Clothes were hung on steel hangers on a rail underneath the hat rack. A sailing life jacket. A raincoat, a proper raincoat of dark-green vinyl. A crocheted long cardigan with a belt that had ended up uneven and was touching the linoleum floor. She glanced at the shoes. Nothing with high heels. There was a baseball cap on the hat rack.

A loud, tinkling noise made her cross the threshold to the kitchen. The tap was on; a thin jet was thrumming onto a laminated placemat in the sink. Turning the tap off was like turning on the silence.

She had figured it would be messy, filthy even, but it wasn’t. At least no messier than her own house. Even the windows, through which different sections of the river could be seen, were clean. Unlike the Sillfors’ windows, which were more akin to pieces of modern art. No syringes, no empty bottles. Because that was what she had expected. She realised that now.

She touched the dishrag hanging over the tap. It was rigid. She went into the hallway, glanced at the stairs leading up to the first floor, where the sun formed a floating window on the wallpaper. For some reason, she didn’t want to go up there.

She opened a door. A closet. Then the bathroom. There was nothing to suggest she was in the home of a drug addict in either room, and she was ashamed at having thought that. She had made an assessment of Susso’s situation based on what Gudrun had told her. Gudrun who was, by all appearances, clinically insane.

A red, heart-shaped rug. An open box of tampons next to the toilet brush in its plastic holder. A handful of crime novels, a folded-up gossip rag. A foot file. A toothbrush sitting all alone in a glass. A small brown medicine bottle with a dropper. She picked it up and read the label. Nail and cuticle oil. One drop per fingertip twice daily strengthens nails and promotes growth. She smiled as she put the bottle back down on the sink. Anyone bothering with nail and cuticle oil couldn’t be too far gone.

She put the lid up, undid her trousers and sat down. Bent over and dug her phone out of her pocket. But her thumb stiffened before it could touch the glass of the screen. A thin, squeaking sound had reached her ears.

Old brake pads.

A car.

Anders studied the strange…

Anders studied the strange woman lying in his bed. The soft curve of her spine, a trail of clearly defined vertebrae. The dark cascades of her hair, tumbling across the pillow, greying from the inside. Under the little lamp that used to spread a mild glow over Johanna as she read at night.