Chapter One
Inspector Astrid Nyström had been retired for exactly eleven days when she found the diary. She was stripping wallpaper in the bedroom of her new apartment — a modest place in Gothenburg's Haga district, chosen for its distance from police headquarters and its proximity to a bakery — when the putty knife caught on something behind the plaster. A hollow space, no larger than a shoebox, concealed behind a layer of wallpaper that predated the building's last renovation by at least thirty years.
The diary was bound in dark leather, locked with a brass clasp that broke when she applied moderate pressure. The pages were filled with small, precise handwriting in blue ink, dated sequentially. The first entry was dated one week from today. Astrid read it twice, then a third time, and then she set the diary down on her workbench and went to the kitchen to make coffee, because what she had just read required caffeine and distance before it could be processed rationally.
The entry described a murder. Not in the abstract, not as fiction, but with the clinical specificity of a case file — time of death, method, location, the particular way the victim's left hand would be positioned. It read like a police report written before the crime. And the location it described, with chilling accuracy, was the apartment directly below the one Astrid was currently standing in.