They agreed to an eight o’clock departure the next morning. Slaton was doubly happy when Magnussen mentioned that her sister ran a small bed and breakfast only a short walk up the road, and given the season could likely be persuaded to accept a modest sum for a room and two meals. After a five-minute walk and the briefest of introductions, Slaton was shown to a room with a view of the harbor and Stjärnholmsslott Bay. He dined alone on authentic sjomansbiff, a hearty stew of potatoes in beef stock and dark beer. After dinner he took Aquavit, complimented Greta Magnussen on her cooking and hospitality, and arranged for an early-morning wakeup followed by breakfast. Back in his room by ten, Slaton organized his gear, and by ten-thirty, with the low sun creasing the western horizon over the bay, he shut his eyes for the last time that day.

*   *   *

As Slaton drifted to sleep, a deflated Arne Sanderson was walking into his apartment. He hung his overcoat on a hook by the door, making sure to pull out his cell phone and place it on the charger. It had been a wretched day, first getting bumped from the investigation and then suffering the humiliation of briefing his replacements.

The house seemed more quiet than usual and he turned on the television for company, only to find a press conference pertaining to the recent terrorist attacks. Sanderson turned the television off. Having just spent two hours explaining things to Anna Forsten, he was in no mood to watch her—lovely as she might be—preen in front of the camera.

He could not remember being more tired after a day of work, and to top it off he had a smashing headache. Overwhelmed by the idea of cooking a proper supper, he shoved a frozen beef entrée into the microwave and pulled a bottle of wine from his cabinet. Sanderson searched for the corkscrew but was unable to find it. Annoyed, he considered using a knife or a screwdriver, but in the end simply repulled the cork on the stale remains of a Merlot he’d begun a week earlier. He issued a tall serving, and by the time he’d sorted out the wine his main course was severely overcooked.

Sanderson ate in silence, stabbing and sawing at a slab of vulcanized beef. Divorced five years ago, he was accustomed to dining alone. The marriage had lasted nineteen years, and produced one daughter, two affairs, and considerable suffering all around. To this day the cause of the split escaped him. The infidelities—bilateral and concurrent—were an obvious enough excuse, but in fact only a symptom of some greater ill. He knew he shouldered much of the blame, his career having taken its predictable toll, but in the end the decision to separate had been a mutual one.