Anna stops the car when she reaches the main road. If she turns left it will take her about twenty-five minutes to drive to the ICA supermarket down in Nedanås. If she heads to the right, according to Call-me-Lasse, it’s only fifteen minutes to the significantly smaller community of Mörkaby up on the ridge, where he assured her there is a general store. The term sounds so rustic and appealing that she decides to be adventurous, and turns right.

It has rained during the night. The tarmac is dark, and a grey blanket of wet autumn fog is draped around the trees. The road winds gently through the landscape, and after approximately a mile the forest gives way to a plateau with open fields on both sides. She can just make out the edge of trees in the distance through the fog.

Over on the right she sees a long avenue of willow trees, with buildings at the far end. At the same time she notices a sign for Änglaberga. So that’s where her landlady lives – and Klein. Anna can’t work him out at all. He seemed sullen, almost hostile. But why?

The plain continues for a few minutes; she passes a number of smaller farms before entering a dense deciduous forest. The road zigzags and climbs sharply, and here and there narrow dirt tracks appear on either side with no warning. Most are no more than the width of a single vehicle, with a strip of grass down the middle. She drives carefully, conscious of the weather and the unfamiliar route. She is overtaken several times by locals travelling well above the speed limit, apparently unconcerned by the poor visibility. The last of them even sounds his horn angrily at her as he whizzes by.

After almost exactly fifteen minutes a white church tower peeps through the mist, followed by a sign informing her that she has arrived in Mörkaby, and that this is the highest church in Skåne.

The village itself is no more than a modest collection of buildings arranged around a T-junction. One of them has a rough patch of concrete in front of it, along with a couple of placards. It doesn’t exactly fit the image of a general store that she had in mind. What did you expect? Håkan says with a grin. Astrid Lindgren’s Bullerbyn?

The door is locked, but a handwritten note instructs customers to ring the bell. After a minute or so an elderly lady opens up; she is wearing a bobbly cardigan with a company logo on the pocket.

‘Morning!’ she says cheerfully as she lets Anna in.

The store isn’t much bigger than the living room at Tabor. An old-fashioned refrigerated counter, a couple of shelves of dry goods, various tobacco products plus a newspaper stand. The air smells of vinyl flooring.