The Lost Boy. Camilla Lackberg

      ‘So I can ask you some questions.’

      ‘I don’t know anything.’

      The man started to close the door, but Martin instinctively stuck his foot in the opening.

      ‘Either we have a brief chat here and now, or both of us will have to waste the whole morning while I take you down to the station and interview you there.’ Martin knew full well that he had no authority to haul Grip off to the station, but he took a chance that the old boy wouldn’t realize that.

      ‘All right. Come in,’ said Grip, unfastening the safety chain and pulling open the door.

      Martin stepped forward to enter, a decision he regretted the moment he smelled the stench.

      ‘Come back here, you little rascal. You’re not getting out.’

      Martin caught a glimpse of something furry and then the man threw himself forward and grabbed the cat by its tail. The creature meowed in protest but then allowed the man to pick it up and carry it into the flat.

      With the door closed behind him, Martin tried to breathe through his mouth so as not to throw up. The place was stuffy and reeked of rubbish, but the overpowering smell was cat pee. It didn’t take long to see why. Martin stood in the doorway to the living room and stared. There were cats everywhere – lying down, sitting up, and moving about. He did a quick count and realized there were at least fifteen. In a flat that couldn’t be much more than 400 square feet.

      ‘Have a seat,’ grunted Grip. He chased a few cats off the sofa.

      Martin cautiously sat down on the very edge of the cushion.

      ‘Okay, what do you want to know? I haven’t got all day. This lot keeps me plenty busy.’

      A fat, ginger cat hopped on to the old man’s lap, curled up, and started purring. The cat’s fur was matted, and it had sores on its back legs.

      Martin cleared his throat. ‘Your neighbour, Mats Sverin, was found dead in his flat yesterday. So we want to find out whether anyone who lives in the building saw or heard anything unusual over the past few days.’

      ‘It’s not my job to hear or see anything. I mind my own business and I expect everybody else to do the same.’

      ‘So you didn’t hear any noises from your neighbour’s flat? Or notice any strangers in the stairwell?’ Martin persisted.

      ‘As I said: I mind my own business.’ The old man petted the cat’s matted fur.

      Martin closed his notebook, deciding to give up. ‘What’s your full name, by the way?’

      ‘My name is Gottfrid Grip. And I suppose you’d like to know what everyone else is named too, right?’

      ‘Everyone else?’ said Martin, glancing around. Were there other people living in this flat?

      ‘This is Marilyn.’ Gottfrid pointed at the cat on his lap. ‘She doesn’t like women. She always hisses at them.’

      Martin dutifully opened his notebook again and jotted down word for word what the old man was saying. If nothing else, his report was bound to give his colleagues a good laugh.

      ‘The grey one over there is named Errol, the white one with the brown paws is Humphrey, and then there’s Cary, Audrey, Bette, Ingrid, Lauren, and James.’ Grip continued rattling off the cats’ names as he pointed to one after the other, and Martin wrote all of them down. He was going to have quite a story to tell when he got back to the station.

      On his way out the door, Martin paused for a moment.

      ‘So neither you nor your cats heard or saw anything?’

      ‘I never said that the cats didn’t see anything. I just said that I didn’t. But Marilyn here, she saw a car very early on Saturday morning, when she was sitting in the kitchen window. She sat there hissing like crazy.’

      ‘Marilyn saw a car? What kind of car did she see?’ asked Martin even though it sounded like a strange question.

      Grip gave him a scornful look. ‘Do you seriously think cats know about different kinds of cars? Are you out of your mind?’ He tapped his temple and shook his head, laughing. As Martin stepped out into the hall, Grip closed the door behind him and fastened the safety chain.

      ‘Is Erling in?’ asked Gösta, knocking lightly on the door jamb of the first room in the corridor. He and Paula had arrived at the council offices in Tanumshede.

      Gunilla gave a start. She was sitting with her back to the door.

      ‘Oh, you really scared me,’ she said, fluttering her hands nervously.

      ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that,’ said Gösta. ‘We’re looking for Erling.’

      ‘Does it have to do with Mats?’ Her lower lip began quivering. ‘It’s just so awful.’ She reached for a packet of tissues and used one to wipe away the tears that had welled up in her eyes.

      ‘Yes, it does,’ replied Gösta. ‘We want to talk to all of you, but we’d like to start with Erling, if he’s here.’

      ‘He’s in his office. I’ll show you where it is.’

      She got up and, after blowing her nose quite loudly, escorted them to an office further along the corridor.

      ‘Erling, you have visitors,’ she said, stepping aside.

      ‘Well, hello. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?’ said Erling heartily as he stood up and shook Gösta’s hand.

      Then he looked at Paula and seemed to be feverishly searching his memory.

      ‘Petronella, right? This brain of mine is like a well-oiled machine. I never forget a thing.’

      ‘It’s Paula, actually,’ she told him, reaching out to shake his hand.

      For a moment Erling looked a bit embarrassed, then he merely shrugged.

      ‘We’re here to ask you a few questions about Mats Sverin,’ Gösta told him. He sat down in one of the visitor’s chairs in front of Erling’s desk, which prompted Paula and Erling to sit down as well.

      ‘Yes, it’s awful,’ Erling said with a strange grimace. ‘Everyone in the office is very upset, and naturally we’re all wondering what happened. Is there anything you can tell us?’

      ‘Not much at this time.’ Gösta shook his head. ‘I can only confirm what you were told yesterday when we rang your office. Sverin was found dead in his flat, and we’re investigating his death.’

      ‘Was he murdered?’

      ‘That’s not something we can either confirm or deny.’

      Gösta could heard how formal his words sounded, but he knew that he’d catch hell from Hedström if he gave away too much information, which might damage the case.

      ‘We need your help,’ he went on. ‘From what I understand, Sverin didn’t come to work on Monday, or on Tuesday either. That was when you contacted his parents. Was it usual for him to miss work?’

      ‘On the contrary. I don’t think he’d taken a single sick day since he started here. As far as I recall, he was never absent for any reason. Not even for a dentist’s appointment. He was punctual, dedicated, and very conscientious. That’s why we got worried when he didn’t turn up or contact us.’

      ‘How long had he worked here?’ asked Paula.

      ‘Two months. We were really lucky to find someone like Mats. The job had been advertised for five weeks, and we’d brought in a few candidates for interviews, but none of them had the qualifications we were looking for. When Mats applied, we were concerned that he was over-qualified, but he assured us that the job was exactly what he wanted. He seemed especially keen to move back to Fjällbacka again. And who can blame him? It’s the pearl of