‘He thinks the most disturbing factor is the killer’s display of trophies, I think that’s the word he used. Trophies. Leaving the teeth and the head in plain sight. That he or she may have got more of a thrill mingling in a crowd and leaving those items, and then witnessing the crowd’s reaction, than he did killing or working on the severed head. Westergren thinks he might be taunting the police.’

‘Taunting?’

‘Said maybe he’s some kind of sociopath with a chip on his shoulder. Deep-seated issues with authority. Maybe he’s trying to prove he’s superior. Possibly had a childhood of juvenile offences, trauma, or else bullying or belittling by one or both parents.’

‘Sounds like a normal upbringing to me.’

She kicks me gently under the table.

‘I can’t remember exactly word for word.’

‘Can I see the profile?’

She shakes her head. ‘No can do.’

‘So what did you learn?’

‘Sorry?’

‘That you didn’t know already, I mean. About the killer.’

She looks out at lovers’ walk. At the trees turning red and the benches still sparkling with dew.

‘We already know the perp is someone with access to a rifle. Someone with training, or experience handling a firearm and a chainsaw. Someone with physical strength, enough to carry both items, as the medical examiner states the beheading was carried out soon after the gunshot wound was inflicted. Likely someone local, who knows Visberg forest and knows all about Pan Night. An insider. Now we can add disturbed, bullied, and/or attention-seeking to the list. Unfortunately, that describes half of Värmland.’

I start to clear away the plates and Noora puts her hand on mine.

‘I was thinking,’ she says.

And then she smiles. A full, easy smile that reaches all the way up to her eyes.

‘We both work long hours. Irregular hours. We both have diddly-squat in terms of savings.’ She laughs. ‘I’m sorry, this isn’t sounding as romantic as it did in my head. What I’m trying to say is: Tuva, what do you think about us moving in together?’

I stand there like an idiot, plates in hand, staring at her.

Noora’s smile flattens. Deflates.

‘I mean, there’s no rush, but––’

‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s just…’

It’s just that I am completely terrified. I’m head over heels for you, I really am, but I need my own space. I’m too young, or too weird, or too pathetic. Almost definitely too selfish. I don’t want you to see me when I’m sad. Or drunk. When I’m too lazy to do the dishes. When I leave the trash bags by the door for days and days.

‘No big deal,’ she says, helping with the plates, moving this awkward scene forward. ‘No rush. Just think about it. I’m not down on one knee, Tuva. It’s not a big deal.’