The boy isn’t a boy at all. He’s a very short man with a full moustache. He looks at us from a distance, from over by the counter in reception, and then he puts down his bucket and mop and yells, ‘Closed today, try back again tomorrow!’ I can read his lips from here.

‘It’s me,’ says Ragnar. ‘I need to talk to your mother.’

Emil smooths his moustache, then sniffs his fingertips, then hurriedly picks up his bucket and turns and again yells ‘Closed!’ and walks away through an internal door.

‘The Hive is never closed,’ says Ragnar. ‘I do hope Margareta isn’t unwell.’

I check my phone as we cross over to Konsum on the sunny side of the square. Text message from Lena: Gavrik police press conference at 4pm.

‘I’ll introduce you to the dentist instead. He’s an Edlund, twelfth generation.’

‘I can’t stay long, I need to cover the police presser.’

‘Tell me, does Lena give you an expense account?’

‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

His face breaks out into a broad toothy smile. ‘Why don’t we talk over pizza?’

We walk past Konsum and past the pharmacy, some new kind of wisdom teeth flossing-stick is advertised in the window, and on to Visberg Grill. The dull ache in my jaw intensifies.

We step inside the Grill. Bolted-down plastic seats, a backlit menu, and there’s an open hotdog-takeout hatch on the far side, overlooking the view down the hill, over the vast forests, but it’s not used at this time of day. Most of the tables are occupied. I make a mental note to bring Tammy here for a well-earned pizza feast. I think she’d like it.

‘Fillet steak, mushroom, onion, béarnaise, peanuts and banana, please. Thin crust.’

What the hell?

‘One of whatever he just said,’ I say to the handsome guy behind the counter. ‘And one Spicy American sausage for me, please.’

‘New face in town,’ says the man. Thick accent. Deep voice and blue jeans. Tight white T-shirt. Gym body. ‘You’re very welcome here, my name is Luka Kodro.’

He doesn’t shake my hand or pat me on the back or kiss my cheek. He just looks at me, but he’s one of those guys with a look. There’s some kind of power to it that makes me feel like a teenager again.

‘I’ll secure us a table,’ says Ragnar.

I pay and take two portions of pizza salad, it’s a Swedish thing derived from a Balkan thing, and two glasses of tap water.

‘Luka is from Bosnia, but now he’s a Swedish citizen,’ says Ragnar, lowering his voice. ‘He was a soldier in that dreadful war. An elite soldier of some description. I’ve tried to interview him about it but he doesn’t talk to me. He says he only likes to look forward, not back.’