The place already seemed uninhabited, the silence between the walls almost palpable, as if it were here to stay. Anette realized that she was humming to herself to fill up the empty space as she moved from room to room. There really was nothing conspicuous. Exasperated, she opened drawers and rummaged around looking for anomalies. There had to be some objectionable letters, secret pictures, a butt plug, for Pete’s sake! She browsed through the books on his bookshelf, opened the drawers under the bed, and looked through the bathroom cabinet. Nothing. Even his kitchen rubber bands were neatly bundled together.

Malthe Sæther had canceled his weekend date with Josephine to help a student—that much they knew. He had talked to his girlfriend on the phone, let himself out of his apartment, gone down the stairs, and then what?

Anette closed the apartment door behind her and walked down the stairs, trying to retrace his footsteps: Where had he gone? Had he had an appointment to meet someone, or did he surprise them? Very few people like to be surprised.

On the sidewalk outside the front door Anette stopped and looked at the bike rack next to where she had parked her car. Malthe had loved bicycling. No matter where he had gone Friday night, surely he didn’t walk. She knew he didn’t own a car, so one would assume he either rode his bike or took public transit.

“Did you come from Malthe’s place?”

Anette turned toward the voice and saw a woman in a knit poncho sitting on the steps of a little cellar shop, smoking. The poncho’s garish Rasta colors made her Scandinavian post-winter skin look like wet cardboard.

“Do you know him?” Anette asked.

“Yup. I don’t live here myself, but I run the shop down here, so I saw him pretty often. Terrible story, can you imagine?” The woman spoke with her cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. “Are you with the police, too? There’s been a steady stream the whole day.”

“I’m a detective with the Investigations Unit,” Anette said with a nod.

“Really? I didn’t know they let women do that!” The Rasta woman winked to emphasize that she was kidding.

“You haven’t seen Malthe’s bike, have you? It’s an expensive one, a light green road bike.”

“Hmm, I’m sure he kept that in the bike room, not on the street.” She put her cigarette out and dropped the butt into a jam jar on the step beside her. “But he rode off on it the last time I saw him. It was on Friday night.”

“Friday night? You mean this last Friday?” Anette came a step closer. “What time was it, exactly?”