The Nightmare. Ларс Кеплер

exactly did he run through here?’ Kofoed asks, pointing at the marks. ‘There, there … and then across to there, then there’s nothing until here and here.’

      ‘You’ve missed one,’ Joona smiles.

      ‘Like hell we have.’

      ‘There,’ Joona points.

      ‘Where?’

      ‘On the wall.’

      ‘Bloody hell.’

      Some seventy centimetres above the floor there’s a faint shoeprint on the pale grey wallpaper. Tommy Kofoed calls one of his colleagues and asks him to take a gelatine print.

      ‘Is it okay to walk on the floor now?’ Joona asks.

      ‘As long as you don’t walk on the walls,’ Kofoed grunts.