“I know, Ewert. You didn’t have to say it. But either Erik or I have to quit. It’s not about who’s the boss or not, man or woman—I’m going to transfer because he was here first, has been employed longer than me. Because it’s the right thing to do. That’s the only reason. And, of course, because I love him.”

She managed to smile. It was lovely.

“Don’t transfer! Don’t go to another department. Do you hear me? I’ve only got six months left—and I want you here, at my side!”

Then she smiled again, more widely.

“You have more than that, Ewert.”

“Sixty-four and a half, today. Six months. Then I have to . . .”

“I’ve been looking into what’s worrying you so much, and I was going to talk to you about it later, but feels like now might be a good time. Ewert—you can keep your job up to age sixty-seven. That’s how it works these days. Flexible upper limit. I’ve confirmed there are police officers who served up until sixty-nine and even seventy. The kind of knowledge you have doesn’t age just because you do.”

He looked at her. The same silence as with Hoffmann earlier on the phone.

What she’d just given him was the most beautiful gift in the world—he didn’t have to fall into that black fucking hole, not yet at least. The abyss would have to manage without him for a few more years. But it didn’t matter. One of the few people he cared about more than himself was telling him she was leaving him.

“I can keep a secret, Mariana. I’m good at it. No one needs to know about your relationship with Wilson. Please—stay with me!”

She put her hand on his cheek and he flinched, because he was so unused to it, but he didn’t pull away.

“It doesn’t matter if you stay quiet, Ewert. We’ve decided—we don’t want to sneak around anymore. I requested the transfer yesterday. And you and I, just as I warned you if you continued to doubt and accuse me, will never see each other again.”

She remained with him for a while on the windy balcony.

Neither of them said anything.

There was no more to say.

Chapter 52

As Gezim Latifi walked toward his office in the Shkodër police station, he met a man standing in the corridor waiting for him. On the younger side of middle age, sharp blue eyes in a slightly angular face, in good shape and with a close shave, wearing a T-shirt and cargo pants. Two fingers were missing on one hand, his only visible defect, and when he stood up, it was with smooth movements.

“Latifi?”

“That’s me.”

“I would like to talk to you.”

English. Strange days with so many foreign visitors.

“About what?”