‘And the Grill owner Luka Kodro was sat outside his restaurant about fifteen minutes after the abduction happened.’

‘Was he, now?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Fifteen minutes. You sure about that?’

‘Might have been twenty. Maybe twenty-five.’

‘What was Kodro doing?’

‘Drinking coffee.’

‘Anyone else there with him?’

I think about that and then I shake my head. ‘Maybe someone clearing tables. That’s it.’

‘You’ve done good.’

‘What do you have for me?’

He scratches the stubble on the side of his face. He hasn’t had time to shave today.

‘The grave incident up at the churchyard.’ He sucks his upper lip down under his bottom lip and shakes his head. ‘I gotta tell you, we didn’t need all this right now.’

I wait for him to go on.

‘The head was removed from the coffin. Would have been just bone by now, so I’m told. Just a skull, pretty much.’

‘Are you connecting this to the Arne Persson murder?’

‘Officially? No. Unofficially? What do you think? Listen, I gotta go now, Tuvs. Watch yourself in hill town. Take pretty boy with you. Watch your back.’

I walk out and a photographer from one of the national tabloids takes a picture of me and I scowl at him.

The window of Gavrik Posten has a crack in one corner. It’s been taped on both sides with packing tape. I go inside and the bell tinkles over the door.

‘What happened?’ I ask.

Sebastian looks up from his screen and says, ‘Halloween kids.’

‘Lena in?’

‘She’s got a mammal-gram; mobile place in ICA car park. Big truck.’

‘A what?’

‘It’s a…you know,’ he blushes and points to my chest. ‘Mammal-gram.’

‘It’s called a mammogram, shithead.’

‘That’s what I said.’

I make us both a fresh pot of coffee.

‘How long have you been in?’

‘Since seven-fifteen,’ he says. ‘Lena gave me a set of keys.’

‘Early bird,’ I say.

‘I think I’ve found something but I keep hitting a brick wall.’

I hand him a mug of coffee and perch on the edge of his desk.

‘I’ve been searching for combinations of terms connecting the recent attacks and incidents. Cross-referencing Visberg with Arne Persson and Visberg with “teeth” and so on, trying to get the algorithms to do some work for me.’

I gesture for him to get to the point.

He sips his coffee and says, ‘Got a hit on page seven of the results when I raked through “Visberg”, “teeth” and “skull”.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Hans Wimmer.’

I put down my coffee.

‘I’m listening.’

Sebastian locates the tab on his computer. ‘It’s a blog post from seven years ago. The blog’s been deleted, but I can still see the gist of it by searching around it and looking at the guy’s social media.’

‘What guy?’

‘An independent watchmaker from Amsterdam.’

‘Amsterdam?’