why she wasn’t opening the door? Had she figured out why he was there and called her husband, who had promptly left Wessman’s flat and was now on his way home?

Her car was definitely parked in the driveway and he could see lights on in some of the windows. There was, however, no sign of the bike she had used the day before. Maybe she was running an errand. It hadn’t started raining yet. But it was in the air, like an omen, just waiting to start pouring down; she would have to hurry home if she didn’t want to get soaked.

That was probably why he was feeling cold. Considering they were only days away from Midsummer’s Eve, the weather was unusually chilly. Or maybe it was the same as every other year – overcast and four or five degrees warmer than Christmas. Even so, he could feel a droplet of sweat trickle from one of his vertebrae down his spine.

He, who was never usually nervous, was now trembling so violently he had no choice but to stick his hands in his pockets as the door slid open and Gertrud appeared, wearing an apron and curlers, staring as though she didn’t recognize him at first.

‘My goodness, Fabian, is that you? I had no idea who might be calling at this hour.’

‘Hi, Gertrud.’ He held out his hand, even though it was far from steady. ‘Do you have a moment?’

‘Yes, I suppose. What’s this about? Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘I’d prefer to discuss it inside. I think it might be starting to rain any second.’

‘Of course, I’m sorry, do come on in.’ She let him into the hallway and closed the door. ‘Let’s go into the living room. Oh, would you like some coffee?’

‘No, thank you, I’m good.’ He took his shoes off, only to discover he was still wearing the sock with the hole on the heel. ‘This won’t take long.’ He continued into the living room, which was beige, past the breakfront that housed Gertrud’s collection of crystal owls, which, if she was to be believed, had grown out of control because their friends insisted on sneaking a new one in every time they came to visit.

‘Isn’t he a sweetheart?’ Gertrud put down a tray with a jug of water and two glasses.

‘I’m sorry, who?’

‘Reidar, who else? The man you were talking to yesterday.’ She sat down on the edge of the sofa. ‘Water?’

‘No, thank you, I’m good,’ he replied, for the simple reason that his hand was still shaking too hard to hold a glass without spilling. Instead, he took a seat in one of the armchairs, pondering whether she had brought up Reidar because she’d already figured out why he was there and wanted to help him along.