I spot Thord talking with Sheriff Hansson out by the bandstand so I pay for the pizzas and leave. I’m still processing what David told me about Ragnar’s daughter. I never even knew he had a child. Losing my parents was tough in so many ways. It changed me, affected every cell of my being. But losing a child. What would that do to a person?

The clouds overhead are indigo and they are fit to burst. The wind swirls, blowing my hair in front of my eyes, and the bee on top of the Hive squeaks louder as it fights to keep turning.

‘Tuva,’ says Thord as I approach. He’s standing with Sheriff Hansson. I don’t like him calling me Tuva. It puts me on edge.

‘Any news on the grave disturbance?’ I say.

The Sheriff pulls a face like he just smelt something awful and Thord says, ‘We’re talking Halloween plans right now.’

‘He thinks we should cancel,’ says the Sheriff. ‘I say let the kids have their night of fun. Ain’t nothing but a harmless bit of pumpkin carving, apple bobbing, trick-or-treatin’, old-fashioned tom-foolery. They need the escape at the moment, truth be told. Never had a single bad thing happen on Halloween in my town and intend to maintain that clean sheet.’

‘We’re going to have an increased police presence,’ says Thord. ‘You can write about that in the paper, that’s on the record, let the locals know.’

‘We want people to feel safe, see,’ says the Sheriff.

‘Patrols to ensure kids play in good faith,’ says Thord. ‘We don’t want no drunk driving or vandalism.’

Or ritualistic mutilations.

‘They gonna clean up the apple sludge round here, Sheriff? Looks like a farmyard after a rainstorm,’ I say.

‘That’s the way the Edlunds want it,’ says the Sheriff, his thumbs in his belt loops. ‘Same thing every year. We spray down and clean up on All Saints like the start of a whole new year.’

‘Each town does it their own way, I guess,’ says Thord.

The Sheriff snorts. ‘Well, we certainly do.’

The three of us stand still and watch as Hans Wimmer crosses the square holding a child’s car seat. His frame is elongated, he’s as tall as a church door. Wimmer places the car seat inside his Skoda, then checks the broken clock on the outside of his shopfront, then goes inside and turns the ‘Open’ sign until it says ‘Closed’.

‘He’s a queer soul,’ says the Sheriff.

‘We don’t say queer no more, Sherriff,’ says Thord, shaking his head.

‘We do up hill town. I don’t mean nothing bad by it.’

The manager of Konsum steps outside. She counts the pumpkins by tapping each one on the green stalk, like a kindergarten teacher tapping heads while loading kids onto a bus for a school trip.

‘I found out something new today,’ I say.