“Quite a circle of friends, even if they only mix with their own kind,” said Winter.

Ringmar drummed his fingers on the armrest. Winter turned off the main thoroughfare and drove north. The streets grew narrower, the houses bigger.

“A pick-ax,” said Ringmar. “Who wanders around with a pick-ax on a Saturday night?”

“I don’t even want to think about it,” said Winter.

“Did you go to school here in Gothenburg?”

“Briefly.”

“What did you study?”

“Prudence. Then I dropped out.”

“Prudence?”

“Introduction to jurisprudence. But I quit, like I said.”

“Imprudence follows prudence,” said Ringmar.

“Ha, ha,” said Winter.

“I was a student of life myself,” said Ringmar.

“Where do you study that? And when do you qualify for a degree in it?”

Ringmar gave a snort. “You’re right, Erik. A student of life is tested all the time. Continuous judgment.”

“By whom?”

Ringmar didn’t reply. Winter slowed down.

“Turn right here, you’ll avoid the intersection,” said Ringmar.

Winter did as he was told, threaded his way past a couple of parked cars, and pulled up outside a wood-paneled detached house. The lights from the house cast a faint glow over the lawn and through the maples that looked like limbs reaching up to the sky.

“Want to come in for a sandwich?” Ringmar asked.

Winter looked at his watch.

“Is Angela waiting up for you with oysters and wine?” wondered Ringmar.

“It’s not quite the season yet,” said Winter.

“I expect you’ll want to say goodnight to Elsa?”

“She’ll be fast asleep by now,” said Winter. “OK, I’ll have a bite to eat. Do you have any south Slovakian beer?”

Ringmar was rummaging in the fridge as Winter came up from the cellar, carrying three bottles.

“I think I only have Czech pilsner, I’m afraid,” said Ringmar over his shoulder.

“I’ll forgive you,” said Winter, reaching for the bottle opener.