Karen Eiken Hornby studies Karl Björken’s purchase and presses her lips together not to laugh.

‘I know, but they were the only ones left,’ he says and adjusts the frames with the round, blue-tinted lenses on his nose. ‘They’re a bit John Lennon, though, right?’

‘You wish. They’re too small. Are you sure you didn’t take them from the ladies’ section. Or children’s?’

‘You’re just jealous. What do you want to eat? Sprally, right? And a pint?’

Karen nods. If you’re lucky enough to get an outdoor table at Magasinet, the best restaurant in the harbour, you simply have to order crispy, deep-fried smelt with ramsons butter, and do your best not to think about the calories.

Five minutes later, their stressed young waiter slams their pints down so forcefully some of the contents slosh out onto the table.

‘Oh no, I’m sorry,’ he says, his eyes darting indecisively between the tabletop and the heavy tray of glasses that still need to be taken to other guests.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Karl says and pushes the puddle over the edge of the table with the side of his hand. Then he leans back and turns his face to the sun. Karen glares impatiently at him.

‘We were supposed to talk shop,’ she says. ‘Not sunbathe.’

‘Go ahead, talk.’

She moves her pint over, leans forward and glances around to make sure none of the other guests can hear.

‘I want to know everything. What’s going on? Have you secured any evidence from the latest attack? Have you been able to talk to Anita Kollbar yet?’

Karl Björken reluctantly looks at her from behind his sunglasses.

‘Why are you off the case? That’s what I want to know. What are you up to that’s more important than catching the Moerbeck Swine? Maybe you should start by filling me in.’

‘I can’t.’

Karl pushes out his lower lip and tilts his head back and forth thoughtfully.

‘Well, then I guess we’re at an impasse. Only members of the investigation team, you know . . .’

‘But . . .’

With mounting frustration, Karen watches Karl Björken take another sip of his beer and lean back again. She glances over at the table next to theirs. An older couple with a Jack Russell terrier that’s drinking water directly from the husband’s glass while his wife fretfully watches the waiter and the other guests.

‘Fine,’ Karen says through gritted teeth. ‘But would you mind leaning closer?’

Then she fills him in quickly and quietly. Not everything, but enough. In her view.

Not in Karl’s.

‘But who?’ he says. ‘And why is it so damn important to keep anyone from finding out? Come on, spill.’