A Death in Sweden(22)

Before he realized what he was saying, the words had come out, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

She let the breath go, the resultant sigh like a response in itself, as if asking why he had to go and ruin things.

She looked at him for a moment or two, apparently unsure whether to even answer him or not, then she said, “I don’t think it’s any of your business, but I’m gay.”

He tried not to let his reaction show in his expression, not only the disappointment but the fact he would have put money against her being a lesbian. Even now that she’d told him he probably would have bet against it, though that was probably just a mixture of wishful thinking and him knowing nothing.

He smiled, and said, “Girlfriend?”

“That’s also none of your business.” She gave way a little, though, and said, “I’m single right now.”

“I didn’t mean to pry. And I wasn’t coming on to you.” She raised her eyebrows. “Seriously. Look, I’ll admit, I find you very attractive—who wouldn’t?—and I was curious, that’s all, but I still wasn’t coming on to you.”

“I believe you,” she said, though clearly she didn’t. “And it doesn’t matter anyway, now that you know.”

“Yeah, I guess it makes life easier anyway.”

“Oh, we’re here to work. I think maybe I could have resisted jumping into bed with you even if I was straight.” Her delivery was deadpan, but she smiled, giving away that she was teasing him, and said, “And what about you, Dan, does your lifestyle allow you a girlfriend?”

“Never for very long. Sometimes I wish it weren’t so, but that’s how it is.”

She seemed to take in what he’d said, and for a moment she looked on the verge of saying something in response, but then she changed her mind and said, “I have some work to do, on my laptop, but I think first I’ll make some coffee. You want some?”

Her tone was friendly, but business-like, and he knew she’d changed course in some way.

He checked the time, and said, “Actually, I’m pretty wrecked. I think I might turn in early. And we’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

She looked puzzled and said, “A big day how?”

“A big day because if we don’t find any leads, I have to move on. I’m not just doing this for me. I have a friend, the guy they tried to kill the other night, and I may be safe up here for the time being, but I can’t be sure he’s safe wherever he is.”

She looked shocked by the reminder that this was about a lot more for Dan than the identity of Jacques Fillon. And he’d needed that reminder himself. Even after a few hours, he could imagine being seduced by the peace of this place, one day slipping unnoticed into three or four. But all the time, even as he’d searched shelves of books or toyed with the now unattainable Inger Bengtsson, they were looking for him, and for Charlie, relentlessly narrowing the field, and unless something changed, they’d keep looking till they’d closed them down for good.





Chapter Thirteen


Whether it was the air or the quiet, or just a low-level exhaustion that had crept up on him these past weeks, he slept deep and sound, more soundly than he had in years.

When he woke it was because of a dream that tipped over into reality—his son was there in the room with him, shaking him awake, “Papa, Papa,” and in his dream state he didn’t see at first that it was Martinez’s son, not his own. And as his consciousness took hold he was weighed down all over again by the sadness of remembering.

He shook himself out of it and jumped out of bed. It was after nine and Inger was out, her bedroom door open, bed made. He showered, dressed, made himself some breakfast. She still wasn’t back by the time he’d finished, so he walked through the woods to Fillon’s house, thinking she might be there.

The guy in Stockholm had told him how much colder it would be up here, how dull at this time of year, but once again, there was a clear blue sky overhead, and a gentle warmth, albeit paper-thin.

Even before he stepped into the little clearing, he knew Inger wasn’t there. There was just something about the house that spoke of its emptiness. But there was nothing much to do until she got there, so he sat at the top of the wooden steps and waited, enjoying the peace and the feeling of time slipping away from him.

Within a few minutes, he was so embedded within the calm of the place that he almost didn’t want her to come, just wanted to sit there feeling the sun’s steady progress. Perhaps that was how easily it took hold, the ease with solitude that had surely governed Jacques Fillon’s existence.

Dan had been there twenty minutes or so before he heard a car and stirred himself, almost as if coming out of a shallow sleep. It approached along the road, then turned and drove more deliberately, somewhere off in the woods. It took Dan a little while to work out that it had driven up to their cabin.

He heard two car doors open, then the cabin door, the sounds travelling cleanly on the faultless acoustics of this northern air. He couldn’t help but imagine two of Brabham’s men, a scenario in which Inger had tipped them off, unlikely as it already seemed.

But he smiled then as he heard Per and Inger talking, their voices unmistakable. Their conversation sounded like a short negotiation and Inger seemed to give way before the two car doors shut again and the car pulled away.