Why would a person shoot a man dead, sever his head with a chainsaw, then remove his teeth? Leave the body in the forest, the teeth in a pan, and the head skewered on an anvil. Is this some kind of sick game?

I park next to my building and go in.

When I stop to unlock my first-floor apartment, my neighbour’s door swings open. Wealthy-looking guy with a dark suit and black high-polish shoes and dyed black hair. Piece of tissue on his chin stuck on with blood. And little Dan by his side looking up at me, smiling.

‘We’re late,’ the man says to Dan.

Dan whispers something to the man and the man shakes his head and Dan says ‘Please, Pappa.’

The man sticks his tongue into the side of his mouth and nods.

Dan runs back inside the apartment.

‘Bye,’ I say.

‘No,’ says the man, pointing at me. ‘Wait.’

Dan runs back out, his gloves dangling from his sleeves with string. He puts his hands behind his back and says, ‘Which hand?’

I point to the left hand.

He switches hands and shakes his head.

I point to the right hand.

He hands me a piece of A4 printer paper. His face is proud and embarrassed and excited all at once.

I take it and turn it over.

‘That is my sand witch,’ he says.

It is a sandwich, and it’s also me and Noora and little Dan. In the picture Dan is smiling and his face is bright pink.

‘It’s a great picture,’ I say.

‘We’re going to be late,’ says his dad.

‘Thank you, Dan.’

The man drags his son away, his expensive leather-soled shoes clicking and clacking down the stairs. Over his shoulder, Dan’s face is looking back up at me, his eyes smiling.

I lie down for twenty minutes then shower. I use the fresh-mint-and-lime shower gel, the one that’s like drinking five espressos. Honey loops with fridge-cold milk, Twix ice-cream bar – do not judge me, not after what I saw last night – and then I dress and leave the flat.

Outside it’s trying to sleet.

I arrive at the office.

The bell above the door tinkles and I feel half hungover, even though I haven’t touched a drink since Julia’s single-measure whisky and Coke. Lena comes through and says, ‘What happened?’

‘Coffee?’ I say.

We walk through to the kitchen at the back. Nils has put a note on the coffee jug reminding us to rinse it thoroughly. Lena sits on his unoccupied desk – this is Saturday and ad salesmen don’t work weekends – and I pour us both coffee from the percolator. She gets a chainsaw-store freebie mug, which is probably inappropriate this week, and I get a Grimberg-Liquorice anniversary mug.

‘It was strange enough before,’ I say. ‘Visberg is…’

‘I know,’ she says. ‘I heard they found the victim’s head by the town statue?’