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her job and the small farm where she lived. She would never give up her life in the country to move in with him in the city, and that suited him perfectly. They each lived their separate lives and got together on the weekends. That was precisely the way he wanted it.
    Right now he was on his way home after taking part in a golf tournament in Slite. Golf was one of his great passions in his free time, aside from politics. He’d been a Social Democrat since childhood, having grown up in a true working-class family; he was a member of the city council, belonged to several commissions, and served on various boards of directors. He didn’t work during the summer, so he took the opportunity to travel a great deal. In a few days he would be heading for the Moroccan city of Marrakech. He had fallen in love with the place as a teenager and had gone back regularly over the years. He always traveled alone. That was the whole point, in his opinion. That made it possible for him to meet new people in an entirely different way than if he’d had a traveling companion. Berit didn’t care; she was so busy with her farm, her animals, her children and grandchildren.
    He barely managed to maneuver his car between the small, low buildings and turn onto Norra Murgatan, which was up the hill next to the northeastern section of the ring wall. He parked the car in the slot reserved for him. He was looking forward to taking a shower and then sitting in the garden reading
Aftonbladet
with a shot of whiskey. It was a warm evening with no wind. He glanced at his watch as he climbed out of the car. Nine fifteen and as bright as daylight. The Swedish summer was unbeatable when the weather was good. He opened the trunk and took out his heavy golf bag. Then he got out his key and unlocked the gate in the seven-foot-high fence that shielded his property from view. The garden consisted of several beds of roses, a rectangular plot of grass with patio furniture, and a barbecue area. There was also a shed where he kept his gardening tools.
    This was his oasis, a little piece of green paradise in the midst of the city. He had even put in a pond with a fountain that murmured in blissful tranquility.
    After he closed the gate behind him and walked along the well-weeded gravel path to the front door of his house, something made him stop short. Something had changed since he left the house early that morning.
    Ambjörnsson was a very meticulous person with set routines; he always did everything in exactly the same way each day. Something was different, but he couldn’t figure out what it could be.
    He set down his golf bag and scanned the deep red climbing roses on the trellis that separated the sitting area from the lawn and the facade of the house. The neighbor’s black cat was perched on the fence facing the street, watching him from her elevated position.
    Then he realized what was out of the ordinary. The fountain wasn’t on. He didn’t hear it splashing. At first he thought that some problem must have arisen to shut off the water. Then he saw that the broom wasn’t in its usual place, leaning against the wall where it normally was. Now he was certain: Someone had been here. He was positive. Had there been a break-in? He hurried over to the door and tried it. No, it was locked and undamaged, as far as he could tell. With fumbling fingers he unlocked the door and went in. The house had only one floor, so it didn’t take long to search it. His original painting by Peter Dahl hung undisturbed on the wall above the sofa in the living room, along with the Zorn etching. He pulled out the drawer in the chiffonier; the silverware was still there, as was his coin collection.
    Everything seemed untouched. He went back outside and caught sight of the broom, leaning against the shed. He never left it there. Cautiously he approached the shed, listening for any sound. There was a risk that someone might be hiding inside. The intruder had apparently not bothered with the house itself. Maybe he had been surprised to hear someone show up and had taken refuge in the shed. Since Ambjörnsson always locked the gate, he sometimes left the shed door open. He was on the alert and moved as quietly as he could. It was extremely uncommon to have a burglary in this neighborhood. He’d never known it to happen in all the years he had lived here. If only it wasn’t some junkie who was high and might do anything at all. Occasionally one of them would sit and drink with