‘I could devour that man in one night,’ says Margareta, holding a plate a little too limply and gazing at the TV. A French fry drops on my lap. ‘I could eat that man up in one gulp. Just look at his jaw. He’s a goliath of modern-day popular television.’

She snaps out of it and gives me my stone-cold plate.

‘Duck à l’orange,’ she says.

‘Duck with orange,’ says Emil.

Thanks Google Translate, I really needed that.

We eat and it’s excellent. Crispy duck skin and a zesty, orange sauce. The duck is cooked slightly pink and the French fries are salty and crunchy.

‘Delicious,’ I say.

‘Yes he is,’ says Margareta, staring at the TV.

We eat and watch. The plates are removed. Ice cream is brought out. Margareta says, ‘TV off, Emil. I must to talk to our house guest.’

He switches it off.

‘You two carry on eating. Do you mind if I smoke? It helps me to think.’

‘Sure.’

She lights up her cigarette – it’s one of those thin, Parisian-style ones – and she smokes it with her back bent and her arm halfway up the chimney.

‘Can I ask you,’ she says, her hand up inside the chimney breast. ‘Are you really a journalist or some kind of private investigator?’

‘I’m a…’

She interrupts. ‘I’ve seen the best. Wallander, Sherlock, Murder She Wrote. We’re proud to say we watch a lot of award-winning television here.’

‘I’m a reporter,’ I say.

She takes a drag and blows the smoke up the chimney.

‘Ragnar Falk never reported like you seem to be doing.’

‘I’m most interested in the victims,’ I say. ‘Whether that’s victims of an online scam or a traffic accident or a terrible murder. When I was fourteen my dad died.’

Emil stops eating his ice cream.

‘When I was fourteen my pappa died.’

‘Well, don’t you two have a lot in common,’ Margareta says, smiling.

I’d usually be reluctant to share, but I need whatever information this pair have. ‘His death was misreported, you see. Journalists stated he was an alcoholic when he wasn’t at all. One alluded to his blood-alcohol levels on the night of his accident. They made mistakes, and that was tough for my mum to endure. It was tough enough without that, but I think it probably tipped her over the edge.’

‘She threw herself off the edge, did she?’ says Margareta, cringing. ‘Right off the edge, was it?’

‘No, she just lost the will to live.’

‘Thank God we had our favourite shows,’ she says, looking at Emil. ‘They got us through the tough times, eh, Emil.’

Emil nods.

When he eats his ice cream I can see just how tiny his teeth are. They look like milk teeth.

Margareta stubs out her cigarette and joins us. She starts shelling pistachio nuts into two bowls on her lap. She never seems to stay still for more than a few seconds.