I draft a few headlines and map out a comprehensive timeline of the murder investigation. The autopsy has now been completed. It may take some time for the body to be released for burial. I’ll attend if possible. If it’s a public affair I’ll attend and write it up in a respectful manner. It’ll help give the town some closure. Vital for them but also good for me if I’m to live among these Visberg hill people in the years ahead. Public burials, and I don’t mean this to sound disrespectful or morbid, but they can offer valuable insights into the locals. In exchange for those insights I’ll write a good story. Local journalism is a two-way thing. They help me and I help them.

At five I get an email from Sebastian, who’s sitting all of two metres to my left. This is normal in Sweden. Minimal real-life interaction is the norm. You see a person leave their apartment in the morning and you make damn sure you dash back into yours. Better to be two minutes late for work than to have to exchange coffee-breath small talk that neither of you wants. But Sebastian’s also emailing me because he knows my aids are out. And I’m grateful to him for that.

The email details a meeting with the victim’s ex-wife, Annika, tomorrow at 10am in Visberg. He links the address and her details. She’s still using her late ex-husband’s surname, Persson. I reply, ‘Thanks.’ I’m still not used to this – being able to ask people to do things for me. The ‘Deputy Editor’ title will take a while for me to grow accustomed to.

At six I head home. Noora texts to ask if she can come over at seven and I reply, ‘Can’t wait.’ And it’s true, I can’t. She’s one of the best things in my life right now. I made a conscious decision to move back to Toytown and that feels good. This isn’t an accident or an imposition. I want to be here this time.

I get home and shower. When I open the door to my new balcony the smells of autumn pour into my apartment. That earthy scent. I’m not keen on these smells in a forest or valley, but here in my apartment block – concrete and electric light all around, door locked, roof over my head – I’m fine with it.

I pull on a white cotton dressing gown. Tie the belt loosely.

A knock on the door.

I open.

She steps forward and kisses me on the side of my mouth. Her hair smells of coconut. She looks at my dressing gown and then at what I’ve arranged on the kitchen table.

‘Cheese?’ she says.

‘Cheeseboard deluxe,’ I say.