To the Top of the Mountain

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‘I DIDN’T SEE anything.’

Paul Hjelm gave a heartfelt sigh.

‘You didn’t see anything?’

He tried to catch his eye, but the young man kept looking down, morose.

Morose? When had he last used the word ‘morose’? Had he ever, at any point in his life, used the word ‘morose’?

He felt old.

‘Let’s try again,’ he said calmly. ‘Even though a full-on fight broke out behind you, you saw nothing at all. Is that right?’

Silence.

Hjelm sighed again. He lifted his knuckles from the interrogation table, stretched his back, and cast a glance in the direction of his colleague, leaning against the drab concrete wall.

As their eyes met, he felt the contradictions of the moment. On the one hand, his relocation to the violent crimes division of the local police force, working in Stockholm’s City district, and the whole range of hopeless, everyday crimes that went with it. On the other, the return of his favourite colleague, Kerstin Holm, to Stockholm.

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