‘Hi,’ says the female officer, a fraction too loudly. She sounds offended.

‘Sorry. Hi. We met yesterday, didn’t we?’

‘Frida, and no we didn’t. It was my day off.’ The woman’s tone of voice and expression are even sourer now.

‘Once again, I’m sorry. There were so many new faces and names in such a short space of time. Nice to meet you, Frida. Anna Vesper.’

Anna holds out her hand, manages not to blush, tries to ignore the looks Jens Friberg is giving her. She turns away and fills her mug. A dull roar suddenly shakes the building and the glasses in the cupboards begin to rattle. She gives a start, spills a little coffee on her trousers.

‘What . . . w . . . w . . .’ She feels the blockage, the vibration between her teeth and lower lip. She swallows, puts the emphasis on the second word.

‘What wa . . . as that?’

Jens and Frida look at each other, then at her.

‘Glarea,’ Friberg says. ‘They’re blasting. You get used to it after a few months.’

‘Right, OK.’ Anna realises she has no more to add, and heads back to her office.

‘D . . . d . . . do you th . . . think she’ll s . . . s . . . stay long?’ Frida says with laughter in her voice. Anna doesn’t hear Friberg’s reply.

*

Later that morning there is a knock on her door. It’s Henry Morell, and at first, she thinks he’s come to invite her to lunch again, but then she sees that he has company – a man about her own age, wearing a fleece top, overalls and a tool belt. His hair has blond streaks, and he has a broad nose, a thick neck and slightly protruding ears, the kind wrestlers often have. He was probably very good-looking once upon a time. He still is, to be fair, even though his hairline has receded and his stubble is peppered with grey.

‘This is my son, Alexander,’ Morell says. ‘His construction company does some maintenance work for us here at the station, so I’ve asked him to take a look at your windows.’ He points to the broken blind.

‘Hi, Alexander – Anna Vesper.’ He smells faintly of sweat and work clothes, a not entirely unpleasant combination, at least not from a certain type of man. ‘I’m taking over from your dad,’ she adds, mainly because she can’t think of anything else to say.

‘I know. Call me Alex – everyone does, except my parents,’ he says with a shy smile.

‘Anna and her daughter have moved into Tabor,’ Morell says in a tone which suggests that Alex probably knows this too.

‘Tabor,’ Alex murmurs. ‘The finest house on the ridge.’ He goes over to the window and starts to examine the frame. Takes a screwdriver out of his belt and separates the panes of glass without the slightest difficulty. There’s something appealing about the fact that he’s so reserved.