When he woke it was because of a dream that tipped over into reality—his son was there in the room with him, shaking him awake, “Papa, Papa”, and in his dream state he didn’t see at first that it was Martinez’s son, not his own. And as his consciousness took hold he was weighed down all over again by the sadness of remembering. He shook himself out of it and jumped out of bed. It was after nine and Inger was out, her bedroom door open, bed made. He showered, dressed, made himself some breakfast. She still wasn’t back by the time he’d finished, so he walked through the woods to Fillon’s house, thinking she might be there. The guy in Stockholm had told him how much colder it would be up here, how dull at this time of year, but once again, there was a clear blue sky overhead, and a gentle warmth, albeit paper-thin. Even before he stepped into the little clearing, he knew Inger wasn’t there. There was just something about the house that spoke of its emptiness.
