‘That’s where the drunks hang out,’ he informs her as they reach the small square in front of the state-owned off-licence. ‘We have a group of long-term alcoholics and drug users who tend to congregate here, especially just after their benefits have been paid. But they’re a dying breed – in five or ten years they’ll be gone.’ He almost sounds melancholy. They cross the railway line. The track curves slightly, which means the rails are at different heights.

‘A bit bumpy,’ Morell says, ‘but that’s the price we have to pay for the inter-urban trains. There are plenty of other communities that would be willing to sacrifice a few shock absorbers for a decent rail link. There’s talk of long-distance trains next year, in which case they’ll probably build a viaduct.’

An elderly couple on the pavement wave, and he returns their greeting. A short distance further on, a cyclist does the same. It’s obvious that people recognise the chief of police.

The acrid smell is stronger now.

‘Clay burning,’ Morell explains, pointing to the dark outline of the ridge. ‘The local gravel company, Glarea, has a big open-cast quarry on the edge of the ridge. As well as producing gravel and tarmac, they burn clay to make bricks for use in kilns.’

Anna recognises the name from the logo on Gunnel’s bobbly cardigan on Saturday.

‘On some days the smell is worse than others,’ Morell goes on. ‘To be honest, I hardly notice it anymore, but some of our newer residents have complained to the Environment Agency, and the blasting and burning will stop towards the end of next year.’ He shrugs. ‘Times change, and maybe that’s for the best. At least it will be nice not to have to wash the car so often.’

They continue slowly through the village and Morell points out the pub, the library, the high school, the swimming pool and the supermarket. He moves on to the ironmonger’s, the cobbler, the florist, and finally the fire station and the tall water tower that looks like a giant grey concrete mushroom. Tarmac, brick, dark wood and dirty grey plasterboard, the colours made even gloomier by the foul-smelling fog. Nedanås isn’t exactly a picturesque little Skåne village – it’s closer to a typical industrial town.

‘I imagine the problems we have here are pretty standard outside the major cities. Break-ins, drink driving, the odd bit of graffiti, a vandalised bus shelter now and again,’ Morell says, scratching his beard once more. ‘A few notorious domestic abusers that we keep a close eye on, the occasional fight either at the refugee centre or in the park. Not particularly advanced crimes, especially for an experienced investigator like you.’ The sentence remains hanging in the air as he concentrates on a left turn. Anna has a good idea where this discussion is going.