Inside the cop shop things are warm and bleached and predictable. Bolted down seats and safety posters. Vertical strip blinds. Humming radiators. A copy of the Gavrik Posten left folded on the pine counter.

The woman is hungry and feels faint, so she gets looked after while I go through to the back and give the Chief my statement.

‘Sorry you had to see that,’ he says.

‘Me too.’

He takes his notepad and switches on his recording device and slowly unscrews the lid of his fountain pen.

I tell him how I heard the scream. About the black 4x4 that drove away up the hill. How I found the woman near the house with no ground-floor windows. Saw the body. Lifted the coat.

‘You notice anyone else in the area?’

‘No.’

‘Any other vehicles parked on Visberg hill? Anyone up near the derelict train tracks?’

‘No, but it was so foggy I couldn’t see much.’

He makes a note. Dark green ink.

‘Notice any noises in the forest out of place? Quad bike? Any fresh bootprints?’

‘No.’

‘Did the woman say anything to you?’

‘Just that she found him. Asked me if an animal could have done that to him.’

‘An animal?’ He looks up.

I nod.

‘Was she wearing a headscarf when you found her? A yellow headscarf?’

I shake my head.

‘She mention Pan Night or Halloween?’

‘What’s Pan Night?’

He ignores that. ‘Did you take any photographs of the crime scene?’

‘Why?’

‘Just answer the question, please.’

‘No.’

‘Can I check your phone?’

‘No.’

He takes a deep sigh. ‘I’m going to ask you to keep any photos or specific details out of your newspaper for the time being. We need to keep all the information tight until we know what happened tonight.’

‘No photos,’ I say. ‘I’ll agree to that.’

‘Or specific details.’

‘Chief, you know as well as I do, if I don’t print what I found then someone else will. Fast. You can’t contain this. People have a right to know.’

‘Do they, now?’

I nod and clear the corners of my eyes. My mascara has clumped.

‘I’ll be sensitive,’ I say.

‘Mind you are.’

He photographs my boots, the treads.

I walk out of the cop shop and past Benny Björnmossen’s gun store. His shop’s still open and it’s full of customers. Brisk business. That’s elk-hunt season for you. Ammunition and high-energy hunt dog-food and GPS trackers. Camouflage jackets and gutting knives. The bell tinkles as I open the door to the Posten. Empty office. The clock on the wall says 7:40pm. Three desks in here looks wrong. It’s one too many. But we’re managing.

Lena steps out from her office at the rear left.

‘Just got a call from Ragnar Falk. A dead hunter?’

She steps toward me and reaches out her hand and places it on my wrist.

Suddenly I feel faint. I steady myself.