‘In an hour, then? I need to work some more.’

She agrees and walks away.

I see Emil and Margareta Eriksson right in front of me. They place heavy, oversize pumpkins outside the entrance to the Hive. Konsum still has a few uncarved ones left. There’s something outside the pop-up shop glowing in the shadows but it looks too small to be a pumpkin. Too pale.

I do my rounds.

In Konsum I ask the manager about whether he’s heard anything new about the murder. About the grave disturbance.

‘All behind us, now,’ he says.

‘But nobody’s been arrested or charged?’

‘Best thing this town can do is move forwards. We’ll be in the run up to Christmas after tonight. Busiest time of the year for us.’

I’m always stunned by this. How humans manage to view momentous events through the prism of their own daily needs and wants.

Sven Edlund walks out of his dental surgery carrying a bag of golf clubs, and then Tobias the hygienist walks behind him, carrying a slightly smaller bag. Is the Edlund’s club open on Halloween? Is this Visberg festivity really just for children?

The kids in the bandstand are eating steaming chestnuts from paper cones. A black girl with white facepaint is tuning her guitar and it sounds awful through my aids. Behind the musicians is a bank of amplifiers, and the cables run out and loop through puddles. They’re already half submerged in mud and rotten apples before the sun’s even gone down.

I check in with Thord about the grave robbery.

‘I still can’t tell you much more, Tuvs.’

‘You can but you won’t.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Was the head removed?’

A long pause. Sound of breathing.

‘It was, I knew it was.’

‘I didn’t confirm anything,’ says Thord. ‘Do not write that in your paper. You understand me?’

‘Elk skulls. A dead man’s head buried two decades ago.’

‘No comment.’

He puts down the phone and I notice the fog rolling in from the side streets. It’s not dense tonight, but it makes Visberg look older than it is. A grainy, sepia photograph of itself.

I head over to the grill and it already smells like wood smoke and roasting meats of various kinds.

The window’s steamed up and the huge plastic udders of ketchup and mustard and mayo are being refilled by Luka Kodro himself. He’s wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt as usual and he looks handsome. How the hell does he manage to never get ketchup stains on his pristine, white shirts?

Julia comes inside and we sit down.

‘My boss is off to play golf in all this, can you believe that?’

‘In the fog?’ I say.