Unexpectedly, Carina came to his rescue. ‘It’s always better to have a witness to a dispute. I love to visit Gamla Stan so let’s go there together. Then Nico can go with you and I’ll take the children to my favourite tea shop.’

After a moment’s deliberation, Hannah nodded. ‘Good point about a witness. Thank you.’

They checked out after breakfast, stowing their bags once more in the luggage room, then crunched along gritted, slushy pavements to the nearby open area of Rosenbadsparken where the tree trunks were painted green with lichen. The kids wanted to run – or, in the case of Maria, stagger – over the fresh white snow until their tracks criss-crossed a hundred times. Nico helped them make a giant snowball but it was difficult to encourage Maria to keep her gloves on and when she began to cry at her reddened hands Hannah picked her up and wrapped her own scarf around the frozen digits. For reasons best known to a two-year-old, this proved more acceptable than gloves and she remained on Hannah’s hip shouting, ‘Yo-zee, My-dad, Far-mor … snow!’ and going off into a musical ‘har har har har har’ when Josie slipped and landed on her face.

Eventually, Nico called a halt. ‘Time to go to Gamla Stan.’ He took Maria on his shoulders for the ten-minute walk, a mode of transport they both favoured over the buggy, which he’d left in Nässjö in any case.

They ambled across Vasabron gazing at the rushing water and the boats, the network of bridges connecting various parts of the city filled with cars or trains. Under the arches of the soaring parliamentary buildings Maria demanded to be returned to ground level to inspect the concrete lions placed in the streets as barriers to a repeat of the Stockholm truck attack. ‘RAAAAAH!’ she roared in her tiny voice, curling her fingers into claws as the lion gazed peaceably out from under his snow blanket. Nico was glad the innocence of children associated the lions with play, rather than the mowing down of innocent people who’d done nothing worse than be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

They turned uphill, passing shops and restaurants with blackboards offering hot chocolate, skirting the Nobel Museum, the old Stock Exchange, to browse the colourful Christmas market of Stortorget nestled between the buildings painted sage green, amber, blood red, pink or shades of honey, grey cobbles gleaming wet through trodden snow. The pretty red wooden stalls selling toys, ornaments, gifts and scarves were webbed with tinsel and coloured lights, the air heavy with the toffee-smell of street food.

Hannah was silent, though Josie’s chatter and Maria’s exclamations filled the air as she gazed around, her hair tumbling between hat and scarf, her gorgeous eyes wistful and apprehensive.

‘You OK?’ he murmured.