Vendela was woken by the phone. A friend wanted to borrow a book, could she call round? Vendela stretched in bed, wishing she hadn’t worked so late. And then there was that horrible stench, seeping through the building.

Rotting excrement. That’s what it smelled like.

‘I can bring pastries,’ her friend suggested. ‘From the cake shop just around the corner from you?’

Vendela loved morning coffee. And afternoon coffee. She just loved coffee, to be honest. But that smell . . . it was messing with her head.

‘You’re welcome to come over, but I’d rather go out for coffee. You’ll understand when you get here.’

Her friend arrived less than an hour later. Her expression was one of pure disgust when Vendela opened the door.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘But what the hell is that smell?’

Vendela gave a loud, theatrical sigh, but at the same time her heart had begun to pound. Deep down a suspicion had begun to grow. She thought she’d experienced the same stench before, when her grandmother hadn’t answered her phone for several days, and Vendela and her mother finally went over to her house and let themselves in.

Grandma?

Grandma’s sleeping, sweetheart.

‘I was hoping you’d help me find out,’ Vendela said. She slid her feet into a pair of slippers and went out into the stairwell. ‘I think it’s coming from up there.’

She set off up the stairs, followed by her friend, who was far from happy.

‘Jesus!’ her friend exclaimed when they reached the fifth floor.

‘It’s somewhere around here, isn’t it?’

‘Definitely.’

Vendela did what she’d done before – she rang each doorbell. Most of the residents seemed to be out, but a young woman opened one of the doors. Vendela couldn’t remember ever having seen her before, but didn’t like to ask if she was new. She didn’t want to give the impression that she was keeping tabs on her neighbours just because she worked from home.

‘Sorry to bother you, but it’s about the smell,’ she began.

‘Oh, I know! My partner and I searched the whole flat yesterday, but we couldn’t find anything that might be causing it. I rang the housing committee, but apparently they can’t help. They don’t have keys to our apartments, and they’re not allowed access. Which is perhaps a good thing.’

Vendela’s friend was busy going from door to door, pausing outside each one. Four doors, four potential sources of the smell.

‘In here,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s coming from in here.’

‘Are you sure?’ Vendela asked.

‘Absolutely.’

Vendela and the young woman looked at each other, then at the door.

The one with ‘Henry Lindgren’ on the nameplate.

Chapter 5