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her identity card. The Danish police obviously didn’t use the old badges any more. The photograph was a good likeness. So she was 43. I would actually have guessed her to be a bit younger, but it’s hard to tell with women these days.
    “Assistant Commissioner. Impressive,” I said.
    “My boss is only a few years older than me. She’s a woman too. The Prime Minister’s new permanent undersecretary is only 32. There’s nothing impressive about it.”
    She didn’t sound bitter, just a bit resigned, as if she knew that perhaps she had gone as far as she could, that her qualifications had given her so much, but the really big posts were beyond her reach. Or maybe she didn’t feel like that at all. I gave back her card. Felipe slammed the glasses, bottles and tapas onto the table, along with the little white receipt. The prawns sputtered vigorously in the oil and garlic. The cured, wind-dried ham was arranged beautifully on the plate, cut in paper-thin slices, which could have been mistaken forflower petals.
    “It looks delicious,” she said. “What is it exactly?”
    “Haven’t you ever been to Spain before?”
    “Majorca. Ages ago. I’ve been more – how can I put it – my attention has been directed more to the east.”
    “Catching Russian spies?”
    “Something like that.”
    She smiled. Her face changed when she smiled. Some of the primness disappeared and her eyes lit up.
    “Prawns in garlic. That goes without saying. This one is serrano ham. It’s from a particular kind of pig which spends a pleasant life wandering in the mountains eating a special kind of root. The hams are cured and then hang in the bar for years just getting better and better.”
    She took a cautious bite and then ate the whole piece.
    “I’ll have to take some home,” she said.
    “Yes. It’s good.”
    We sipped our drinks and picked at the food. Then she became businesslike. She leant across the table. I sat with my back to the wall so I could keep an eye on the door. There was a constant flow in and out of the café. I knew quite a few of the regulars, but they didn’t come across and bother me.
    “I won’t keep you away from your wife for long. But if I might ask you a couple of questions?”
    “Go ahead.”
    “You seemed quite dismissive on the phone.”
    “The timing was bad,” I said.
    “Laila Petrova,” said Clara Hoffmann, watching my face carefully. After a moment or two I shook my head.
    “Means nothing to you?”
    “Absolutely nothing. Who is she?”
    “She’s 48 now. Chestnut hair, very likely dyed. Slim, 175 centimetres tall, average build. Often very tastefully dressed. An oval face, smooth after a little surgery. Sometimes blue eyes, sometimes brown, thanks to contact lenses. Photogenic. An art historian. Twice married. We don’t know the name of her first husband. Most recently married to a Russian painter, they divorced ten years ago. Born Nielsen, or so we believe. The painter was, of course, called Petrov.”
    “Means absolutely nothing to me.”
    “Do you read the Danish papers?” she asked, eating ham and prawns in a very feminine and well-mannered fashion. She was hungry. Her stomach hadn’t adjusted to Spanish mealtimes. She broke the bread into small pieces and used it to soak up the oil and garlic. She had slender, strong hands. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but a narrow gold ring studded with blue sapphires on her right hand.
    “No,” I answered. “Only if I come across cuttings.”
    “Cuttings?”
    “I’m a professional photographer. You know that. My firm supplies photographs to the media all over the world, and so we employ an agency to make sure that we know who is using our photographs. In case they happen to forget all about copyright.”
    “I’m sorry. Of course,” she said, and scooped the last piece of ham off the plate. She chewed carefully and sipped her wine before continuing.
    “Then you don’t know the story. Laila Petrova has disappeared. She was –