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hands that plaited her hair before her first job interview. I am someone else. That is not a metaphor; it’s the truth.
    Our body is constantly replacing cells—substituting, renewing. After seven years, we are, as it were, new. I know that kind of thing; I’ve had a hell of a lot of time to read over the years.
    Now I’m sitting on a doorstep in the dark with Sophie, shivering, although it’s a warm night. The sky is clear and starry. I watch Jonas and Sophie share a cigarette and I’m sucked into my own story; I lose myself in the characters. There’s a kind of magic in sharing a cigarette with a stranger. I write and watch the two of them and almost feel the urge to take up smoking again.
    The scene collapses when there’s a ring at the front door. The shock goes right through me. My heart begins to thump like mad and I can feel how thin the membrane is that separates my newly won determination from my fear. I am frozen mid-movement—my hands poised above the keys of my laptop.
    I wait apprehensively for a second ring but still jump when it comes. And at the third, and at the fourth. I’m scared. I’m not expecting anyone. It’s late in the evening and I am alone with a small dog in a big house.
    A few days ago I rang up the newspaper where my sister’s murderer works and enquired after him. I have drawn his attention to me. I have done something stupid and now I’m scared. The doorbell keeps on ringing, and my thoughts begin to race. What should I do? I can’t think straight. Should I ignore it? Play dead? Call the police? Creep into the kitchen and fetch a knife?
    Bukowski begins to yap; he comes bounding up to me, wagging his tail—he loves visitors, after all. He streaks towards me and jumps up at me, and the angry ringing subsides for a moment. At the same time, my brain kicks back into action.
    Keep calm, Linda.
    There are a million explanations for why someone should ring my doorbell at half-past ten on a Thursday evening. Not one of them has anything to do with Victor Lenzen. Why would a murderer ring the doorbell? The whole thing is bound to be innocent. It’s probably only Charlotte who’s forgotten something, or my agent who lives round the corner and occasionally drops in, although rarely as late as this. Or perhaps something’s happened nearby. Maybe someone even needs help!
    I am functioning again. I rouse myself out of my paralysis and hurry down the stairs to the front door. Bukowski comes with me, still yapping and wagging his tail.
    I’m glad I’ve got you, mate.
    I open the door. Before me stands a man.
    4
    SOPHIE
    The air was the consistency of jelly. It had engulfed Sophie the moment she stepped out of her air-conditioned car. She hated nights like this, when the heat was so intense she couldn’t get to sleep because her skin felt sticky and she was bitten to death by mosquitoes.
    She was standing at the door to her sister’s flat, ringing the bell for the second time. She’d seen light on in Britta’s flat when she’d parked the car, so she knew she was in. Britta probably wasn’t opening on principle: she objected to surprise visits, considering it plain rude to breeze in unannounced when you could at least ring from your mobile on the way.
    Sophie took her finger off the bell and put her ear to the door. She could hear music inside.
    ‘Britta?’ she called. But there was no reply.
    Sophie was reminded of her mother, who worried at every little thing—organising a search party whenever either of her daughters was the least bit late, or envisaging lung cancer at the slightest cough. Sophie, on the other hand, was one of those people who believe that true misfortune only ever befalls others. So she shrugged her shoulders, rifled through her handbag for her bunch of keys that held the spare to Britta’s flat, and opened the door.
    ‘Britta?’
    It was only a few steps down the hall to the room where the music was coming from. Sophie went in and stopped, rooted suddenly to