“We were just the same,” said Anna.
“We didn’t take our clothes off,” said Ulf. “Or not as often as they do.”
“Oh well,” sighed Anna. “No good crying over...”
Ulf finished the reference for her: “...spilt milk,” he said.
They were both silent. It was time to go back to the office. Neither wanted to. But they had to.
* * *
—
That evening, when he returned to his flat, Ulf showered, changed, and then knocked at Mrs. Högfors’ door to collect Martin. His neighbour had been making blueberry jam, and she gave him a jar of it for his store cupboard. “You spoil me, Mrs. Högfors,” he said. And she said, “You deserve it, Mr. Varg. And if a widow can’t spoil a man like you, then what is there left for her to do, I ask you?”
He asked her about Martin’s day.
“He’s definitely on the mend, Mr. Varg,” she said. “There’s no doubt about it. He chased a squirrel today, which is something he hasn’t done for a long time. And his bark is coming back—he sounds more confident.”
“I’m delighted to hear that, Mrs. Högfors,” said Ulf.
He took Martin out for an evening walk. He did not have to cajole him—the dog came willingly, and seemed to be interested once more in the sights and smells of the park. Ulf felt happy—Martin had been away in a strange land, and now he was back. Had I been Catholic, he thought, I would have lit a candle to St. Francis, in gratitude for the return of my dog; but I am not; I don’t believe in any of that—although perhaps I wish I did, perhaps I would take comfort in at least parts of it. And what was wrong in believing in St. Francis, who was gentle, and beloved of animals, when there was so much wrong with the world? If you can’t find one sort of love, Ulf thought, then perhaps there are others out there, to hand, ready to do for you what love has always done for people. Perhaps it was there.
He looked down at Martin, who was trotting beside him on one of the paths in the park. “You’re a good dog, Martin,” Ulf said.
Martin, being deaf, did not hear. But then he looked up at Ulf, who, on impulse, said, articulating carefully and moving his lips very clearly, Wolf. He did not know why he said it, but the word just came to him.
Martin gazed at him, struggling to read his master’s lips against the light. But then he succeeded, and to Ulf’s astonishment, the dog sat down, raised his head in the air, and howled.
Ulf stood quite still. Then he bent down, patted Martin reassuringly on the head, and took him back along the path by which they had come—which is, of course, the path that you can always trust to take you back to where you belong.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency novels and a number of other series and stand-alone books. His works have been translated into more than forty languages and have been best sellers throughout the world. He lives in Scotland.
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.
The Department of Sensitive Crimes Page 23