It was after four o’clock by the time Vendela decided to start searching for Henry Lindgren. The housing committee had finally woken up to the fact that there was an issue, but they weren’t much use. Two representatives turned up, rang Henry’s doorbell and called his landline, but there was no response. They simply stood there and shrugged. One of them had seen Henry leaving the building with a suitcase a few days earlier, and assumed he’d gone away. Vendela didn’t think so.

She was so cross; she was going to have to do this herself. She called her nephew, who was good at solving problems. He was also good at finding things out, unlike Vendela. She’d tried to track down the names of Henry Lindgren’s relatives, but without success.

‘What exactly do you want to know?’ her nephew asked.

‘If Henry has any children who might have an idea where he is.’

Her palms grew sweaty as she spoke, because the suspicion in her mind had become a virtual certainty.

What stinks like that?

Death.

Her nephew called back a few minutes later.

‘No children, but there’s an ex-wife. Easy – you could have found her yourself.’

‘Obviously not,’ Vendela said.

She scribbled down the number and her nephew wished her luck. She thanked him for his help, then called the ex-wife. Please let her answer, please don’t let this be another dead end.

The signal rang out eight times, then a hoarse voice said: ‘Vera Lindgren.’

Vendela cleared her throat, almost dropped the phone, then said: ‘Oh, hi, hello, my name is Vendela Nilsson.’

Oh, hi, hello? What’s wrong with me? Get a grip!

The woman waited patiently. Vendela sat down on the sofa, moved a magazine and brushed a petal off the cushion.

‘This is really embarrassing, but I don’t have anyone else to contact. It’s about Henry, your . . . your ex-husband. We’re neighbours. Well, kind of.’

‘Has something happened?’

Her reaction was so quick, her voice was so full of concern that Vendela immediately felt a sense of relief. Vera wouldn’t have sounded like that if she couldn’t bear to hear Henry’s name.

Vendela cleared her throat again, unsure of how to continue.

‘No. Or rather . . . I don’t know. We can’t get hold of him. There’s something to do with the apartment block we’d like to discuss with him.’

‘We’ sounded better than ‘I’. Stronger, more convincing. She didn’t want the ex-wife to think she was a busybody with no life or interests of her own.

‘I understand. Have you tried his mobile?’

‘Several times. A member of the committee said he thought he’d seen Henry leaving with a suitcase a few days ago. I wondered if you might know where he’d gone?’