Chief Björn walks in carrying a mug of coffee with ‘Miami PD’ written on the side in big, blue letters. He raises his eyebrows when he sees my muddy clothes. ‘Heard there was some kind of ruckus.’

‘I got shot at.’

He walks closer.

‘Out on the street?’

Thord turns to him and says, ‘Visberg hill.’

‘Boar hunt?’ says the Chief.

‘The bullets got close.’

‘Sure can feel that way,’ says the Chief. ‘One time out in Utgard, few hunts back this was, maybe four years ago, might have even been five, I could’ve sworn a bullet sailed right through my cap.’ He runs his fingers through his grey hair. ‘We located said bullet after an hour or more of searching. Curious, I was. Couldn’t let it go. Turns out I was more than twenty metres away from that shot.’

‘Now, wait a––’

‘Ain’t calling anyone a liar or no such thing,’ says the Chief, taking a sip of his coffee and recoiling from it like it’s too hot. ‘Not such an easy thing to judge, is all.’

‘I was shot at.’

Chief scrunches his eyes together and scratches his head.

‘You see the shooter, did you?’

‘No.’

‘Was it dark?’

‘It was getting dark. All this happened less than an hour ago.’

The Chief nods and blows into his mug through puckered lips.

‘Now, don’t take this the wrong way but I got twenty-twenty vision and twenty-twenty hearing, if that’s even the correct measurement, and I couldn’t judge how close a bullet came to ending my existence. Police officer thirty-eight years, Chief for nineteen. I’m a hunting man, shot my first elk at twelve with my granddaddy up near Östersund way. I’m not making no judgement one way or the other, but believe you me, it’s tough to judge how close a shot came to hitting you.’

Thord offers me a Kleenex and I wipe my face and my neck and blow my nose.

‘Chief’s got a point,’ he says.

‘There were three separate shots.’

‘It’s hunt season. Boar and elk up by Visberg forest. This ain’t Stockholm city,’ says the Chief. ‘Ain’t even close. You had a scare and I acknowledge that. I’ll even talk to the hunt boss out in Visberg to emphasise the need for good sportsmanlike conduct.’

‘Hunt chief?’

‘Edlund’s his name. Dental man.’

Oh, great.

‘Who do I go to if the police don’t believe me?’

Chief takes a long swig of coffee and keeps it in his cheeks and shakes his head. ‘Ain’t a matter of belief. Not that simple, I’m afraid. It’s more a matter of perception.’

‘Maybe I’ll call Falun police,’ I say.