The Living and the Dead in Winsford by Håkan Nesser Page A

still be regarded as an attractive woman. Even if Mr Britton must surely be several years younger than me.
    ‘May I join you?’
    ‘Please do.’
    He took with him his half-empty glass and sat down facing me. I had the impression that both Rosie and Robert were watching us, but trying to give the impression of not doing so. Henry was also still there in his corner, but absorbed by his newspaper and something which looked like a horseracing programme. I observed my new table-mate furtively. He had long, slightly unruly hair, but I thought nevertheless that he looked civilized. By civilized I suppose I mean that he looked as if he was at home in an urban environment rather than on a moor out in the sticks. Perhaps he had just been to visit his ancient mother and was on his way back to London, I thought. Or a sister, or a brother-in-law, who knows? Anyway, a dark red shirt, open at the neck, and over it a blue pullover. Quite tall, on the slim side, clean shaven. Deep-set eyes that were perhaps a fraction too close together. His voice was deep and pleasant – he could well be an actor or even a radio announcer. Or possibly even a television presenter, if he paid a visit to a barber. I smiled at the latter thought, and he asked what I found amusing.
    ‘Nothing.’ I shrugged. ‘It was just a passing twitch.’
    Castor noticed that I had acquired a companion and came over to our table. Sniffed casually at Mr Britton, yawned and found a new place on the floor.
    ‘Your dog?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What’s he called?’
    ‘Castor.’
    He nodded, and we sat without speaking for a few seconds.
    ‘Anyway, my assertion about a shadow,’ he said eventually. ‘It wasn’t just something I said in an attempt to appear interesting – I hope you understand that. I could have said “aura”, but people are usually scared of that word.’
    I thought for a moment, then maintained I wasn’t especially afraid of auras, but didn’t believe in them. I asked if people were less scared of shadows.
    ‘They are in fact, yes,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I see an absent husband and a house in the south – but we don’t need to go into that. You’ve just arrived here, I take it? I’ve never seen you around before, in any case.’
    I noticed that my pulse started racing and that I needed to gain time. Absent husband? A house in the south? But I couldn’t see how I could make use of any time I gained.
    ‘I arrived a few days ago,’ I said. ‘What about you? Do you live here?’
    ‘Not far outside the village.’
    ‘It’s beautiful here.’
    ‘Yes. Beautiful and lonely. At this time of year, at least.’
    ‘Some people prefer loneliness.’
    He smiled slightly. ‘Yes, we do. Have you been in these parts before?’
    ‘Never.’
    And so he began talking about the moor. Slowly and almost hesitantly, without my prompting him. About places, walks, the mists. And how he actually preferred this time of year, autumn and winter, when there were not so many tourists about. He sometimes spent whole days out on the moor, he told me, from dawn to dusk, preferably without a map or a compass, preferably without really knowing where he was.
    ‘Trout Hill,’ he said, ‘above Doone Valley, or Challacombe – you can learn a lot up there. You can get lost on the moor, of course you can: but if you don’t get lost you can’t find yourself.’
    He laughed slightly ironically, and stroked back his hair, which occasionally fell down and covered half his face. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to impress me with what he was saying, but it didn’t seem so. Nor did he offer me any services, didn’t ask if I needed a guide or somebody who could pass on tips about places or paths. He just warned me to be careful, and explained that when the mists fell even the wild ponies could get lost. If you were caught out by the mist, it could often be better simply to stay where you were and hope that it would soon lift. Assuming you had suitable clothes, of course: if