‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend.’ He gathers his courage. Perhaps this is the moment to take some revenge on the ambassador for what just happened. He looks straight into Vargander’s eyes. ‘I have no partner at all.’

Vargander pulls back slightly and stares at him calmly. ‘A car will come and pick you up outside Saliba Market at nine on Friday,’ he says. ‘I think it’s time for you to see a part of Beirut that you might not discover on your own. That is if you want to?’

Jacob feels his excitement growing. Whatever this is, it’s definitely not something you say no to. He’s ready for anything. ‘Absolutely,’ he says. ‘Sounds exciting!’

21 November

Sankt Anna

It’s dark by the time Gabriella pulls her shiny, black and practical company car into the parking lot in front of Båtsholm’s hostel. Even though the wind’s died down, the snow is still falling with undiminished intensity. Still large, wet flakes of snow mixed with rain.

‘Lucky we didn’t drive to Stockholm tonight,’ Klara says when Gabriella stops the car. ‘Even if we have to stay at Bates Motel for a night.’

She nods towards the run-down wooden hostel. The hostel is dark except for a weak yellow light streaming from the lobby window.

When Klara was little they ate lunch here sometimes in the summer, and she remembers the dusty, old-fashioned interior, the creamy gravy and homemade strawberry juice. It must be ten years since she was here last, but not much has changed.

Gabriella nods absentmindedly and takes her phone out of her pocket, throws a stressed glance at it, and then pushes it into her pocket again.

‘Are you waiting for something?’ Klara says. ‘Did you have somewhere you needed to be tonight?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s just the usual. You know.’ But she sounds somewhat hesitant and evasive.

‘We’ll leave as soon as we wake up tomorrow,’ Klara says.

Gabriella nods and throws her a look with that stiff smile on her lips again. ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘No problem.’

Gabriella bends to open the door, but Klara stops her with a hand on her arm. ‘Gabi,’ she says. ‘What is it? Are you okay?’

They stare at each other for a moment as newly fallen, wet, thick snowflakes melt on the car’s hood. Klara sees a gleam of something in her friend’s eyes, something she’s not used to seeing: a flash of irritation.

‘Yes, Klara,’ she says. ‘Stop worrying. I came to the funeral, but I can’t turn my whole life off for you, okay?’

Klara trembles a little, as if a tiny, tiny bomb has exploded in her chest and left a jagged crater behind.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gabriella says quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so…’