The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7)

142.’
    ‘It’d probably be best if we surprise him.’
    They quickly walked over to the first building. A dilapidated sign on the peeling façade told them that it was number 120. They continued along the deserted street.
    Jacobsson gave an involuntary start when a person appeared from around the corner. A young guy wearing a cap pulled down over his forehead came walking towards them with a pit bull on a chain. Jacobsson and Wittberg were not wearing uniforms, but he gave them a scornful look and spat on the pavement as he passed. I’m sure we smell like cops, thought Jacobsson. When they came to number 142 they found the letters ‘KSS’ sprayed in black paint all over the front entrance. It was the acronym for ‘Keep Sweden Swedish’.
    ‘Nice neighbourhood,’ muttered Wittberg. They paused at the door. The glass in the top part was broken.
    Jacobsson looked up at the façade of the building, then she stepped inside. What a contrast it was to the sunlight outside. Dim lighting, thewalls a speckled brown, and a faint smell of rubbish. Wittberg took the lead and headed up the narrow stairs. Not a sound was audible. One storey, two. Each floor had four plain doors leading to the flats.
    When they reached the third floor, they found what they were looking for. A handwritten piece of paper had been stuck in the nameplate: ‘Sten Boberg’. And above the letter slot there was another sign. ‘No junk mail, please’. Jacobsson and Wittberg took up position on either side of the door and then they rang the bell. The sound reverberated inside the flat. They waited thirty seconds. No reaction. Jacobsson rang the bell again. They waited. Still nothing. They exchanged glances. A few more attempts with no results. Wittberg pushed open the letter slot as far as it would go and shouted: ‘Police! Open up!’
    Suddenly they heard the clattering of a lock from the floor above, and a weak, trembling voice said: ‘What’s going on?’
    Jacobsson ran up the stairs in three bounds. The door in the corner was slightly ajar. A bleary-eyed old woman was visible in the gap. A thick security chain prevented the door from opening further. Jacobsson guessed that the woman was in her eighties. She was short, with white hair, wearing soiled trousers and a nubbly old cardigan. She seemed almost blind.
    ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ said Jacobsson. ‘We’re from the police, and we’re looking for Sten Boberg, who lives on the floor below. It’s nothing to worry about. We just want to talk to him.’
    ‘What? What’s going on?’ the old woman repeated. She smelled strongly of urine. Jacobsson noticed a bunch of rubbish bags in the hall inside the flat.
    ‘We’re from the police,’ she said, raising her voice and showing her police ID. ‘We’re here to talk to your downstairs neighbour, Sten Boberg. Do you know if he still lives here?’
    The old woman turned pale and looked terrified.
    ‘No, I don’t want any. I don’t want any, I tell you. Do you hear me?’
    And she shut the door. More security chains clattered.
    Silence descended over the building once again. Jacobsson sighed. The old woman seemed utterly confused. She hesitated for a moment, but thenrang the bell. She glanced at the nameplate, which was made of white plastic, with officially printed letters. It had been attached to the door by the municipal housing association. Nothing happened. Then Jacobsson heard the sound of a TV. Someone was talking in a loud voice that was quickly drowned out by accordion music.
    Wittberg appeared in the stairwell.
    ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
    ‘Just an old woman. But I’m going to try again.’
    Jacobsson rang the bell. After a moment she heard the rattling of chains, and the door opened slightly. The old woman peered out as if she’d never seen Jacobsson before.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Hi,’ said Jacobsson, giving the woman her friendliest smile. ‘My name is Karin, and I’m from the police.’
    She didn’t get any further before the old woman lost her temper.
    ‘Are you from the home-help services? I told you I didn’t want any help. Can’t you understand that? I can clean my own home. I’ve done that my whole life, and I’m not going to change.’
    ‘Excuse me,’ said Jacobsson, her voice a bit sterner. ‘But I’m not from the home-help services. I’m a police officer.’ Again she showed the woman her ID. ‘POLICE. We’re looking for your neighbour.’ She pointed downstairs, to clarify whom she