‘I’ll be increasing patrols in light of the incident. There’s residents afraid to go outside their houses, all sorts of gossip starting to circulate. It’s my job to keep this town safe. My duty.’

He straightens himself up. Brown trousers, beige shirt with lots of pockets and shoulder straps. A star on his brown tie, another on each shoulder. Badges on his upper arms that look like my swimming badges from school but say ‘Sheriff’ in large print, with ‘Taxi’ barely visible underneath.

‘Is Sheriff an official Swedish law-enforcement role in Värmland?’ I ask.

He gives me a broad smile and says, ‘It sure is in Visberg town, wouldn’t you say, Falk.’

‘I would,’ says Ragnar.

‘Well there you go then,’ he says to me. ‘There you go.’

‘Can I interview you in the next day or so about the killing?’

He reaches inside his taxi and pulls out a card and gives it to me. ‘Anytime. I’m always around here on patrol. You just call that number.’ He turns to Ragnar. ‘How’s the hip, Falk?’

‘It is what it is,’ says Ragnar, rubbing the top of his leg.

‘That’s the ticket,’ says Sheriff Hansson. ‘Positive mental attitude. Who you introducing Moova to next?’

‘Tuva,’ I say.

‘That’s it,’ he says.

‘The Hive,’ says Ragnar. ‘Margareta and her boy.’

‘Swell,’ says the Sheriff. ‘Give Marge my best.’

He drives off in his ’80s American car with the windows down and his elbow sticking out.

I smile and stare at Ragnar.

‘He’s a bit of an oddball,’ says Ragnar. ‘But he’s good. Locals do what he says, he keeps order, keeps Gavrik police in the loop. We’re so far from the rest of the world up here we need someone like him. Do not underestimate Sheriff Harry Hansson.’

‘I won’t, I mean––’

‘He’ll be one of your best sources in this town.’

And suddenly I realise this really is my town now. Along with Gavrik and thousands of hectares all around. Smaller towns and villages. Forests. But Gavrik and Visberg will be my priorities. This is my patch. Expanded.

‘Let’s go see Margareta and Emil.’

We walk through the square and each apple tree is surrounded by lazy buzzing wasps. The apples are falling or rotting on the branches. The smell is sickly sweet. The air is thick with it.

We cross the road.

The sign next to the door says, ‘The Hive. Lowest self-storage prices in all of Värmland. Open 9am to 9pm. Discretion guaranteed.’

Ragnar pulls on the door but it’s locked.

We both peer through the window.

Ragnar rings the bell.

A boy approaches. I can’t see him clearly through the security door – the glass inside is crisscrossed with wire.

‘Emil,’ shouts Ragnar. ‘Emil, open up. It’s me.’