I found it difficult to describe my recent books to anyone, like Frejah, who was curious about them but was not familiar with the overall genre. I knew I could easily sound difficult, ambitious in the wrong way. I had heard that said about me several times. I never liked it! So I would normally stick to describing my half-dozen first books, the ones which were conventionally plotted and narrated straightforwardly, knowing that what I was saying was no longer true about my current stuff, but it was not important. Readers who had kept up with my later books did not need to be told.

In any case, it seemed the only book of mine Frejah knew well was my old police procedural. No more questions came from her now. I wondered if she was thinking I was pretentious, or perhaps, because she viewed me through her many years of being a police officer, believing that I had an unhealthy interest in crime, what she called transgression, and was sublimating it into what I wrote.

We were now closing in on the north of the island. I saw a sign announcing that Tristcontenta Hub was a further 75 kms. The next sign said 42 kms.

I began wondering what I should say or do when Frejah deposited me at the airport. She had done me a big favour by offering me the car ride, and I did find her company interesting. How often does one get to meet a semi-retired police chief in a souped-up roadster with a military grade semi-automatic stashed in the trunk? Maybe there would be a story in this experience one day?

I am always curious about motive and outcomes – there was something about Frejah that did not fit. For example, was our first meeting in the hotel bar entirely by chance? That is how it seemed to me, but it turned out she had known who I was, and had found out or already knew where I was staying. It made me think.

We arrived at the Hub about thirty minutes before my flight was due to take off. Frejah pulled the car, engine growling, into the passenger drop-off area, and for the last time I levered myself into an upright position and swung out of the passenger seat. The bitterly cold air chilled me at once. The walkways had been cleared of snow, but big patches of ice remained.

Frejah released the lock of the seamless lid of the trunk. It opened with a muted click, a sound of suction. She left the car and walked around to the other side. She had halted the car directly beneath a high lamp shining down on the area, so that the interior of the trunk was brightly illuminated. With swift movements she pulled out my computer holdall, my overnight bag, and the larger case which was holding my padded outer clothes.