had withered so that now only bare, sorry-looking stalks filled the flowerbeds. And the sky seemed to be forever hidden behind a thick layer of grey. She spent most of her time indoors. Outdoors she shivered with the cold, no matter how warmly she tried to dress. Indoors, the house was so small that it felt as if the walls were slowly closing in on her.
Sometimes she caught Julian glaring at her, but whenever she met his eye, he would look away. He hadn’t yet spoken a word to her, and she couldn’t understand why he was so antagonistic. Maybe she reminded him of some woman who had treated him badly. But at least he seemed to like the food she cooked. Both he and Karl ate their meals with good appetites, and she had to give herself credit for her ability to put together delicious dishes from limited ingredients, which at the moment was mostly mackerel. Every day Karl and Julian went out in the boat and usually came back with a large number of the silvery fish. She fried up some of them for dinner and served them with potatoes. The rest she salted so that they’d last all winter, since she’d heard that there would be even colder days ahead.
If only Karl would give her a friendly word once in a while – that would make her life on the island seem so much easier. But he never looked her in the eye, never gave her an endearing pat as he passed. It was as if she didn’t exist, as if he hardly realized that he had a wife at all. Nothing had turned out as she’d imagined, and occasionally she would hear Edith’s words of warning echoing in her mind. That she needed to take heed.
Emelie always shook off such thoughts as soon as they came. Life was hard out here, but she had no intention of complaining. This was the lot that she had been dealt, and she had to make the best of it. That was what her mother had taught her before she died, and that was the advice she planned to follow. Nothing ever turned out the way people thought it would.
Martin hated knocking on doors. It reminded him too much of when he was a kid and had been forced to go around selling lottery tickets, socks, and other idiotic rubbish in order to make money for school expeditions. Still, it was a necessary part of the job, all this trudging in and out of blocks of flats, going up and down stairs, and knocking on every single door. Thankfully, he’d dealt with most of them the day before. He glanced at the list he’d pulled out of his pocket to see who was left and decided to start with the most promising candidate: the third tenant who lived on the same floor as Mats Sverin.
The nameplate on the door said Grip. Martin checked his watch before he rang the bell. It was only eight o’clock; he was hoping to catch the tenant at home before he or she left for work. When no one opened the door, he sighed and then pressed the bell again. The shrill sound hurt his ears, but there was still no response. He was just about to head downstairs when he heard the sound of a lock turning behind him.
‘Yes?’ The voice was surly.
Martin hurried back to the door of the flat.
‘I’m from the police. Martin Molin.’
The safety chain was on, but he caught a glimpse of a bushy beard in the door opening. And a bright red nose.
‘What do you want?’
Hearing that Martin was from the police didn’t seem to have made Mr Grip any more amenable.
‘A man died in that flat over there.’ Martin pointed towards Mats Sverin’s door, which was now sealed with police tape.
‘Yes, I heard about that.’ The beard bobbed up and down in the doorway. ‘What’s it got to do with me?’
‘Could I come in for a few minutes?’ Martin asked in the pleasantest tone of voice he could muster.
‘Why?’
‘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
