There are a few things to find frustrating about Camilla Läckberg’s novels: their excessive jollity contrasting with horrific crimes, often involving child torture and murder; the incompetence of the Fjällbacka police force; the singularly unappetising food that is frequently eaten by the characters; the inability of anyone to answer their phones to take important, case-breaking information (and every phone call that goes unanswered is inevitably vital); the constant obstruction of justice performed by the main civilian protagonist ... where were we going?

Oh right, The Ice Child is a four star book because all of the flaws listed above are often charming in the hands of Läckberg, and here none of them actively ruin the story like they have in earlier instalments. More than that, however, The Ice Child becomes compulsive reading, tells its story logically, and keeps surprises in check until literally the last five pages.

The Ice Child is the exemplar of a series in its ninth instalment without having lost its momentum: if you’ve made it that far, you’ve internalised its quirks, bathed in them, been raised by them ... and in this particular instance, you escape the cocoon of comfort to step into a deep well of disquiet at the last moment. Cutesy crime infused with a core of frozen blood, melting on your carpet for a while after you’ve finished reading it.