When Karen knocks on the front door of the eastern wing of the house, which serves as the couple’s private residence, Björn Groth himself comes to open it with a large cloth napkin in hand. Like his son, the man before her is powerfully built, almost fat. But there’s none of Jens’ stockiness here; Björn Groth’s tall and broad-shouldered figure carries every last pound in a way that calls to mind his namesake, the bear. The similarity is underscored by his nut-brown mane, which, though he must be well past sixty, doesn’t seem to contain so much as a streak of grey. The contrast with his furrowed face is so stark Karen has to wonder if the hair colour is real.

‘We haven’t been able to eat a bite until now,’ he explains. ‘Would you mind if we finish while we talk? Or maybe you’d even like to join us?’

After declining politely, she follows him through the hallway. Despite his size, there’s something graceful, almost coquettish, about Björn Groth’s movements. His heels barely seem to touch the floor when he walks, and Karen has to cough to cover a sudden fit of mirth when the image of a dancing bear suddenly pops into her head. He leads her into a room dominated by a massive mahogany dining table and eight matching chairs under an enormous crystal chandelier. A woman just north of sixty is sitting at one of the long sides of the table. When Björn and Karen appear in the doorway, she immediately puts down the glass of red wine she was holding, stands up and comes to meet them.

‘Laura Groth,’ she says with a smile, extending a slender hand. ‘Welcome. Inspector Eiken, I presume?’

‘Detective Inspector, if we’re being pedantic,’ Karen replies with a smile. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer for me to wait somewhere so you can finish your meal in peace?’

‘We’re done,’ Laura Groth says, and Karen notes Björn’s longing look at his half-eaten plate.

With surprising efficiency, and without once coming across as dismissive, the graceful Laura Groth in her tweed skirt and jumper set ushers them out of the dining room.

‘Why don’t we go into the parlour?’ she says. ‘We’ll be much more comfortable there. Did my husband offer you a drink? Coffee, perhaps, or a cup of tea? I don’t suppose there’s any point asking if you’d like something stronger?’

‘Sadly, no.’

‘Maybe another time.’