“I’m being put up as a hero, you know. Relentless detective, fighting illness and the odds. All that rubbish. Of course there’s no mention of the fact that I had been taken off the case, let alone that the assistant commissioner thought I’d slipped my gimbals.”

She asked, “Did you really throw your credentials at him?”

“I suppose that was a bit juvenile of me.”

Ingrid giggled.

“It felt good at the time.” Sanderson allowed a smile, and the ensuing silence was broken by no more than the thrum of passing cars and the hiss of wet asphalt under the Volvo’s wide tires.

He said, “They want me to come back.”

“Arne, that’s wonderful!”

“Is it?”

“Please—don’t tell me you’ve turned them down.” Her tone was that of a mother chiding a recalcitrant child. “Arne?”

“I told Sjoberg I’d think about it. But I just don’t know.”

“The department has been your life.”

“Yes, I know. But in those days—when I thought my career had ended—it wasn’t so bad. Sooner or later I’ll be gone, and the department will get along fine without Arne Sanderson. My thirty-five years won’t even be stuffed into a file cabinet—just compressed onto a hard drive somewhere that won’t have the decency to gather dust. An electronic urn for the remains of my career.”

“And what did you expect? A statue in Stortorget Square? I won’t tolerate self-pity, Arne. No one will make a record of my life, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been useful. I’ve made a difference in people’s lives, and put a few smiles on faces along the way.”

He looked at her and met her eyes for a moment. “Yes. Yes, you have.”

Her attention went back to the road as she added, “I see no reason for either of us to go idle—not while we can still contribute something.”

She turned onto Sanderson’s street, and soon the Volvo was splashing into his rutted driveway. She kept the car going, the wipers flapping rhythmically.

“Can I help you inside?” she asked.

“No, I’ll manage.”

“I’ll check on you tomorrow, maybe bring a batch of my potato soup.”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

“Did you remember your key?”

He gave her a suffering look, but after a long moment turned serious.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Well, I—”

“No, of course you can’t, you’re a policeman’s wife … or were. But I want you to promise me this once.”

Ingrid nodded.

“All this business in the papers about me getting the better of the assassin, shooting him on that bridge in Geneva. It’s all a lie. My official report, the details of how I came across the two of them—it’s fabricated, nearly every word.”

“But Arne—why?”

“The whole thing was staged.”

“Staged?”