At least it isn't murder this time, Winter thought. Two women went past, pushing baby carriages. The sun was hidden behind the trees. Voices of children swimming in the pond. A man was lying flat out on the grass, fifty meters from the scene of the crime. Winter watched the man stagger to his feet, then stumble forward a few meters before sitting down again, producing a bag and drinking in classic wino style, without taking the bottle out of the bag.

"And no witnesses," Halders said.

Winter was observing the drunk.

"Have we thought about the homeless?" he said, mainly to himself.

"Then? There weren't any then," Halders said.

"Now."

"I have no idea," Halders said.

"No doubt there are some hanging around here." Winter watched the man make another effort to move, and this time he managed a few steps. "Especially now, in summer."

Halders followed his gaze and reached for his mobile phone.

Five minutes later a patrol car showed up, and Halders pointed out the drunk, who was still attempting to walk the tightrope down the wide gravel path. They watched as the man was escorted to the car.

"Shall we hear what he's got to say right now?" Halders asked.

"It can wait," said Winter. He walked over to the rock in the trees, and entered through the passage. Same place, same cave.

He knew what it was even before he was fully awake, and he reached for the telephone on the bedside table. It was all still part of his dream, a continuation of the night that one could touch, smell. It was as if he knew what the voice in the receiver was going to say.

He watched Angela as he listened. He could see the top of Elsa's little head snug in her crib.

"Yes, yes," he said into the mouthpiece. "Yes."

He phoned Halders. "I want you to come with me."

"I'm as good as there," said Halders.

Winter drove through the morning light. It had nuances of milk and spinach.

They met at the parking lot. Halders looked tense, a mirror image of himself. They could have made their way blindfolded to the scene of the incident. There was no other place.

It was lit up now, by a pale electric light that would soon be unnecessary. Forensics officers were crawling all over the place. More than ever. He could see more uniforms than ever. More onlookers than ever. People were still out and about, and were loitering now on the edge of the park. Winter walked to the trees and the rock and the passage between and saw the girl's legs like two sticks, and then he saw the rest of her body, all of it except her head, which was still in the shadows.

He could have stopped right there, gone back to his gloomy office at the police station, opened the old files, and read about what had happened five years ago. He knew that's how it was, and so it proved, later, when the postmortem was completed and he had all the facts currently available.

But now it was still early morning. He saw the doctor, a new one whose name he didn't know. He looked young. Came over to speak to Winter. Made a few comments that he took into consideration.

She had stopped breathing because somebody had tightened a noose around her neck. Other things had been done to her body, not yet clear what. Her wallet was still in the handbag that Winter could see lying on the ground, not far from her hand.

Go on, stretch out your hand and grab the handbag, he thought. You can do it. You can still do it.

She was eighteen or nineteen or so. He could look if he wanted to, but he wasn't supposed to touch anything yet. She had been eighteen. That's what it was destined to be. I'll stop there. Eighteen was as far as she was going, nineteen maximum. No adult life, no family, no breast-feeding, no baby carriage, no colic, no divorce.

Halders was standing beside him. He said something to one of the forensics officers in a low voice. A night bird uttered a cry that reminded Winter of something. It wasn't the situation. That was familiar without the aid of sound effects.

Flashlights were shined into the hollow. He could see a face on the ground. Oddly enough it still seemed to be in the shadows.

He could hear a tune inside his head from a sidewalk café he had visited that same night. Had she walked past? Had she walked past that very place with her friends?

4

The girl’s name was Angelika Hansson. She could be identified from documents in her handbag. She had dark hair, and her clothes were a mess. There had been leaves and strands of grass in her hair. She had been lying with her head on a sort of pillow of grass. It was almost as if somebody had made a pillow for her. This was the image he had in his head when he got to the postmortem. Pia Froberg, the forensic pathologist, was busy with Angelika Hansson's body. He was pretty used to it by now. The body, under the spotlights. The doctor's white coat, picked out by the dazzling ceiling lights. Naked body parts. No sign of life.

How many times had he been in this situation? Not many, but still more than enough.

He knew she'd been strangled. Some kind of strap around her neck that she hadn't been able to remove, that couldn't be untied. Pia confirmed this: it could be some kind of collar, a dog leash, a noose. It might have been a rope. Not a shoelace.

It happened only a few hours before the alarm was raised. What had he being doing at that time? The thought came into his mind. What exactly had been doing then? What had she been doing during the hour before it happened? What had Angelika Hansson been doing? She'd been drinking, Perhaps too much. She might have been holding somebody's hand.

She was nineteen. He thought about what Halders had said regarding Jeanette Bielke. She too was nineteen; passed her final school exams just over a month ago. Halders said Jeanette Bielke had the white cap Swedish students wear at their graduation parties, singing songs about their happy schooldays. Used to be mandatory, but not anymore. Had Angelika had a student cap? Had she known Jeanette? Did they have any mutual friends?

"She was pregnant," said Pia Froberg, walking over to him.

Winter nodded without answering.

"Did you hear what I said, Erik?"

He nodded again.

"I must say you get quieter and quieter by the year."

By the month, he thought. Quieter by the month.

"How far along?" he asked.

"I can't say for certain," she said, "but not many weeks." She looked back at the girl's body. "I wonder if she even knew herself."

"But you're sure, about the pregnancy?"

"Of course."

Winter took two steps toward the dead body. They knew nothing about her as yet apart from what was in her handbag, and that was with Chief Inspector Beier in the forensics department.

He'd soon go to her home. He had the address. Her parents were in another harshly lit room only a few meters away. Two faces, pale with shock. He hadn't noticed a boyfriend with them, nobody who might be a boyfriend. Nobody with the parents, who could be no more than a few years younger than he was himself. People had kids when they were twenty-two. Angelika Hansson would have been one of those. A pregnant daughter. Did they know?

"What!" The man's face had turned ashen. Lars-Olof Hansson, Angelika's father. His wife was standing next to him, the girl's mother, Ann. Eyes shrunken with sorrow and desperation. "What the hell are you saying?"

Winter repeated what he had told them.

"She hasn't had a boyfriend for two years," the father said. He turned to his wife. "Have you heard anything about a boyfriend, Ann?"