What did I say? Håkan reminds her. Humour isn’t your thing. Stick to what you’re good at, idiot!

She clears her throat, pushes him away. Take your time, don’t stammer.

‘I take up my post next Monday. During this week Henry and I will be working on the handover. I’d also like to go out with a couple of patrol cars to get to know the area. Over the next two or three weeks I’m hoping to be able to sit down with each one of you individually to get an idea of your goals, what challenges you face during the course of your work, and how I can support you in the best way possible.’

She is particularly pleased with the last sentence, picked up from a leadership course. She has practised it over and over again until it is rock solid. She carries on in a typical Swedish way, tells them she has a sixteen-year-old daughter called Agnes who has just started at the high school and dreams of becoming a photographer. She ends – without tripping up once – by saying how much she’s looking forward to working with everyone in the room. Henry Morell starts a polite ripple of applause.

‘Thank you, Anna. I’m sure everyone here will do their best to ensure as smooth a transition as possible. Before I hand over to Jens, I’d just like to remind you of my retirement presentation on Friday afternoon in the council chambers. You know what I think of events like that, and it would be nice to see a few friendly faces among all the suits.’

Morell’s joke falls on considerably more fertile ground than Anna’s. He waits for the smiles and laughter to die away before turning to a uniformed officer sitting at the end of the front row. ‘Over to you, Jens.’

Jens Friberg gets to his feet and waits until Anna and Morell have sat down before opening the black folder he had tucked under his arm. He’s about the same age as Anna, toned and fit in the sinewy way she likes. His eyes are grey; they remind her of Håkan’s, but without the glint that made it so difficult to be angry with him. His hair is dark and short, his close-fitting uniform shirt is perfectly pressed, and the American paratrooper boots he is wearing are polished to a high shine. She looks for more of the usual symbols. Oversized diver’s watch, double sets of spare cartridges and handcuffs attached to his gun belt. Multi-purpose tools, low-slung fast-access holster with leg strap. She wonders if he has a military tattoo, and decides there’s at least a fifty per cent chance. Raises the odds to sixty before he starts speaking. She’s on the verge of bursting out laughing.

‘Good morning, everyone. So, this is what went down over the weekend . . .’