I drive straight to Visberg with my radio on, scanning for news channels. Nobody has this story yet. Who was Lena talking to? Chief Björn? The Sheriff?

Past Svensson’s Saws & Axes, up the hill. The curves and chicanes slow me down more than I’d like. You can’t drive too fast up this hill. The bends are blind and the line down the centre of the asphalt is continuous. No dashes. No overtaking. This route is a health hazard.

Past the white bike, fresh white lilies or roses arranged in its basket. On past the destroyed bus shelter and the cross. My truck judders as I go over the old train tracks. I get to the town square and head on to the church. Short, stunted spire atop a white, wooden tower. A clock on each side. The date, 1798, under the green copper roof. Two police Volvos.

I park and run, with my camera switched on and ready.

Round the back I see three figures.

And a hole.

Earth mounded up each side; not neatly, it’s a big mess. The gravestone is disturbed. It rests at an ungodly angle.

‘No,’ shouts Thord as I approach, his palm out.

I keep my finger on the shutter button but drop the camera to my hip.

‘Okay,’ I say.

I take a photo. Walk closer. Two magpies sit on the low perimeter wall watching events unfold. I take five photos. One magpie pecks at the other one and then they fly away.

‘What happened?’ I ask.

Thord runs to intercept me and says, ‘We don’t know yet.’

‘Was anything taken?’

‘This is a place of worship,’ says Thord. ‘Especially with All Saints Day coming up.’

‘All Saints?’

‘All Hallows Day.’

‘Halloween?’

He shakes his head. ‘American nonsense. All Hallow’s Day, first of November. Time to remember the dead – and I don’t mean skeleton outfits and horror movies.’

I try to look around him. ‘Who’s with you?’

He turns to face the open grave.

‘Priest Kilby.’

‘He’s the priest in this town as well?’

‘You don’t get one priest per church anymore, Tuvs. Not all the way out here.’

‘And who’s she?’

‘Johansson.’

‘Who?’

‘Karlstad homicide.’

‘Homicide? For this? Who got dug up?’

He looks at me. ‘Please, Tuvs. Some respect.’

‘Who was it, though?’

He lets me step a little closer, then puts out his arm.

‘That’s close enough. Name on the stone says “Gustav Persson. Died 1999”.’

‘I haven’t heard of him.’

Thord sighs. ‘He was Arne’s father.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Not here, Tuva. That language. Not here, not today.’

He rarely calls me Tuva.

‘Sorry.’

‘They must have been digging all night. Not easy getting down two-metres deep in the dark with spades and shovels.’

‘Was there any treasure in the grave? Any jewellery? Gold watch or something?’

‘Can’t say,’ says Thord. ‘But my guts tells me that wasn’t the motive.’

‘What do you mean?’