"I… I don't know."

"What happened between them?"

"Why is that important?" She seemed surprised; her face had surprise written all over it. "Why does that matter? Now?"

"Don't you realize?" he asked.

"No."

"Haven't you ever thought about it?"

She thought, thought.

"Mattias? No. That's not possible."

Winter said nothing. She looked at him, straight at him.

"Surely you can't think that? That Mattias… that he might have done something to Jeanette?"

No, Winter thought. Not him. But he didn't answer her question. Instead he commented on the sound of a car in the street.

"Is that your husband coming home?"

"It's his car," she said, going past him again.

A car door opened and closed. Footsteps on the gravel, on the steps, a voice.

"What's he doing here again?"

Winter turned around. Kurt Bielke was standing at the top of the steps. He was wearing a white shirt, gray pants, and black loafers. There was sweat on his face. He came closer. Winter could smell the alcohol on his breath. Bielke must realize he could smell it. He didn't care.

"I can't even turn my back without you or some other pig-police officer-showing up," he said. He took a step forward, swayed for a tenth of a second, took another step, looked at his wife.

"What did he say?"

She didn't answer.

Bielke looked at Winter.

"What did she say?"

"Where's Jeanette?" Winter said.

Bielke turned to his wife. "Can you get me a beer?" She looked at Winter. "I mean one beer," said Bielke, nodding at Winter. "The inspector can't have one. He's just leaving, and you shouldn't drink and drive."

Calm down, Winter thought. This is an important moment. It's telling me something. It's saying something about Bielke and his wife. Perhaps about Jeanette as well.

Irma Bielke hadn't moved.

"Am I going to have to go myself?" said Bielke. He smiled and turned toward Winter. Bielke switched on an outside light on the verandah. His face was white in the glare. He nodded at Winter, raised his eyebrows, and laughed, as if at a joke somebody had told him in his head.

Sara Helander was out walking through the warm evening. Two couples were sitting on the steps leading down to the canal, snuggled up close. The moon was reflected in the water, a band of gold. The outlines of surrounding buildings stood out sharply against the sky, like charcoal drawings. Scents wafted past her as she crossed over one of the harbor streets. A taxi glided slowly southward, its sign leaving a streak of light behind it. A lot of people were sitting at outdoor cafes. She could hear the sound of glasses and dishes and voices combining to form that special mixed language common to all outdoor cafes in all countries all around the world.

Cars came and went outside the entrance to the dance restaurant. It also had an outdoor area, but nobody danced there. There wasn't an empty table. She sat down at the bar and ordered mineral water with lime.

"May I treat you to that?" asked the man in the next chair. Her water was on the bar.

She declined with a smile and took a sip. Then another: she realized she was thirsty after driving into town and walking from the multistory parking lot.

The man looked at her. He was about her own age, thirty or so. Pretty good-looking. But she wasn't here for pleasure.

"Don't drink too quickly," he said. "It'll hit you afterward."

"It's mineral water," she said.

"It's the ice you have to watch out for-the cold upsetting your stomach."

"That's why I haven't got any."

"It shouldn't be too warm either," he said, with a smile. "It makes no difference what I say, does it?"

"No. If you'll excu-"

"OK, OK, I'll keep quiet." He smiled a third time, got the bartender's attention, and ordered another beer. He looked at her glass and she shook her head. "Sure?"

"I thought you were going to keep quiet." She took a drink. "Alright, another mineral water with lime. Cold but no ice."

"Shaken or stirred?" the man asked. The bartender was waiting with an amused smile.

Sara Helander looked toward the entrance. Johan Samic was there, talking to a couple who had just come in. She was exchanging pleasantries with the man at the bar, but wasn't neglecting her work. Maybe it wasn't a bad idea to look as if she had company.

Samic contemplated his customers. People were lining up on the sidewalk outside. It was ten-fifty-five. A quartet started playing inside the restaurant. A proper old-fashioned smoochy number. The last thing I'm going to do is dance to that! she thought.

The man's beer arrived. The music suddenly grew louder.

"Do you dance?" he asked.

"No, I sit on chairs."

He took a sip of beer. Maybe he looked slightly embarrassed. You don't have to be so damned bitchy, Sara.

"It's not exactly my kind of music," she said.

"Not mine either." He took another drink. "I prefer rock."

She nodded.

"Oh, I've forgotten your drink," he said, picking up her glass, which she hadn't yet touched. He held it up. "Shaken or stirred?"

"Shaken," she said, as she watched Samic walk to the doorway, where he stood with his hands behind his back. The man next to her gave her glass a little shake and put it down again.

"Maybe I ought to introduce myself," he said, holding out his hand. "Martin Petren." She shook it, automatically and somewhat diffidently as Samic was walking among the tables, perhaps on his way out.

"What's your name?"

"Pardon… what?"

Samic had turned and was on his way in again.

"I just introduced myself."

"Er… yes, of course… S… Susanne Hellberg."

"Cheers, Susanne."

He raised his glass, and she thought she'd better do the same. He was pleasant and not unattractive. Maybe sometime when she wasn't on duty…

"Well, look who it isn't!"

She felt a hand on her shoulder and lost her hold on her glass which was halfway to her mouth. A hand shot out and grabbed it before it smashed onto the bar or the floor.

She hadn't seen Bergenhem arrive. That was skillfully done.

"Nice to see you," he said, still holding the glass. "This is a pleasant surprise." He wasn't smiling.

The man who'd introduced himself as Martin Petren had put down his glass and was getting to his feet.

"Aren't you going to pay?" Bergenhem asked.

"Wh… what?"

"Hold onto this but for God's sake don't drink it," said Bergenhem to Sara Helander, giving her the glass and leaning over the man who was about the same age as him. Everybody was thirty this enchanting evening.

"I saw what you did," said Bergenhem quietly. "I'm a police officer. I have my ID, you can be sure of that. I promise to show it to you later. We can leave here quietly and calmly and discuss this somewhere else. Maybe I'm making a mistake, but nobody is taking any chances. Nobody."

The man looked around.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he whispered.

"There's a tablet dissolved in that glass. I watched you drop it in. You might have more tablets in your pocket, or you might not. Shall we go?"

The man didn't move. Bergenhem bent farther down over him, spoke even more softly. "Shall we go?"

"Now look. What the he-"

"I'm going to stand up now, and you're going to do the same."

Sara Helander watched the men stand up. She hadn't heard everything Bergenhem had said, but she got the gist.

"Pay for both," said Bergenhem. "Then come out to your car, but take your time." He looked at the glass she was still holding in her hand. "Bring the glass with you. Don't drink out of it."

"I get it," she said softly. "Am I an idiot, or am I an idiot?" "Let's go, buddy," and they walked away, walked, like two friends, one with his arm round the other. Or two good-looking gays, Sara thought, as she paid and asked if she could take the glass with her if she paid for it. She wanted to go down to the canal to drink her water. The bartender shrugged and refused payment for the glass; she'd "already paid for it, really."