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wearing a smile which Sebastian assumed was meant to be ‘mischievous’ as her finger stopped on the tip of his nose and gave a little extra push.
    ‘Good morning, sleepyhead.’
    Sebastian sighed. He couldn’t decide which was worse: being spoken to as if he was a baby or the aura of romantic togetherness emanating from her. It was probably the latter. He had already sensed that things might turn out this way during the short walk back to her apartment last night.
    She had taken his hand.
    Held his hand.
    All the way. Like a clichéd image of a couple in love, strolling through the Stockholm summer night. Five hours after they had met. It was appalling. Sebastian had considered putting an end to the whole thing there and then, making his excuses and leaving, but he had invested far too much time and energy to give up before he got what he came for. What he needed.
    The sex had been boring and detached on his part, but at least it had enabled him to sleep for a few hours, which was something.
    Sebastian cleared his throat. ‘What time is it?’
    ‘Half past six. Almost. What would you like to do today?’
    Sebastian sighed again. ‘I have to work, unfortunately.’
    A lie. He didn’t work. He hadn’t worked for many years, unless you counted his brief stint with Riksmord in Västerås a few months ago. These days he did nothing, and he intended to carry on doing nothing. There wasn’t actually anything he wanted to do, and he certainly didn’t want to do anything with Ellinor Bergkvist.
    ‘How long do you think you would have slept if I hadn’t woken you?’
    What kind of a fucking question was that? How was he supposed to know? Presumably the dream would have woken him – there were very few nights when it allowed him to escape – but it was impossible to say when. Not that he had any intention of telling her about that. He was going to leave. Leave the apartment and Vasastan as quickly as possible.
    ‘I’ve no idea – until nine maybe. Why?’
    ‘Two and a half hours.’ The index finger was back, moving across his forehead, down his nose, over his lips. A gesture that was somehow far more intimate than anything they had done a few hours earlier. ‘So if you don’t want to go back to sleep,’ Ellinor went on, ‘that means we have two hours to do something else without encroaching on your important work.’ The finger continued down his chin, his throat, his chest, and underneath the duvet.
    Sebastian met her gaze. Her green eyes. There was a brown patch on the iris of the left eye, he noticed. The hand continued its downward progress.
    It turned out there was something Sebastian might consider doing with Ellinor after all.

    Breakfast.
    How had she managed to get him to agree to that?
    An unconsidered, throwaway post-coital promise?
    The kitchen window overlooking the courtyard was open, but the apartment was still warm. The sound of a motorbike roaring past came from outside, but otherwise it was quiet. The stillness of a summer morning. Sebastian wondered what day it was as his eyes took in the breakfast table. Yoghurt, two kinds of cereal, muesli, freshly squeezed juice, cheese, ham, German sausage, gherkins, tomatoes, peppers, slices of watermelon. Wednesday, could that be right? Tuesday? The aroma of fresh bread filled the kitchen as Ellinor removed the baking tray from the oven and placed the mini-baguettes in a tea towel. She laid the tea towel in a woven bread basket and put it on the table with a smile, before turning back to the island in the middle of the spacious kitchen. Sebastian wasn’t hungry. The kettle clicked off; Ellinor came over and poured the boiling water into the cup in front of him. Sebastian gazed down into the cup, watching the water turn dark brown as soon as it came into contact with the freeze-dried granules at the bottom. A look which Ellinor clearly interpreted as a criticism.
    ‘I’m sorry I’ve only got instant coffee; I always drink tea myself.’
    ‘It’s okay