Ringmar took a swig of coffee. “Maybe because we’re both so sensitive to shades of meaning.” He lowered his cup.

Winter saw Ringmar’s face reflected in the tabletop, upside down. The lighting suits him, he thought.

“Were you out here to see Mats?” Ringmar asked.

“You might put it that way… he’s dead.”

Ringmar grasped his cup. It burned like ice, but he didn’t let go.

“The funeral was quite an event,” Winter said. “I didn’t know he had so many friends. Only one relative, but the church was packed.”

“Hmm.”

“I was thinking it would be mostly men, but there were plenty of women too. More women than men, come to think of it.”

Ringmar was looking out the window behind Winter, who assumed the church tower had caught his attention. “It’s a hell of a disease,” he said, turning back to Winter. “You could have called me.”

“In the middle of your Grand Canary vacation? Mats was a close friend, but I can handle the grief. Or maybe it’s just starting now.”

Their silence gave way to the roar of the engines.

“It’s a bunch of diseases rolled up in one,” Winter said after a while. “What finally got him was a bout of pneumonia.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Of course.”

“He had the damn thing for a long time, didn’t he?” Ringmar asked.

“Yes.”

“Shit.”

“For a while there he thought he was going to beat it,” Winter said.

“Did he tell you that?”

“No, but I could sense what he was thinking. Sometimes the strength of will can save you when everything else is gone. He even had me convinced.”

“I see.”

“Then some kind of misplaced guilt got hold of him,” Winter said, “and it was all downhill after that.”

“Didn’t you mention once that he talked about becoming a policeman when he was younger?”

“Did I say that?”

“That’s how I remember it,” Ringmar said.

Winter reached up and brushed the hair back from his forehead, then left his hand on the thick strands that covered his neck. “Maybe when I started at the police academy. Or was thinking about applying.”