‘I’m Tuva Moodyson. My newspaper over in Gavrik just merged with the Visberg Tidningen so I’ll be covering the town news from now on. I wanted to introduce myself.’

‘Taking Ragnar’s job more like it,’ she says. ‘Ragnar Falk, smells of talc.’

I frown. ‘No, it was more like he sold––’

‘I’m just having a laugh. The name’s Margareta Eriksson, pleased to meet you. This is my son, Emil. Say hello, Emil.’

Emil says, ‘Hello, I’m Emil.’

No shit, Emil.

‘We’ve owned the Hive since 1989. My late husband found this fascinating historical property,’ she looks around her, ‘advertised in Dagens Industri. We’re proud to say we’re the leading independent self-storage business in all of Värmland.’

‘Are you here about the dead plumber?’ asks Emil, looking up at me.

‘Ah, yes,’ says his mother. ‘Of course you are. I’m sleeping with a carving knife under my pillow from now on. Can’t take any chances.’

‘I’m just introducing myself to the town,’ I say.

‘They cut off his head and his hands,’ says Emil, adjusting his bracelet. ‘With a chainsaw. No prints, you see. No way to identify Arne with no hands or head.’

I frown again and say, ‘But Arne has been identified.’ I want to explain that the hands were not removed, but I’m in no position to divulge those details. That’s police business. Maybe if his hands had been cut off he wouldn’t have been identified so quickly.

‘Killer underestimated the Feds,’ says Emil. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you.’

‘Would you like to run a story on us?’ asks Margareta. ‘A feature, perhaps? Ragnar Falk smells of talc always despised us. Never so much as let us in the paper unless it was a paid-for advert. Would you like a feature? An exclusive story?’

‘What about?’

She turns on the spot and spreads her arms and bellows, ‘What about? Just look at this place, the stories in these walls. Centuries of history. The things I could tell you, Tuva.’

‘Always happy to listen,’ I say. ‘Once we’ve got to the bottom of the murder on Visberg hill I’d love to chat.’

I hear the theme tune to Cheers in the distance.

She points at my face and says, ‘That’s more like it! Now I must go and open up a unit for a customer. Emil, show Tuva out, please.’

Margareta smiles and totters off with a set of keys in her hand.

I head for the door and say, ‘Nice to meet you, Emil,’ but he rushes past me and stands in my way, his small frame silhouetted in the doorframe, the whiskers of his full moustache backlit by the light from the street.

He starts to remove the candy bracelet from his wrist.

‘Please,’ he says, offering it to me.

‘No, thank you.’

He’s still blocking the door.