Being able to hang out with Tammy is the biggest perk of Gavrik life. Sure, the place is an epic downgrade from Malmö, especially when you factor in my new hill-town responsibilities, but she makes it all worthwhile. Her and Noora do, but in different ways. Tam and I are easy together. Always easy. Never a cross word or a strained meal. She’s the kind of friend you always look forward to meeting, even if you’re tired or cranky.

We hug. It should be awkward, the two of us in a car park, each holding an ice cream, but it’s never awkward with Tam. It’s the most natural thing in the whole world.

‘Your place or mine, Tuva Moody?’

‘Mine’s parked over by McDonalds,’ I say.

‘Get in then,’ she says, unlocking her Peugeot with the aftermarket bleeper she’s had installed. Tammy is security conscious. Understandably.

‘It’s the texture,’ she says, her elbows by her steering wheel. ‘The creaminess. It’s a whole other dimension of smooth.’ She looks at me. ‘And then there’s the Daim pieces.’

‘They do not go soft,’ I say, using my own spoon-straw.

‘No they do not,’ she says. ‘Ronald freakin’ McDonald. Give that creepy old clown three Michelin stars and retire him off someplace hot for his troubles. A motherfucking Grade-A Master Chef, but does he get the recognition?’

I shake my head, a basic grin plastered on my face.

‘They laud praise on the same old dudes with their foams and emulsions and soufflés. Wake the hell up and give Ronald his stars.’

‘How’s your new guy?’

She looks over at me with a glint in her eye. ‘He a sweetie,’ she says. ‘Remembered our one-month anniversary.’

‘That even a thing?’

‘Fuck knows. It is for him. I went along with it.’

‘Good of you.’

‘How about you and Noora?’

‘I’m happy,’ I say. ‘She’s perfect. But it makes liaising with the police over this chainsaw beheading case a little more complicated. Boundaries and no-go subjects all over the place. When we share a day off, which is rare, or when she stays over, it’s always nice, but it’s also complicated.’

‘Never seen you this happy. They find the head yet?’

I take a moment to digest that segue.

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘My customers have been talking about it all day. One of them bought a personal-attack alarm, keeps it on her keyring just in case. A loose head,’ she says. ‘How horrific is that.’

I nod and stare out the window. We’re facing away from the van and the supermarket. Out onto an open field and the forest fringe beyond. The sky is darkening to granite and the top fringe of the forest looks like a ripped piece of black paper, its edge serrated.

‘Police know who did it yet? Who had it in for Arne Persson?’