I look past Hans Wimmer through the shop window and see an apple fall from a tree and burst on impact.

Clocks tick all around us and then one starts to chime. We both look at it: a pendulum-powered grandfather clock made from walnut. Another one dongs. Then another. Soon they all start chiming and ringing together. Manic cuckoos jab in and out of concealed doors. A pine clock with a waterfall starts to play a tune, actual water powering the tiny wooden wheel. The sound is too much. Others chime. Bells and cheeping and music and beeping. A wave of chaotic sound.

‘I have to go,’ I say, pointing to my ears.

He shrugs and says something I can’t read on his lips, then turns to head back down to his private museum.

The cider-scented air is a relief. I can still sense the last chimes from inside the stuffy shop but I’m outside now.

The drive back down the hill is soothing. I had to hand in my last Hilux to the dealership in Malmö when I quit. This one is better. More bells and whistles. Bluetooth. Better seats. Better speakers. More power to get me out of dangerous situations. I love this thing.

The hill feels even steeper on the way down. Like the upper part of a ski jump, only this one is lined with pine trees as tall as air-traffic-control towers.

Two vans are parked on the side of the road. I have to indicate and swerve to get past them. A national from Stockholm and some other outfit from Gothenburg. Satellite dishes on their roofs. One well-lit woman is speaking into a camera as I pass by, an assistant holding an umbrella well above her head to keep it out of shot.

I don’t like the way everyone in Visberg points at the pizzeria owner. If he was an active soldier, a special-forces fighter, and that’s a big ‘if’ that requires substantiation – I’ve interviewed enough special-forces veterans who turned out to be no such thing – then he’d have been active almost thirty years ago. And even then, it doesn’t mean he’d be capable of killing a man in peacetime. Dad would have said, ‘Everyone deserves to be believed. Always try to give the benefit of the doubt, Tuva.’

But Dad’s lessons are fading in my memory. If I’d been older than fourteen when he died, I’d remember more. He never knew me as a woman, or as a journalist. I look up at the grey sky and smile. He seems closer to me up on this hillside.

I get to Gavrik and park in my space behind the Posten offices.

‘Presser in ten,’ says Sebastian from behind his desk.