He was there, his eyes on her naked ass—he was still a man, wasn’t he? Yet there was something in his expression she didn’t like. Frustration? No, anger.

“Teasing bitch,” he muttered. He pulled a fresh undershirt from his drawer and walked out.

Evita stood still for a very long time. She remained in front of the mirror, yet her eyes were fixed to the floor. Her stupor was broken by the sound of the front door slamming shut.

On hearing that, Evita Levine began to prepare.

*   *   *

If Sanderson had not been sleeping well to begin with, the idea that he’d just quit his job of thirty-five years did nothing to help. He stayed in bed past nine that first morning of his retirement, rose unrefreshed, and went straight to the medicine cabinet. He saw nothing stronger than ibuprofen, and minutes later was washing down a small handful with his first cup of coffee. He sat heavily at the kitchen table and wondered, perhaps with a dash of self-pity, what to do with himself.

For the first time in his adult life he had nowhere to go. His resignation was not yet official, of course. He had filed no paperwork, and certainly could go to Sjoberg’s office with his tail between his legs and smooth things over. He would be sent home for a week or two, as long as it took to straighten out the reckless quacks, and then be assigned to a desk. His email inbox would overflow with interdepartmental memos, and he’d be granted authority enough to write a new policy manual on social tolerance, or perhaps if he was lucky, draft an update to the station’s Emergency Action Plan. He would bandy long-forgotten names and stories with the other hangers-on at the other desks, and in the months to come Sanderson would show up a little later each day. Answer the phone when it suited him. And then the party.

Not wishing to dwell on these dismal prospects, he skimmed the morning paper. He made every attempt to ignore articles relating to the investigation, yet failed as his eye was unavoidably caught by a police sketch of the suspect Deadmarsh. It had been drawn, of course, with the input of Blix and Officer Petersen, the two men who had stood at his side at the Strand Hotel. The image was just a bit off—it always was—and for Sanderson served as no more than another twist of the knife. He’d spent more time with Deadmarsh than anyone, yet his addled brain had clearly not been worth consulting. He tossed the paper into the rubbish.