“No, they . . . I probably never told you that, but they’re not around anymore either. Grens, listen: I’ve already been through all my enemies. Every single one, and it’s not a short list. It doesn’t make sense. This isn’t anyone’s MO. How they act. Express themselves. Make contact. I don’t recognize it. And I’m completely convinced I have never met whoever is threatening me right now.”

They drank whatever was left in their glasses. And it still felt good in their chests. But Grens didn’t refill again. He’d learned that chemically induced high spirits have a tendency to change shape when you least expect it.

“It’s three o’clock. I’m going back out to the balcony for a while. Take the opportunity to study these papers now, Hoffmann. Tomorrow’s getting closer by the minute.”

He stared out over the rooftops for a half hour while the sun rose. Golden yellow light and warm air made life seem easier. He was convinced—he should make his bed out here in the summer.

When his accidental guest opened the balcony door and stepped out into another reality, he seemed to make the same discovery. For a moment, life met life. At its most vulnerable and powerful.

“You’ve got it good, Grens.”

“I end up here sometimes. When it’s hard to sleep. Pretty often, I’d say.”

Piet Hoffmann leaned over the railing, much like the detective often did. As if he too had to stare down at where it all might come to end.

“Two more names pop up in those documents. Your colleagues, Grens, claim in their notes that Pejović and Stojanović were often observed with two others with similar backgrounds. Dusko Zaravic. Ermir Shala. I saw them together, in different constellations, sometimes all four of them. Back when I used to live the life. I’m not claiming they were any kind of gang or entity even. More a network that took whatever assignments popped up, they helped each other out, traded favors. If you fucked with one, you fucked with them all. Zaravic and Shala were just as violent as their dead comrades.”

Five motorcycles drove by on an otherwise almost empty Svea Road. A roaring sound that grew louder the higher up it went, without breaking the night’s silence, it was more as if it were part of it. Stockholm. Big city, small city.

“So if I’m going to infiltrate them. Get close. That’s where we have to start, Detective. With the two names that are still alive.”

Hoffmann left the railing and walked the length of the large balcony. When he stopped, it was quiet again, only faint voices coming from some patio.