He had a shower, then drank his whisky naked in the semidarkness. The elderly couple who ran the establishment were chatting quietly down on the walled patio. Marble floor and whitewashed walls.

They couldn’t speak English, not a single word, but the man had assessed Winter’s state and served him a chilled San Miguel on the table in the shade of a parasol, even before Winter had checked in for an indefinite stay.

The whisky circled around his mouth and slid into his brain. His head cleared somewhat. The room had an unfamiliar smell to it, as if it had been scrubbed with sea salt and southern spices. The twin beds were of timeless Latin design, medieval in style. Between them was an image of the Madonna, praying for him and his father. That was what occurred to him when he first saw the picture in his simple room. It was the only item of decoration.

This is the way to live.

He reached for his mobile. It was nearly seven and the sun was much weaker now. The door to the patio was ajar, and the wooden venetian blinds were half up in the glassless window opening, protected by a black wrought-iron grille.

“Angela here.”

“It’s Erik.”

“Hi! Where are you?”

“In my room. But not the hotel whose number you have.”

“So you moved,” and he knew she was smiling.

“Of course.”

“How’s your father?”

“They’ve moved him out of intensive care. Is that a good sign?”

“I suppose it must be.”

“Suppose? You’re the doctor.” He hoped he didn’t sound as if he were complaining.

“I don’t have access to his chart, Erik.” She paused. “Did you speak to him?”

“Yes.”

‘And?“

“He seems pretty… well, strong.”

“That sounds encouraging.”

“Yes.”

“What was it like, seeing him again?”

“As if we’d been chatting only last week.”

“Sure?”

“Depends what you mean. We spoke about safe subjects.”

“Everything takes time. He has to get better first.”

“Hmm.”

“Are you tired?”

“Not so tired that I can’t indulge in a glass of duty-free whisky. What about you?”

“We’re fine.”

He took her “we” as a greeting from the new family: Angela and her ever-enlarging stomach.

“Take it easy at work.”

“I always do. The mergers have resulted in much better working conditions, as you know.”

“I know.”

“You are a genius.”

“Stop it, Angela. Give your stomach a hug from me instead.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“I’ll find somewhere for a bite to eat, then drive back to the hospital.”

“With whisky in your blood?”

“It stays in my brain. And, anyway, this is a different country.”

7

He could see the lights of ships plying the jet-black sea. The heat wafted into the car as he drove to the hospital. The eastern suburbs of Marbella were quieter now, with fewer cars in the streets. The streetlights, too far apart, helped to soften the darkness.

Winter had eaten a seafood meal in a modest bar near Hostal La Luna. Five men almost hidden by a cloud of smoke in front of a television set in the corner had been shouting and making obscene gestures at the footballers. Football spectators were the same the whole world over.

His father was awake again. His mother was on the chair, which she had moved closer to the bed.

“I’m going down to the cafeteria for a coffee,” she said when Winter arrived. “Can I get you anything?”

“Nothing for me, thank you.”

“You can bring me a Tanqueray and tonic,” his father said.

His mother smiled, and left. Winter sat down on the chair.

“I can hear that you’re fighting fit,” he said.

“It’s T and T time now,” his father said, who was lying with his head turned toward the window. ‘A little something cold and uplifting before dinner.“

“Isn’t it a bit late?” Winter said, pointing at his watch, which said nine o‘clock.

His father started coughing, and Winter waited. There was a clanking noise as a trolley passed by in the corridor. A woman’s voice asking something in Spanish, and a reply from a man. A snatch of guitar music. His father coughed again.

“We’ve adapted to Spanish customs.” He cleared his throat tentatively, as if to ease the pain of talking. “Do you see the outline of that mountaintop over there?”

“Yes.”

“It’s the Sierra Blanca. The White Mountain. A lovely name, don’t you think? I can see the same peak from our house. Funny, eh?”

“I don’t know about that. The mountain dominates the whole area, you could say.”

His father seemed to be pondering what he’d just said. He looked at his son. “I could have landed in a different room. Facing the other way. There’s a meaning behind this.”

“What, exactly?”

“That I’m here, in this room. That I can see the mountain peak. The same damn peak. It’s as if I were meant to see it from here too. This is my new home. I’ve moved into here now, and I’m never going to move out.”

“Of course you will.”

“Alive, Erik. I mean move out alive.”

“You seem better already. Keep going on as you are now.”

“I’m serious, Erik.”

“What does the doctor say?”

“Alcorta? He makes typical Spanish gestures that could mean anything at all.”

“Isn’t that what all doctors do?”

“Not like they do in Spain. Does Angela do it? How is she, by the way?”

“She’s fine.”

“And you’re going to be a father, Erik. Good Lord! I hope he gives me the strength to hang on long enough to see the miracle.”

“You’ll soon be back at home. Then you can study the mountain peak from the other side again.”

Morelius spent the first two hours or so of his evening shift working at the front desk. An officer who used to work on the beat would soon take over, hold the fort.

He was one of the worn-out, older officers who had been given desk jobs as a result of the latest reorganization. They’d done their duty and now just concentrated on keeping their noses clean. Lots of officers here had lost their drive like that. But this old officer was a very bitter man. Some people were born to take a top job, but those who reached retirement age and still hadn’t got one became bitter.

Time to go out on patrol now. Bartram strapped on his holster. He hadn’t lost his drive. He might seem worn out at times, or angry-but there were other reasons for that.

The control room had saved some interesting assignments they didn’t want to give to the day-shift patrols that were just about to go off duty. Many were break-ins that were more than met the eye. Like this one. A caretaker had noticed that somebody had broken into the basement of an apartment building in Rickertsgatan, over at Johanneberg. They set off in a patrol car, three of them: Morelius and Bartram plus Bo Vejehag, who really had lost his drive and couldn’t wait for his retirement day after thirty years of hard work on behalf of the general public.

The apartment buildings around Viktor Rydbergsgatan were often targeted for burglaries. Large, substantial buildings, wealthy inhabitants away in their holiday homes.

They pulled up outside the one that had just been broken into, and were met by the caretaker, who was evidently working overtime, or had stayed behind because he was fed up with all the burglaries, one after another, in his basements.

“Fuck this shitty weather,” Vejehag said, getting out of the car and turning up his jacket collar in an attempt to seal out the wind and the rain.

“There were some young thugs running up and down the stairs and then they went down into the basement,” the caretaker said.

“Did you see them?” Vejehag asked.

“No. But one of the tenants did.”

“When was that?”

“Just now.”

“Just now? We received the message hours ago.”

“That was then. Now they’ve come back again. I’ve only just called, and you’ve turned up here like greased lightning.”