The men look to be in their thirties and hardly used to manual labour, but they’re singing as though they mean every word before clinking their glasses and shouting as one: ‘Gottjer!’

In fairness, the ancient custom of going out into the woods, tapping a birch tree, and letting the first sap bestow strength for the upcoming season of hard labour has long since taken on new significance. ‘Drinking marrow into one’s bones’, is now mostly an excuse to imbibe any and all kinds of alcoholic beverages.

‘We should go to the beach tomorrow. Head over to Frisel and just lie in the sun all day. You look like you need it, Karen.’

Behind her smile, there’s an edge of concern to Marike’s idiosyncratic mix of Doggerian and Danish.

‘I have to go for a run,’ Karen says. ‘I have six weeks to get fit unless I want the doctor to send Smeed a report,’ she adds when she’s met with an incredulous look.

‘Nonsense. The only things a woman should run for are sex and dry martinis. Come on, Karen.’

It does sound tempting. If the weather holds, a day on one of Frisel’s beaches would be infinitely more pleasant that panting around Langevik. One last day of idleness before she knuckles down and starts dealing with . . . everything.

‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Call me tomorrow and we’ll—’

She’s interrupted by the return of their waitress and two of her colleagues. Brimming baskets of shrimp, mussels, and crayfish are dumped out onto the table.

‘You’re tonight’s winners,’ the waitress announces. ‘Last call. We’re closed tomorrow.’

They look at each other and grin. This is the dream: being the last ones to order kraken’s catch and thereby serving as the kitchen’s bin. If they’d been seated inside, they would have heard the chef bang a pot and announce to staff and guests that no one else need apply: there’s no more shellfish to be had, except possibly lobster and oysters.

Out here, they have to content themselves with a similar racket from a group of kids passing by. They wait for the deafening noise to fade while greedily eyeing the delicacies poured onto their table. Crayfish, lobster, oysters, mussels, crab, shrimp, deep-fried brown algae and, to go with it, bowls of ransoms mayonnaise and melted butter.

Then they dig in. Suck, slurp, crack, bite, chew. And drink.

‘So, how’s work, Karen?’ Kore asks a few minutes later and snaps a front leg off a crayfish. ‘How about you catch that rapist swine soon?’ he adds and cracks the claw with his teeth.

Before she can reply, he continues, ‘I noticed he’s at it again. Lemdal this time, was it?’

Karen nods. That much she can say without revealing too much.

‘Yes, it seems that way.’