Erik dashes through the door, spots the wide staircase and takes it two steps at a time.
“Benjamin!” he calls out, then freezes.
The hallway, lined with closed doors, stretches in both directions. Somewhere, a floorboard creaks. He tries to work out which window he was looking at when he saw the curtain move, and hurries to his right, to the last door of the corridor. He tries the handle, but it’s locked.
“Benjamin?” Erik calls softly.
He bends down and peers through the keyhole. The key’s in the lock, but Erik thinks he can sense movement within.
“Open the door,” he barks.
He hears someone rush into the house, and then the red-haired woman is on her way up the stairs.
“I don’t want you in here!” she shouts.
Ignoring her, Erik takes a step backwards, kicks the door open, and walks in. The room is empty: a large unmade bed with pink sheets, a pale pink carpet, a wardrobe with tinted mirrors on its doors. A camera on a tripod is pointing at the bed. He opens the wardrobe, but there is no one there; he turns around, studying the room. A narrow pair of men’s jeans is folded neatly and draped over the back of a chair. Erik bends down and sees someone curled up in the darkness under the bed: shy, terrified eyes, narrow thighs, and bare feet.
“Come out here,” he says sharply.
He reaches out, grabs hold of an ankle, and drags out a naked boy, who cowers as he speaks rapidly to Erik in a language that sounds like Arabic. He grabs the jeans and pulls them on. Then another boy peeps out and says something in a harsh tone of voice to his friend, who immediately falls silent. The red-haired woman is standing in the doorway, insisting in a trembling voice that he is to leave her friends alone.
“Are they minors?” Erik asks.
“Get out of my house,” she says furiously.
The second boy has wrapped the duvet around him. He takes a cigarette from a pack on the bedside table and stares at Erik, smiling.
“Out!” screams Liselott Blau.
As Erik slowly descends the stairs, the woman follows, yelling, “Go to hell!” Erik leaves the house and walks down the slate path. Joona is waiting with his gun drawn and hidden close to his body. The woman stops in the doorway.
“You’re not allowed to do this kind of thing,” she shouts. “It’s not legal. The cops need a warrant to enter somebody’s house like that.”
“I’m not a cop,” Erik yells back.
“I’ll be making an official complaint about this!”
“Feel free,” says Joona. “You can make the complaint to me. As I said, I am a police officer.”