You’ve got things under control, he told himself. Nobody can say you’re not doing your job. You even wrote a report.

Östergaard sat in the kitchen and tested Maria on her French. As far as she could tell, her daughter’s pronunciation was perfect.

She was thinking of renting a house in Normandy for a couple of weeks the following summer. The form was already completed. The name of the village was Roncey, and it was near the town of Coutances. She had been there once, before Maria was born. The cathedral was the highest point but had survived the bombs-the only unscathed church in northern Normandy. It stretched out a finger to God. She wanted to go in and light another candle, seventeen years later or however long it had been: a servant of God from Gothenburg and her daughter.

When they were finished with the pronunciation exercises, Maria read the paragraph out loud and translated it. Her French was better than her mother’s. They could order a meal at the village restaurant. Un vin blanc, une orange, merci. Buy picnic food for the deserted beach. When the tide ebbed, the oyster farms glittered in the sun. They would walk along the white sand, dig for French-speaking crabs with their toes.

She looked up and Maria was gone. The television went on in the living room, a raucous guest.

Un vin blanc. She opened the refrigerator and took out an open bottle. The sides of the glass misted over when she poured it. She took a sip. It was too cold. She put the glass down and left the bottle on the counter.

It was Thursday night. The outdoor thermometer showed twenty-six degrees. Last week the crocuses had been out and now they were iced over. The question was how the summer lilac was faring.

She heard the sirens again on Korsvägen Street. It’s like a training camp down there, she thought.

Maria would be at handball camp all weekend, and Östergaard was looking forward to having some time for herself-a rare treat for a minister. She would go to a movie, read a book, make some fish soup, put on three layers of clothing, take the long hike around Lake Delsjön and come home with a warm glow on her face that would last all evening long.

“Did you mend my track suit?” Maria shouted from the living room.

“Yes,” she shouted back.

“How about my white jersey, did you wash it?”

“Yes, and if you want anything else, you’ll have to come in here.”

“What?”

“If you want anything else, you’ll have to come in here.”

She heard Maria giggle, once more engrossed in the movie.

The week had exhausted her. She hadn’t been able to set her own priorities or break away from all those sessions with the officers.

A traffic accident on Tuesday, conversations afterward that could have sent a younger woman home in despair.

Was it really a job for a woman? That was just like asking whether it was a job for a man. It wasn’t a question of muscles or how big you were. It was a question of humanity. Sometimes she wondered if it was a job for anyone.

She got up and went into the living room. “I’m going to take a bath,” she said to Maria. “If anyone calls, tell them I’ll call back later.”

Maria nodded with her eyes on the TV. Östergaard glanced at the screen. Four people were talking at the same time. Everybody looked upset. A family.

She took the glass of wine into the bathroom and plugged the tub, adjusting the temperature of the water until it was the way she liked it. Throwing her clothes into the laundry basket, she drank some wine, then set the glass on the edge of the bathtub. She turned around and looked in the mirror on the door of the medicine cabinet.

She inspected herself. You’re not thirty-five yet and this is your body, she thought, cupping her breasts. They were taut in her hands. She ran her fingers over her stomach-she still had a waistline but had gotten a little heavier. Heavier than when? she wondered and turned sideways. Her butt looked a little flabby, but that was only the angle.

The roar of the water died down as the bathtub filled up. She turned the faucet off and lowered one foot in. It was delightfully hot.

She lay there for a long time. The skin on the front of her fingers and the bottom of her feet turned into rolling sand dunes. The French beach flashed through her mind again. She finished the wine and closed her eyes, her forehead perspiring.

The most painful experience had been visiting Christian’s mother. A mailbox that looked like a birdhouse stood outside their door. Her husband had flown to London immediately after getting the news.

They had adopted Christian. Did that make any difference? For a second it had felt that way. She asked Winter in the car afterward, but he was unwilling or unable to answer. He drove silently with his eyes fixed on the road. The only sound was the swish of the windshield wipers, battling something wet that was neither rain nor snow. The buildings of the Old City were colorless in the northern haze.

“This was the beginning of the end,” Winter had said suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“Now is when it all comes together,” he said, putting some jazz in the tape deck. “Get ready.”

Winter took the ferry to Asperö Island as the sun was setting. He got off at Albert’s Pier and walked up the hill. Taking the path to the right, he continued to the top. Bolger sat outside his cottage. “Goddam beautiful, isn’t it?” he shouted, waving as Winter approached.

The archipelago lay below them, beyond the pine forest. They could see the docked ferry through the glow over Styrsö and Donsö islands. Winter caught sight of another ferry-Stena Line-winding its way between the rocks on Dana Fjord.

“And it’s all mine,” Bolger said. “My kingdom come.”

“Has it really been a whole year?”

“Weren’t you here last summer?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I wanted you to see how lovely it was.”

“Very.”

“When I first invited you, I mean. It’s most beautiful in late March.”

“In what way?”

“No green haze to block the view. Only water and cliffs and sky.”

“No sailboats either?”

“Above all, no sailboats.”

“I heard that you were worried about Bergenhem’s safety again,” Winter said.

“Just relax and enjoy the view.”

“Has he stumbled across something big, Johan?”

“Nothing bigger than all this.” Bolger stretched out his arms.

The sea wind filled Winter’s nostrils, and the bushes in front of the cottage bowed under a sudden squall.

“Do you come out here a lot?” Winter asked.

“More and more.”

“And you spend the night?”

“Sometimes, if I don’t feel like starting the motorboat.”

The boat, open at the top and made of the same timber as the cottage, was floating in the shadow of the pier.

“He’s going out with a stripper,” Bolger said. “She’s among the most popular ones.”

“I’m sure he’s got his reasons, and you told me all that before. When I was in London.”

“Okay-he’s your man,” Bolger said.

“Who is she?”

“A stripper, that’s all.”

“Is that why you wanted me to come out here?”

“Weren’t you the one who said you needed a little fresh air to clear your head?”

“Who is she?” Winter insisted.

“This chick has been a junkie, and they’re capable of imagining anything.”

“Do you know her well?”

“No.”

“But you’re worried.”

“This kind of thing is never safe, Erik.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“Find out what he’s up to.”

“I know what he’s up to.”

“I forgot. You know everything.”

“What?”

“Where is…”

“What did you say?”

“Mats is…”

“What are you mumbling about, Johan? What about Mats?”