Angela arrived before eight. Her hair was down and gleamed in the light from the staircase following her in through the open door. Perhaps she had a new expression in her eyes, something he hadn’t previously noticed: a conviction that there was a future for them despite everything. But there was something else as well. The other thing. It appeared as a different sort of light in her eyes, as if the strong lamps on the staircase had shone through the back of her head and given them a special glow.

She pulled off her boots and dirty water splashed onto the parquet floor. Winter saw, but made no comment. Angela knew that he had noticed. She raised both hands over her head.

“It won’t happen again,” she said.

“What won’t?”

“I saw you looking.”

“And?”

“You were thinking at that moment: what the hell is going to happen, what will my floor look like once she’s moved in.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s something you’ll have to work on,” she said.

“Meanwhile I suppose I’d better go around to your place with muddy shoes and wander around the apartment with them on and jump up onto the bed and the armchairs. Get it out of me, as it were.”

“As I said. Work on it.”

He took her hand and they went into the kitchen. There was a smell of coffee and warm bread. On the table was a tub of butter, Västerbot ten cheese, radishes, coarse liver pate, cornichons.

“A banquet,” she said.

“Rustic and simple. But elegant even so.”

“You mean the liver pâté?”

“That’s the rustic bit. Here comes the elegance,” Winter said, going to the work surface and fetching a glass dish.

“What is it?” she asked, going to the table. “Ah. Pickled herring. When did you find the time to make this? I assume you made it yourself?”