Arve has a brief conversation with the church musician and churchwarden and then he and Karen walk over to the rectory, a two-storey limestone house which differs little from the other houses in the area and is smaller than Karen had expected. The only thing that gives away that this is the residence of the parish priest is the tithes barn. Like most other tithes barns, it’s tall and narrow and comes with a heavy and intricately carved wooden bar, a massive lock and a wrought-iron cross. Karen wonders briefly whether the barn is empty or if Arve has managed to find some use for it. These days it’s not exactly needed to hold the tithes the hard-working parishioners used to pay the church for the priest’s services, she thinks while Arve climbs the steps to the rectory.

The interior proves equally lacking in the grandeur she would have expected in a rectory. Aside from a collection of portraits of his predecessors, which Arve has left up on one of the sitting-room walls, nothing in the room hints at clerical splendour. He leaves her in a comfortable red armchair with an assurance that he will be right back.

No crucifixes on the walls, no religious paraphernalia at all, except for a Bible on the coffee table. Other than that, it looks like a regular, modern living room, with a sofa, armchairs, a TV and a stereo. Karen glances over at Arve’s collection of old vinyl records and CDs in the bookcase, but she can’t make out any titles and she’s not curious enough about his music taste to get up. Instead, she closes her eyes and leans back, feeling the pain in her knee slowly subside after their short walk from the church.

Five minutes later, Arve is back. Now dressed in light grey corduroy trousers and a matching cardigan. The ruff has once more been replaced by a small dog collar in his black shirt.

‘Would you mind if I heat up some food while we talk? I haven’t eaten since breakfast,’ he says, gesturing toward the kitchen. ‘Actually, maybe you’re hungry, too?’

‘No, thank you, I had a late breakfast,’ Karen lies instinctively.

She follows him into a large rustic kitchen with old-fashioned and impractical but beautiful décor, pulls out a kitchen chair and sits down at the large oak table. She watches in silence while the priest takes out an enamel saucepan and fetches a glass jar from the fridge.

‘Are you sure I can’t offer you some lunch? They’re just leftovers from yesterday,’ he coaxes, ‘but they’re good. Venison stew from a deer I shot and chanterelles I picked myself.’

‘No, thank you, but you go ahead.’

‘Are you absolutely sure? There’s home-made rowanberry jelly to go with it,’ Arve says and turns around with the jar in his hand and his eyebrows raised.