Thord gets us water. His winter skin is coming off him in flakes.

‘You look tired,’ he says.

‘Oh, thanks.’

He smiles.

‘A source told me the head is…’

‘Shhh,’ says Thord, leaning closer. ‘It ain’t Halloween yet, keep your volume down.’

‘Told me the head was Arne Persson’s. That the teeth were his too and they’ve had fillings done.’

‘Source?’ says Thord, scratching his eyebrow.

I nod.

He puffs out his cheeks. ‘Not just fillings, Tuvs. The teeth had been whitened. Autopsy doc says within the past seventy-two hours. Still had some whitening gel present. They’d been flossed and the calcifi… the calculu… the plaque had been scraped off.’ He leans closer. ‘I don’t even know what to say about that. The Chief surely doesn’t, either.’

‘Motive?’

‘What motivates a lunatic?’ he says, tucking his paper napkin into his collar.

Our soup bowls arrive. Bright orange soup with a single ICA Maxi mini crouton floating on top.

‘Heard you was there for the local festivities,’ says Thord, an orange glow to his lips.

I nod.

He slurps his soup.

I drink mine. It’s not spiced. Not seasoned even. Lukewarm. Tastes like boiled potato water.

‘You interviewing the dentists?’ I ask.

He swallows and puts his spoon back in the bowl. ‘People talking about Sven Edlund on account of him being a hunter, being a woodsman, being a dentist.’

‘Open and shut case,’ I say.

‘Golf club gives him a solid alibi. Of course, he’s a partner in the golf club and most of the snobbos up there are his direct relatives, so there’s alibis and there’s alibis, if you know what I mean.’

I do, Thord. I do.

‘His wife?’

‘Ain’t a dentist no more.’

‘Studied though.’

‘Yes, she did. As did another couple of dozen in the upper Värmland region. More, if you count the retirees and the ones who dropped out of tooth school before they graduated.’

The meatballs arrive. Brown sauce made from beef stock and cream and soy sauce. Lukewarm mash. Best food this place serves.

‘Tobias the hygienist?’

‘Solid alibi, a local of good standing. We already checked.’

‘Any other leads?’

‘Now wait a minute, says Thord, a meatball hovering on his fork in front of his mouth. ‘All these questions, Tuvs. You were the one there in the square last night. It’s time for you to fill me in.’

‘Fill you in?’

He nods and chews. A speck of brown sauce on his napkin.

‘Weirdest night of my life, Thord. Like Halloween on LSD. Masks and howling and fires.’

‘All legal that, apart from the LSD.’

‘Yeah, nothing seriously illegal. Just Weird. Cultish. Like that town plays by different rules to everywhere else.’

‘You identify anyone close to that anvil?’

‘Masks,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Masks and costumes.’

He checks his watch and eats three meatballs all at once.