‘Glad you’re able to join us,’ says Julia, her hair glowing in the sun like strands of spun gold.

‘What are you doing?’

Eva Edlund muscles through the group and looks up at me with her ice-blue eyes and her perfect, blonde bob. ‘This is the official search party. We’re looking for Emil Eriksson.’

‘Looking for him here?’

‘This is just the rendezvous point,’ says Eva with a disappointed expression. ‘Search starts once everyone arrives.’

Sven Edlund looks stern, his hunt dog straining on its lead. Neither looks like they want to be here. In fact, the hound seems desperate to investigate the basement of the dental surgery. It’s pulling so hard on the leash its eyes are starting to bulge in their sockets.

‘Adolf,’ says Sven Edlund. ‘Sit. Sit down, boy.’

Oh, nice choice of name, meathead.

The dog sits but its nose is still twitching in the direction of the surgery basement.

A chill runs through my body. At this moment the town feels wrong, it feels toxic. Like just standing here should come with a health warning.

Dozens of identikit people arrive in their Volvos. This is Edlund’s golf club displaced to the town square. They kiss each other on the cheeks and one woman shows off her new boots.

‘Dubarry,’ she says. ‘They’re from Ireland.’

Annika Persson arrives and receives pitiful looks from the Edlunds.

The four municipal gardeners rake and brush and hose away the dead and dying fruit. The jet-wash guy is pushing a tidal wave of red toadstools, dead sticks and fermented apples toward his truck.

‘I can make flyers,’ I say. ‘I’ve made them before. Flyers with Emil’s photo. Contact details and social-media information. Maybe someone else could start a Facebook page?’

Sven sniffs. ‘Best talk to Margareta before you graffiti the whole town with leaflets. Make sure that’s what she wants for her son.’

The assembled search party walks off, half of them down the hill, half in the direction of the abduction point near Julia’s house. No sign of the Sheriff. Maybe he’s in Gavrik helping police. The real police.

I walk to the clock shop, curious after what Sebastian found out from that missing Dutch blogger. There are no clocks in the window display, and the sign on the door reads, ‘Tempus Fugit. On Vacation’.

I text Sebastian Any more info on Wimmer? He responds almost immediately Working on it.

The door to the pop-up shop next door creaks open.

‘Don’t just stand there looking gormless, girl. Give me a hand.’

Cornelia Sorlie is trying to push a wheelbarrow through the door but the door keeps self-closing. I hold it wide open for her.

‘Where’s Alice?’ I say.

‘None of your concern where Alice is.’