He hadn’t been alone in that opinion. Even the most reactionary codgers from the old Scandinavian families, grumbling about the strong Anglo-Saxon influence, tend to cherish their local pubs. Some of them stubbornly insist on using the old name for Doggerland – West Mark Land – while knocking back another pint of ale and shot of whiskey.

But the pub culture is under threat; in Dunker and Ravenby, pubs are now in direct competition with wine bars and local microbrewery outlets that are less dingy and free of that characteristic mouldy carpet smell. And yet, it’s in pubs like these Karen feels most at home. Surrounded by old men who barely look up when you enter. Where you can sit in peace without constantly having to rebuff lonely men who sidle up to your table with a hopeful, ‘Are you here all by yourself? Mind if I join you?’

Karen pulls out two notebooks. The small, thin one that fits into her jacket pocket and the large moleskin one she carries in her handbag. Just then a tray with a pint of ale, a small glass of light yellow whiskey and a bowl of fried red algae lands on her table. Karen looks up.

‘Thank you. Can I ask you something? Is there a hotel in Lysvik, or could you recommend a good bed and breakfast?’

‘Sure, there’s Rindler’s up on Lotsgatan, but if all you need is a comfortable bed with clean sheets, I have a room free – 300 marks and breakfast’s included. You’d have to pay at least three times that at Rindler’s.’

‘Deal,’ Karen replies. ‘I may be staying a few days, if that’s OK. Karen Eiken Hornby,’ she adds and holds out her hand.

‘Ellen Jensen. That absolutely fine. Can I ask what you’re doing up here? I can tell you’re from the south.’

‘Work,’ Karen replies tersely, but changes her mind and adds, ‘I’m a police detective and I’m here to investigate a death.’

‘Fredrik Stuub, yes, I figured. I heard about it this morning. So it wasn’t an accident after all?’

‘It’s too early to say. We always investigate unexpected deaths, just to make sure.’

‘That makes sense, though I really can’t imagine who would want to kill that sweet old man.’

‘Did you know him?’

Ellen Jensen shakes her head.

‘He used to stop by after work sometimes. He would come back on the five-thirty ferry and pop in for a quick drink on his way home, like so many others.’

‘I’ve been told he was a retired teacher,’ Karen says. ‘But I guess he didn’t work at the school here in Lysvik, then?’

Ellen Jensen tilts her head back and laughs loudly.