He shakes his head and drains the last of his coffee. ‘I’m not in the inner circle, Tuva. I’m no Edlund. If they stopped to imagine their precious, golf course dug up for mass graves they might change their priorities. Accept outsiders into their town. Be more forgiving of whatever went on in the past.’

Hans Wimmer arrives in his Skoda and walks into his clock shop.

‘Now, he is a serious man. Mark my words.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I have seen men like him before. I have marched alongside them. I have stood witness.’

I look Luka straight in the eye to judge his reaction and then I say, ‘Did you have anything against Arne Persson?’

He smiles and looks up above the restaurant.

‘No,’ he says. ‘You see, Tuva. Most men don’t realise that most of their days are already behind them. They don’t realise how few lie ahead. But I see that. I see.’

45

I call Sebastian about Hans Wimmer and the disappearing blogger.

‘Nothing more yet. I’ll get back to you.’

Half of Visberg is pristine. Short grass. Jet-washed benches shining in the light. Bare apple trees. Not a toadstool in sight. The other half of the square is still full of pectin sludge. Like the streets of Paris before the centuries-old water system cleans the gutters each morning and flushes the night filth out into the Seine.

There’s a ‘Missing’ poster taped to the statue of Adolf-Fredrik Edlund. It looks homemade. Probably by Margareta – a desperate mother begging for her only child to be returned to her.

Hans Wimmer’s watching me from inside his shop. He turns the sign over from ‘Tempus Fugit. On Vacation’ to ‘Time rests for no man. Open’.

I walk to the shop and notice the sisters have vacated the next-door unit, the shop owned by the late Arne Persson. The grotesque masks fashioned from boar hide are gone. The standard trolls made by Cornelia are gone. And the nightmarish specials crafted lovingly by the calloused hands of Alice are gone. The only thing I can see in the window is a remnant of the sign. It had read, ‘31% Off’. Now it just says, ‘Off’.

The door to the clock shop opens and beeps.

‘Have they found Margareta’s boy yet?’ asks Hans Wimmer, pushing grey hairs behind his ears.

‘Not that I’ve heard,’ I say.

‘Oh dear.’ He looks around the square, at the municipal gardeners and the Grill and Konsum. They’re starting to put out Christmas wreaths already. One part of the year melts into the next. Then he stares over at the Hive. ‘Oh dear,’ he says again.

‘May I come in? I might want a watch for my girlfriend.’

He looks startled. ‘Your…’ He pauses, computing this. ‘Very good. Of course, please do come inside.’

I make a point of looking at the Seikos and the Timexes for a while.

‘Do you have anything Swiss made?’