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They were halfway to Katrineholm and Martin was still not sure why. His spur of the moment volunteering of his car and services as a driver had seemed the decent thing to do at the time, but David's was hardly the first sexuality crisis he had prompted, and under normal circumstances he restricted himself to calling the taxi rather than driving it. It wasn't as if he could get any political capital out of it. Even without any personal qualms, pragmatically it was never worth it. To play that game was to invite it to be played against oneself, and Martin hadn't enjoyed nearly two decades cutting a swathe through Sweden's political circles without grasping that no-one got better sex or a better career by ratting people out. Laughing at others' hypocrisy had to be its own reward.

But apparently David wasn't a hypocrite, and there was something oddly endearing about that. Martin was familiar enough with the "I'm not like that" dance, but on this occasion he found he really believed that David wasn't doing it. No-one was that good an actor. At least, he corrected himself, some people might be, but David Holst wasn't. Martin had seen his recent performances in the Riksdag. It wasn't even the entertaining prospect of seeing where his political opponent had sprung from, the Baptist in his natural habitat. Well, it was a dash of that, who could deny it? But apparently David didn't want to go away and pretend it had never happened and Martin was finding himself oddly in sympathy. As David hurried greenly to treat his hangover with another coffee at a petrol station outside Malmköping - clearly the Baptist parents would not be sympathetic - the man's own answer to the question of why came back: because he thought that Martin was nice. Because he wanted to listen to Ratata together. Painful as it was to admit of a Liberal, Martin had to acknowledge that he was right on both their parts: it was the only honest answer.