‘In the fog. In the fine drizzle. On Halloween of all days.’ She shivers for effect. ‘No way I’d be out on an isolated windswept golf course today, even without a crazed killer on the loose.’

‘No Green Card, eh?’ I say.

She laughs out loud and I notice she has a gold filling at the back of her mouth. I rarely see them these days.

‘Playing with his young protégé, Tobias,’ says Julia. ‘Thick as thieves those two.’

‘Is Tobias a member of Edlund’s Club?’

‘He’s working on it,’ says Julia. ‘That’s the vibe I get, anyway. Doctor Eva likes him even more than my boss does.’

I make a mental note of all this. Like I’m building a delicate web of connections, trying to figure out how all the locals fit together. Who owes who what. Who needs something from who. Who’s raging. Who’s hurt. Who’s infatuated.

‘You out later to watch the kids get their candy?’ I ask.

Julia screws up her nose.

‘Join me if you like. We can walk around and you can tell me who’s behind all the masks. I need to cover it for the paper.’

She shrugs with a smile. ‘Sounds good. It’s a date.’

Our pizzas arrive and we devour them. Something about the cold and the damp and the way I sense the atmosphere in this town turning again. The mood. As much as everyone tells me tonight will be an innocent, child-friendly PG13-night compared to what happened last week, I can still feel the charge in the air. The hint of danger. People here seem to be drawn to it.

We split the bill.

‘No tip?’ I ask.

‘We don’t really tip in Visberg,’ she says.

‘What about the waitress, though. She was really nice.’

‘That’s her job, I guess,’ says Julia.

We walk out and I leave a 20 kronor note. You have to tip. You just have to.

The air outside is chill and it is infused with the scent of roasted chestnuts. The smell takes me back to London, to long winter walks along the south side of the Thames with my then boyfriend.

The band in the bandstand is playing ‘Hurt’ by Johnny Cash, or Nine Inch Nails, whatever, but the pacing is wrong and it sounds a little too slow. And it’s already a slow tune.

There’s a queue of teenagers outside Mind Games. None of them have bothered to dress up. The door says ‘Welcome to the Halloween Zombie Feast. Doors open 19:00’.

‘Nerds,’ says Julia, elbowing me and then pulling on her orange, bobble hat.

‘If I wasn’t working tonight I’d probably be in that queue with them,’ I say.

She looks at me. ‘You? Seriously?’