On one of the low hills, a herd of brown hross have gathered in a grove of oak trees. The decision to prohibit wind power on Frisel had officially been motivated by a need to protect the island’s unique birdlife and free-roaming wild horses. For centuries, the hross had been hard-pressed by both poachers and Frisian whalers, who put the tiny horses to work on their ships going north, only to dump them at sea on the way home. But some maintained that the real reason why Frisel had escaped the scourge of the windmills was not so much concern for waterfowl and an endangered breed of horse, but rather the fact that the sandy soil made the island unsuitable.

Karen is starting to feel nauseous again and rolls down her window. A few deep breaths of the salty air quickly settle her stomach. Over by the horizon, beyond the marshes and the grass-covered embankment, she can now make out the sea. In the dim light of dawn, she can’t see the pied avocets, oystercatchers, and other waders she knows are strutting around out there, but she can hear the forlorn lament of a loon in the distance.

The contrast with the coastline she’s used to from Langevik on the east side of Heimö is striking. There, mountains and cliffs stand firm against the raging sea. Here, there’s no clear boundary between land and sea; they seem to blend together. Here, the difference between ebb and flow is a daily reminder of the dangers and riches of high tide. The fertile soil is sandy and mingled with seashells, a reminder that the ground on this side of the embankment was underwater once, too.

‘It must be around here somewhere,’ Karl says, checking the GPS.

Just then, the car in front of them slows down and indicates right as it passes a faded sign announcing the turn-off to Roper’s Farm.

The flashing caravan slowly continues down a gravel road that seems to lead absolutely nowhere. Not quite a mile later, the road slopes steeply down, and it’s only then they start to make out the faint outlines of buildings up ahead. They pass the police helicopter that has landed in a newly ploughed field and slow down further to pass through an open gate. The road ends in a rectangular gravel field where they spread out and park.

‘Like I said,’ Karen says, addressing the back seat, ‘you’re staying here until I tell you otherwise.’

‘I thought you said the perpetrator has been identified and isn’t here?’ Jon Bergman replies sullenly. ‘That this is just a search-and-rescue operation?’

‘That’s correct. But we need to get an overview before you start running around.’