A woman was dancing on a table next to the stage at the far end of the room. The customers clapped every once in a while. No music was playing this time.

Tina Turner deserves a break, he thought. A waiter in a white shirt and dark bow tie came and took his order, returning a couple of minutes later with his Coke. He raised his glass and sucked an ice cube into his mouth to chew on.

“Back already?” The owner stopped halfway through the curtain.

“You don’t waste any time.”

The owner didn’t respond.

“I had a couple more questions for you.”

The owner stayed where he was, cigarette in hand.

“This is fine right here. We don’t have to go into your office.”

“Fire away.”

“Isn’t the curtain bothering you?”

“Is that the first question?”

“I was just wondering.”

“It’s a great curtain, exotic, just like our dancers.”

“It looks like something out of a silent movie.”

The owner held up his hand in resignation and sat down across from Bergenhem. He peered over at the glass on the table. “We can spike your drink if you like.”

Bergenhem asked himself what Winter would have done in this situation. He sipped his Coke, feeling the icy cold on his tongue. “With what?” he asked, though it was obvious he was being offered any substance of his choice. “How about rum?”

The owner went off and talked to the bartender, then returned, and soon the waiter appeared with a couple of drinks. “For our friends only,” the owner said, lifting his glass once the waiter was gone.

This is an innocent enough game, Bergenhem thought. He’s testing me, but for what? “I just remembered I’m driving,” he said.

“A few sips won’t hurt you.”

This is pure strategy on my part, Bergenhem thought, raising the glass to his lips.

“Was there something you wanted from me?” the owner asked.

The music started to pound like a pile driver through rock. The low bass made Bergenhem’s forehead throb. Is this another test? he wondered.

The owner studied him. The volume was lowered and the treble turned up. Two women climbed onto the stage. Tina Turner again.

The owner leaned over the table. “I’m still waiting.”

“Is Tina Turner the only thing you’ve got here?”

The owner glanced over at the stage, then fixed his eyes on Bergenhem once more. He was wearing an open-neck plaid shirt, suspenders and dark pants with cuffs. The painted floodlights along the wall lent a red tinge to everything in the room. “It’s the best music to dance to,” he said after half a minute.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Are you trying to make me angry?”

“Hell no.”

“Then what did you come for?”

“Last time I was here, I forgot to ask you about the kinds of customers you have, whether there’s any difference between them and the ones who patronize other clubs.”

“I couldn’t begin to tell you.”

“Are you sure? Every club’s got its own little specialty, right?”

“I have no idea what you’re getting at.”

Bergenhem eyed the stage. He recognized both women. The younger one looked even thinner than before. Her lips were crimson. He suddenly wished the owner weren’t there.

“You’re mistaken if you expect to find anything here,” the owner said. “Just take a look around. I see you’re already checking out the show.”

Bergenhem managed to take his eyes off the women. The song ended, and another one started up after a few seconds. You’re simply the best, Tina Turner thundered, better than all the rest.

“This isn’t a gay club,” the owner said.

“You’ve had a drag show or two in your time.”

“Is that so. Were you here?”

“That’s not the question. We’re not prejudiced against anyone.”

The owner shook his head in bafflement and stood up. “Feel free to finish your drink.” He rustled his way back through the curtain.

The show continued for another ten minutes. The women left the room. Bergenhem sat quietly, sniffed his drink once but didn’t touch it again. He didn’t want to leave the car outside overnight. He’d assumed the owner would hang around for a while if he was drinking, but that had turned out to be a miscalculation. Perhaps just as well, he thought.

The younger woman stepped out of the doorway by the stage and walked to the closest table, where three men got up and pulled over a chair for her. Her black dress glistened in the red light. She took a cigarette out of her purse. One of the men flicked open a lighter even before she could put the cigarette between her lips. He said something and she laughed. Bergenhem studied their every move.

The woman stood up and went back out through the door, followed by the man who had lit her cigarette. Other women sat at a number of the tables, but there were more men. Bergenhem waited.

WlNTER TOOK THE ELEVATOR UP FROM THE UNDERGROUND AND passed through the gates with his London Regional Transport ticket. Out on Earl’s Court Road, he was assaulted by the odors of the city: gasoline fumes, deep-fried fish, rotting garbage and that pungent blend of cobblestone and dusty streets you encounter only in truly old places.

Spring was lurking somewhere. The sun shone through the fog, making it warmer here than in Gothenburg. Along the Piccadilly Line-which stretched eastward through Hounslow, Osterley, Ealing and Acton-the maples were about to sprout, the gardens wakening. Children were chasing balls across Osterley Park. Children chased balls all year round, but never as when spring flirted with them like this.

He had seen it all before. He was a stranger, but less of one each time he returned. London was his city too.

The mood in the train had been the usual mixture of anticipation and jadedness. The passengers who’d boarded at the airport were back-packing teenagers, middle-aged couples and a few solitary travelers who studied their maps for the entire forty-five minutes to Kensington and beyond. He heard Italian, German and something he thought was Polish, not to mention Swedish and Norwegian.

As they approached downtown, Londoners got on. White men in chalk-stripe suits and briefcases, the Daily Telegraph under their arms. Black women with children who stared wide-eyed at all the foreigners. Thin young women with skin as translucent as the hazy sky shivered in their short skirts, and he had suddenly felt awkward in his camel hair coat.

When the walk signal appeared, Winter crossed Earl’s Court Road with his suitcase rolling behind, turned left and then right onto Hogarth. He continued a couple of blocks to Knaresborough Place. Crossing the quiet intersection, he heard the low rumble of traffic on Cromwell Road to the left. Just a stone’s throw farther and you could actually stand still and listen to the birds sing.

He rang the bell next to a door with a big 8 on it. Arnold Norman, the manager of the little apartment hotel, opened the door with his hand already outstretched.

“Inspector Winter! It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“The feeling is mutual, Arnold.”

“Where have you been all this time?”

“I was wondering the same thing.”

When Norman stepped aside, a younger man who had been standing behind him took Winter’s suitcase. He walked quickly toward a stairway that cast a long shadow across the lobby.

Winter had stayed here often over the past ten years, whenever he was in London. The location was superb, a little way from the din up in Piccadilly and walking distance to King’s Road in Chelsea, not to mention Kensington High Street and Hyde Park.

They took their seats in Norman ’s tiny office. “I’ve held suite T2 for you.”

“Perfect.”