After four miles they pulled into a town, this one a quarter the size of Söderhamn. “Forsbacka,” Brian read from the map. The Citroën pulled off the main road, then took a series of lefts and rights before pulling into the driveway of a mint-green saltbox house. Dominic passed the house, took a right at the next corner, and pulled to the curb beneath a tree. Out the back window they could see the saltbox’s front door. The footballers were already on the porch. One of them knocked. Thirty seconds later the porch light came on and the door opened. “What do you think? Go in now or wait?” Dominic asked. “Wait. If it’s Rolf, he’s been smart enough to stay out of sight for a week. He’s not going to bolt before giving it some thought.” After twenty minutes, the front door opened again and the footballers emerged. They got back into the Citroën, pulled out, and headed down the block. Brian and Dominic waited until the taillights disappeared around the corner, then got out, crossed the street, and walked down to the saltbox.
