But behind her is no police officer, as she’d expected, but a stately woman in her sixties, wearing a flowing piece of colourful fabric, a kaftan or some kind of dress. She’s tall, a bit heavy. Her hair is short and blonde, her eyes liberally painted, her cheekbones rouged. She has a kitchen knife in her hand.

Klara holds up her hands. The woman doesn’t seem threatening, more eccentric, but a knife is a knife.

‘Who are you?’ the woman asks.

Klara takes a step back into the apartment to get out of the radius of the knife, and swallows, trying to sound as calm as possible. ‘I’m a friend of Gabriella, the woman who lives here,’ she says. ‘I was supposed to stay with her tonight, but…’

She lets the sentence ebb away, holding up Gabriella’s keychain as if to prove something. The woman’s face changes, her aggression or fear gives way to something softer and more open. She lowers the knife slightly, angling it more towards the floor.

‘What’s your name?’ she asks.

‘Klara. Klara Walldéen is my name.’

Now, the last of her suspicion and indignation drains away and is replaced by a crooked and somewhat confused smile. ‘Oh, forgive me. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ – she looks down at the knife in her hand – ‘I don’t usually run around with knives.’

Klara relaxes and takes a deep breath. The woman takes a step closer to her and into the doorway, glancing back at the staircase. She pulls the door shut behind her again.

‘I know who you are, Klara,’ she whispers. ‘Gabi has told me about you.’ She lowers her voice further. ‘Did something happen to her? Gabriella has seemed to have a lot on her plate lately.’

‘What do you mean?’ Klara says.

‘It doesn’t feel safe here,’ the woman says, shaking her head. ‘Not safe at all. Come with me. We have a lot to talk about, I think.’

*

Klara follows the woman to her apartment, which is twice as big as Gabriella’s and just one floor up. She’s led through a hall with a green marble floor into a large living room that’s dominated by an enormous emerald sofa and a black baby grand piano. Through the windows she can see Gamla Stan and Kungsholmen spread out behind Riddarfjärden in the twilight. The snow is falling more heavily outside, and the snowflakes swirl in front of the French windows. The woman lights a couple of low table lamps before disappearing further inside the apartment. In that warm light, Klara can see the walls are covered with framed posters from the Royal Opera.