“With ice?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you want ice in your whisky?”

“But I ordered a Lagavulin.”

She gave him a blank look. She’s brand new, he thought. It’s not her fault. Johan hasn’t trained her yet.

“No ice,” he said, and she walked back to the bar. Five minutes later she returned with a round, sturdy glass. Winter looked out at the street. People walked in slow motion as if on a conveyor belt. Soon spring will be here, he thought, and you can stroll barefoot along the beach.

“I haven’t seen you for a while.” Johan Bolger sat down across from him.

“I know.”

“Did she ask whether you wanted ice?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“She seems to know what she’s doing.”

“You’ve always been bad at telling white lies, but I forgive you. Actually, plenty of our customers take ice in their malt whisky. Not everyone is a snob like you.”

An old woman slipped and fell on the icy cobblestones outside. She slid along with one leg sticking out and screamed when something snapped. Her hat lay on the street and her coat was half unbuttoned. Her purse bounced along the pavement, flew open and spewed out its contents in a little semicircle.

Winter could hear her shrieks. A couple crouched down next to her, and he saw the man talking on his cell phone. If I were in uniform, he thought, I could go out and chase the idlers away, but there’s nothing to do now.

Bolger and Winter watched in silence. After a few minutes, an ambulance backed in from Västra Hamngatan Street. The crew lifted the woman onto a stretcher and drove off without turning on the siren.