She could barely hear the sound of her own knock at the door. But it didn’t matter; somebody called her in, and slowly she pushed on the door handle, cold against her fingertips.
She nudged the door open a fraction and stuck her head through the gap. It was like being at school again – just like the time she and Martine had been sent to the head teacher after locking Elisabeth in the toilet. But it wasn’t the head teacher who stood up and approached her this time.
The man who made his way towards her was smiling at her; he had rolled up the sleeves of his uniform shirt, revealing arms darkened by the sun and hair that matched the shade of the three or four days’ worth of stubble on his face.
‘Thank you for coming in so soon,’ he said. She nodded in response, before adding: ‘Well, it’s not every day someone dies on the pavement outside my building.’ ‘Quite,’ the policeman confirmed. ‘And it’s not every day we find a dead body, either.’