‘Fabrizio Sordi, but everyone around here calls me Fabbe.’ The man speaks perfect Skåne Swedish, but the cadence of his sentences is typically Italian. He has dark hair and wears glasses; he looks about the same age and weight as Morell, but is considerably shorter.

‘Fabbe came here in ’68 to work at Glarea, like so many others, but his talents were wasted there. You tell the rest of the story!’ Morell pats the other man encouragingly on the shoulder.

‘Food in Sweden in the ’60s was inedible – brown beans and pea soup. Tinned pineapples, tinned ham. I had to ask my family back in Italy to send over pasta and olive oil. I did a few shifts as a pot washer in the kitchen at weekends to earn some extra cash, and eventually the chef let me have a go. He was a bit too fond of the booze, so it happened more and more often. In ’75 the owner decided to sell, so I scraped together as much as I could and went for it. My boys more or less grew up here – cooking is in their blood. My older son Dante is a sous chef at Noma in Copenhagen – two Michelin stars!’

Morell pats him on the shoulder again; the little man is clearly bursting with pride.

‘So, he didn’t cook this?’ Anna points to her plate.

‘No, that was my younger son, Bruno.’

‘Please pass on my compliments – it was delicious. Ottimo!’

Fabbe’s smile grows even wider. ‘Tu parli italiano – brava!’

‘Only a little – I’ve forgotten most of it,’ she says in Italian before reverting to Swedish. ‘I studied in Florence for six months in the early ’90s, before I realised I wanted to join the police.’

‘You speak it very well,’ Fabbe assures her. ‘Wait a minute – Bruno! Bruno!’

The other diners look up, and a man in chef’s whites sticks his head around a door at the far end of the room. Fabbe beckons him over.

‘Bruno, come and say hello to Anna Vesper, our new chief of police. She’s spent time in Firenze, and speaks Italian!’

Bruno holds out his hand. He’s about the same age as Anna, and is in many ways a slimmer version of his father. His hairline has begun to recede, the shape of his mouth is the same as Fabbe’s, but his eyes are more serious, and he doesn’t have the laughter lines. ‘Bruno Sordi,’ he introduces himself.

‘Hi, Bruno. The pasta was delicious.’

‘Thank you.’ He smiles, nods in the direction of his father. ‘Unfortunately, my Italian is a little rusty. Has Dad told you the story of how he acquired the restaurant by washing up?’

‘He has.’

‘And he’s mentioned that my brother is a Michelin-starred chef?’

Anna nods.