Karen searches her memory, trying to picture Moerbeck town centre. A Qvick shop, a corner shop, a hairdresser, the local branch of the Social Insurance Agency, a bus stop, and yes, some kind of restaurant. The Pirate, apparently.

‘And you think you might have seen the man in the picture there? Do you eat there a lot?’

Sandrine Broe laughs.

‘Hardly. But I used to work there.’

‘Work?’ Karen says, unable to hide her surprise.

‘Yes, what about it?’

A wave of irritation pushes her heart rate up another notch. Nowhere in any of the reports or interview transcripts is there one word written about Sandrine working in a dive restaurant in Moerbeck town centre.

Another deep breath.

‘So, when did you work there?’ she says as casually as she is able.

‘Mostly on the weekends back when I was studying. But it must be a year since I did my last shift. I finished my degree, so I don’t have to work extra anymore, thank God.’

‘You never told the police this? After the attack, I mean.’

‘No, that was long after I quit, so it never came up. I think it had been a couple of months since my last day when . . . Well, when it happened. And I haven’t been back there,’ she adds.

‘And the man in the picture. You think you might have seen him there?’

Sandrine Broe turns her attention back to the phone. Then she slowly shakes her head. Doesn’t answer straight away.

‘I don’t know . . . He reminds me of one of the regulars. But he was older, like I said, his hair was thinner, and he was heavier. And he wasn’t in a wheelchair. No, it can’t be him.’

‘OK, but tell me about the man who used to hang out at The Pirate.’

Sandrine Broe shrugs.

‘Not sure there’s all that much to say. He used to sit alone, always at the same table or by one of the gambling machines. Pretty gross guy. Or more like creepy, you know.’

‘Creepy?’

‘Yeah, we obviously had to stop serving people once they’d had too much to drink, and that was always a bit of an issue. But we never had to cut this guy off. He had his three pints and went home. Except one ti—’

She breaks off abruptly and claps her hand to her mouth and Karen watches her phone slip down between the seats. Sandrine stares at her.

‘Is that him?’ she says. ‘Is that what you think, that the man in that picture . . . ?’

‘We don’t know. He’s just one of many people we’re looking into. But what were you going to say? Except one time? What happened that time?’