A young girl with pigtails pats the Sheriff’s horse. The horse flares its nostrils and the girl does the same.

‘Evening,’ says the Sheriff.

‘Nice horse.’

‘Marsie’s a fine specimen, alright. Of course, so was her mamma.’

The horse looks serene in this strange town. A beautiful creature with a chestnut coat and braided mane. The saddle is deep-brown leather and it looks oiled and well maintained. The Sheriff’s boots are in the same condition. He has no spurs, but they wouldn’t look out of place.

‘Be a good girl and tell your pappa I’ll be over at seven to collect my pepperoni with peanuts.’

Pigtails girl nods and skips across the road toward Visberg Grill.

‘Luka Kodro’s girl?’

‘Youngest. Got one a little older as well. Both of them like the horses so I let them pet Marsie on a Sunday. No harm, no foul.’

‘Any developments on the Arne Persson case, Sheriff?’

I know, I know. He’s not a fucking sheriff. He’s not any recognisable part of law enforcement whatsoever. But part of my job is to appease people like Harry Hansson. Oil the inner workings of the town. Grease them. Make things happen. If I call him ‘Sheriff’ he might tell me something. I don’t really have a choice.

‘Chief Björn tells me the forensic-science folks down in Linköping are hard at work on fibres and all sorts. You know they can get DNA from fabric these days? From the sweat or somesuch. They can tell who was dressed in what. You hear about it?’

‘I hadn’t.’

‘Think about that next time you buy second-hand clothes. Think about that when you’re checking out them pretty vintage dresses. You could be wearing evidence.’

I pinch my collar. ‘All ICA Maxi specials.’

Sheriff smiles and nods his hat and says, ‘Stay safe, Tuva.’ And his horse clip-clops down toward the gamer café.