Margareta carries through a silver tray. Three plates. She gives one to Emil, one to me, and takes one for herself. She hands out cutlery and paper napkins. We sit side by side. Three adults watching Cheers in a self-storage warehouse in hill town.

‘What did you want to talk about?’ I say.

‘Shhh,’ says Margareta. ‘Eat up before it gets warm.’

I look at the shrimp cocktail. A shallow champagne glass filled with peeled shrimps and chopped lettuce. Five shrimp hang over the edge of the glass like pale fingers. The pink sauce is speckled with paprika.

‘Mum’s sauce,’ says Emil, facing forwards, eating a shrimp with his fingers. ‘Million Islands dressing.’

‘Ketchup and mayo,’ says Margareta. ‘Plus a dash of Tabasco.’

Emil looks over at me, a drop of pink sauce on his moustache whiskers and says, ‘Spicy.’

Margareta clears the plates and bangs around in the kitchen and yells ‘Shit balls!’ loud enough for me to hear it in here.

She brings through more plates and I say, ‘Can I help you in the kitchen?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘Sunday dinner is gospel in the Eriksson household. I cook, you enjoy.’

Another episode of Cheers starts.

‘Series two, Mum.’

‘Episode four. Some of Ted’s best work,’ says Margareta, walking in and placing down the plates.

‘Mum loves Ted Danson,’ says Emil.

‘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.’