The house was located at the end of the road, bordering on billowing rapeseed fields that eventually turned into the vast forests, meadows and deep ravines of the Söderåsen wildlife reserve. But idyllic was the last word Lilja would have used to describe it. The whole place made her so uneasy she wanted to tell Klippan to turn around and drive as far as he could in the opposite direction.

Instead, she got out of the car and signalled for the two uniformed officers in the car behind them to block the road with their car.

‘I guess we really have to hope we’ve come to the right place now,’ Klippan said, checking the magazine of his gun.

‘This is the place.’ Lilja started walking towards the house, pushed the squeaky wrought-iron gate open with her foot and continued into the garden, where she spotted a car, barely covered by a tarp.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Klippan walked over to the car and pulled off the tarp.

Inconceivably stupid as it seemed to park it in his own garden, that was clearly exactly what Assar Skanås had done. Because there it was. The orange Volvo he had escaped in after stabbing its driver.

Without a word, Lilja nodded for the two officers who had just joined them to circle around to the back of the house while she and Klippan proceeded towards the front door.

Normally, they would have rung the bell, and if no one opened, they would have engaged the services of a locksmith. This time, she had brought her own lock pick, to save time. But it wouldn’t be needed since she could see the door wasn’t, in fact, completely closed.

The air was thick with damp and mould; she could feel how each breath pulled things into her lungs that had no place there. They continued into the yellowish-brown hallway, covering each other with their guns.

The hallway turned into a dark passage with stained, dirty grey carpet and walls covered in fake wood panelling, framed embroideries and a collection of old rifles. The two doors on either side were closed, as was the door on the far side.

The first door on the left opened into a tidy bedroom, furnished with a single bed, a desk with two barbells and a book from the Nordic Resistance Movement entitled Handbook for Activists in the Resistance Movement.

The door opposite led into a kitchen with a small table for two. On it sat, among other things, a plate of spaghetti drenched in ketchup and a glass of milk. She dipped her index finger in the milk; it was still cool.