‘Inherited the place from his uncle. His uncle was a wealthy man in these parts. I heard Arne was in the process of evicting the Sorlie sisters. Trying to, at least.’

‘Those troll creations,’ says Ragnar, his cheeks reddening.

‘Quite despicable things,’ says Hans.

‘One even had a…’ Ragnar Falk makes a ring with the fingers on one hand and takes his index finger of the other hand and jabs it through the hole.

‘A…?’

Ragnar and Hans Wimmer both nod and slurp more coffee from their saucers. It’s a thing in Sweden, mainly with the older folk. Cools down the coffee.

The room is hotter than ever. It’s stifling.

‘I need to be getting back before the woods get too dark,’ says Ragnar. ‘Don’t want to be mistaken for a tasty deer, do I?’

‘Me too,’ I say. ‘Can we walk together?’

Ragnar says, ‘I’d like that very much indeed. We can talk about the newspaper business.’

We say goodbye to Hans and set off. Feels totally different walking in the woods with Ragnar Falk. He was a journalist here for over thirty years. I trust him. An old man with a limp and a good standing in the community. He’s not a hunter and he did a deal with Lena. She knows him. I guess, in a way, she vouches for him.

The pines glow grey in the murky twilight. This is elk o’clock, the most dangerous time of night. Ragnar can keep up a surprisingly good pace considering his leg. I follow behind and focus on the orange, reflective stripe on the hood of his waterproof jacket.

Two gunshots in fast succession. A cloud of birds squawk and lift from an oak tree. They scar the pale sky as they flee.

I take my phone off airplane mode. Twelve per cent battery.

We pass the smouldering bonfire left by the hunters. Hooves and entrails and curled, half-burnt paper plates. The skin left on the ground like a dishevelled rug, stained with bile. Fluids leaching into the pine-needle floor.

Noises ahead.

Car engines.

The safety of a tarmacked road.

We reach the ditch and I help Ragnar cross it. As I leap across I see my own reflection down in the still, brown water. A woman leaving the realm of the wild things and rejoining safe, predictable civilisation. From uneven ground to flat. From nothingness to a route away.

Ragnar looks over at the white-bike memorial. At its spray-painted saddle and handlebars and brakes. At the white bell. The basket. He waves me away and sets off in his Saab. I walk up the side of the road to find my Hilux.

The hill is so steep my calves start aching.

Six per cent battery on my phone.