The timber seemed to rise taller with every turn, and gravel became dirt, but the Rover showed its heritage and kept a firm footing on the shoulderless and rutted road. He did not see another car for two miles, and after a particularly steep rise Slaton began scouting the sidings for a dry clearing. He made his choice and drove slowly clear of the trail, taking care to not hang the differential over a ditch or bend the chassis on a hidden boulder.

Satisfied the vehicle was well hidden, he put the Rover in park and went to the tailgate. Were he of the mind to appreciate the view he would have seen that the lake was presented differently here, framed by stands of pine and fir, and footed by a valley of grass still clinging to the green of summer. Slaton noticed none of it, nor did he register the altered breeze coming strong off the lake, a northwest flow sweeping in from France and rising on the uneven Alpine upslope. His focus was absolute as he opened the tailgate, locked it in place with a pin, and with the wind lashing his hair began to assemble his assault.

*   *   *

Paul Sjoberg was not typically a man to work on Sunday morning. But this wasn’t really work.

Stepping from a cold rain, he shook the water from his umbrella under the portico of a grand home on Skånäsvägen. It reminded him of a house where he had once attended a fund-raiser of some sort, although the details seemed a blur. Then again, he might have thought the same about any of the well-tended mansions along this placid waterfront street. Not seeing a doorbell, he lifted a ridiculous iron ring that was hooped through a lion’s nose and knocked it against the striker plate. It made a good racket, and Sjoberg struck three times in quick succession, mist spraying from his cuff with each beat.

Ingrid Sanderson—if that was the name she still used—answered moments later.

“Oh…” she stammered, “hello, Paul.”

“Hello, Ingrid. It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, hasn’t it?” She suddenly went ashen, the way policemen’s wives—even policemen’s ex-wives—did when grim-faced supervisors came unexpectedly to their door. “Oh, God! Don’t tell me it’s Arne.”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “Or actually, yes, but not like that. Nothing dire.”

She looked at him guardedly.

Beyond her Sjoberg saw the innards of an opulent mansion, the kind of place in which policemen—even assistant commissioners—did not find themselves without either an invitation or a search warrant.

“You have a lovely home,” he said.

“Oh, how rude of me. Come in if you like. But I have to warn you—I’m not sure if my husband is presentable yet.”

“Actually, Ingrid, I just need a minute of your time.” Sjoberg retreated a step. “A private word, perhaps?”