‘Because I’m deaf,’ I say. Nobody ever says no after that.

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Tell me a little background about the club, if you would.’

She stares at my ears. ‘There was a less formal club here, erected in the ’50s, quite a rough little nine-hole thing; shabby, open to everyone. But the current course and clubhouse were established in 2003. We’re strictly members only.’

I look around at the crowd. They all look exactly the same. Easy smiles and big sunglasses. Pastel-green trousers and black-and-white golfing shoes. Caps and visors. More Ralph Lauren logos per square metre than perhaps anywhere else on planet earth.

‘What is the membership criteria?’

‘It’s… confidential.’

I notice a figure walking toward the green on the eighteenth hole. It’s Ragnar Falk, with a guy I don’t recognise.

She talks more about how they’re recruiting a new pro, how they have a new chef, bla, bla, bla. This place is WASP central. It’s whiter than a goddam ski resort in Nazi Germany.

‘Has the club been impacted by the Arne Persson murder?’

She looks aghast and leans in closer. ‘No, of course it hasn’t. This place is an exclusive escape from all that dreadful news. Look around you.’

Greens and fairways poisoned with weedkiller. Smug middle-aged golfers drinking spritzers and eating overpriced Waldorf salads. Some awful super-fit woman demonstrating her swing to a table of enthralled onlookers.

‘Was Arne Persson a member here?’

‘He was a plumber,’ she says. Her eyes narrow.

‘But I heard he was here a lot. Something to do with the sprinkler systems?’

She looks down at my Dictaphone and takes a sip of her sparkling water and then she coughs so hard people start to turn and look.

I look at them and gesture toward Eva and say, ‘Too much gin.’

She goes bright red and turns and says, ‘She’s only joking,’ and then turns back to me.

‘What do you want?’

‘You must know everyone in this town if you’re the membership director for the club. If someone wants to get into this elite place, they need to go through you. I want to know if you have any theories, any useful gossip, regarding the vicious murder.’

She looks down at the Dictaphone and mouths the word, ‘Off.’

I switch it off.

‘Why on earth would I divulge theories like that to someone like you?’

‘Because my investigations can help solve the crime. Help get justice. How about that? Or maybe because I have carte blanche to write whatever I choose about your golf club. That a good enough reason? I can write a glowing article that will not only be read by ten-thousand locals, but also online by other prestigious golf clubs in Gotland or in the expensive suburbs outside Stockholm. Or I can write something less…’ I pause, ‘less glowing.’