“Erik! Thank God you answered.” His mother was out of breath, as if she’d just run up two or three hills in Nueva Andalucia. Winter could hear crackling over the line from the Costa del Sol.

“What’s the matter, Mom?”

“It’s your dad, again. This time it’s serious, Erik.”

Winter recalled the last time, last year. His father had been taken into the Marbella hospital with a suspected heart attack, but it was in fact myocarditis. Winter had considered flying down to Spain, but it turned out not to be necessary.

He hadn’t seen his father since his parents had more or less fled Sweden, taking their money with them. He hadn’t wanted to see him last year and he didn’t want to do so now either, if it could be avoided.

“Is it myocarditis again?”

“Oh, Erik. He’s had a heart attack. Just a couple of hours ago. I’m phoning from the hospital. He’s in intensive care, Erik. ERIK? Can you hear me?”

“I’m here, Mother.”

“He’s dying, Erik.”

Winter closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Keep calm. Calm.

“Is he conscious.”

“What… no, he’s unconscious. They’ve just operated on him.”

“They’ve operated on him?”

“That’s what I said. He’s undergone a long operation. Cleaned out his ducts, I think.”

Angela had pulled the sheet up to her chin and sat up in bed. She looked at him, a serious expression on her face. She gathered what had happened.

“Have you spoken to Lotta?” he asked. His sister was a doctor. Angela was also a doctor, but she couldn’t speak Spanish. His mother spoke a bit of Spanish, but he wasn’t sure whether she understood what people said to her. She was best at wines and spirits. Even if the doctor spoke in English to her, she would be too upset to listen properly. Even if the doctor spoke Swedish.