“I’d thought of calling sooner… thought there was something odd going on… and then I phoned and reported it.” He was breathing heavily. “Here it is, anyway.”

“Hmm.” Morelius eyed the newspapers piled up on the floor; one was sticking out of the letter box. “Have you rung the bell?”

“Yes. Several times these last few days.” He gestured toward the door. “But nobody answered.”

“Who lives here?” Morelius looked at the nameplate. “Valker. Somebody living on their own? A single tenant?”

“It’s a couple-at least, I think it is. You can never be sure nowadays… But I’ve seen two people. A man and a woman.”

Morelius rang the bell. They could hear some sort of music coming from inside the apartment. He rang again, but there was no answer. He looked at Bartram and then bent down and opened the mail slot.

“Oh, damn!”

“I’ve smelled it as well,” the caretaker said.

“What’s wrong?” Bartram wondered.

“Smell for yourself,” said Morelius, moving out of the way.

“Just say what it is,” Bartram said.

“It’s impossible to describe,” said Morelius, looking at the caretaker again.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“There’s a noise coming from inside. What is it?”

“I don’t know what it is either. But it’s been going for ages now.”

“Ages?”

“Evidently. According to the newspaper boy, at least. And I suppose I’ve heard it myself as well, when I’ve been here wondering… wondering what’s going on. But one’s reluctant to interfere.”

“Open the door,” Morelius said.

“Shouldn’t we wait?” Bartram asked.

“What for?” Morelius turned to the caretaker. “Come on, open up.”

Morelius looked at the door. He had no feelings just now. It could be any door at all. Any people at all. The light on the landing was very bright. It didn’t worry him.

The man fumbled with a bunch of keys, picked one out, put it in the lock and turned.

Winter had mashed the anchovies and mixed in olive oil and garlic when the telephone rang, piercing Charlie Haden’s bass.

“I’ll get it,” said Angela, on her way through the hall from the bathroom.

She came back into the kitchen.

“It’s for you. I’ll hang up the receiver in the hall.”

Winter picked up the phone.

There were two cars parked outside the apartment building. Winter could see them the moment he stepped outside the entrance door of his own building. They were only a few yards away.

Walking distance from the scene of the crime. You could have mixed feelings about that. He rubbed his chin and could smell garlic and anchovies. It felt as if crime had intruded onto his home ground, his home.

There was a young constable he didn’t recognize in the entrance hall. Cars braked behind him as he went in through the front door, and he knew there would soon be lots of people in there. Outside as well.

Welcome home, Chief Inspector.

He went up the stairs.

“Hello, Winter.”

“It’s you, is it, Bartram? Long time no see.”

“We took the emergency call.”

“Who’s that?” asked Winter, gesturing toward the elderly man leaning against a wall.

“The caretaker.”

“He looks in a bad way. Get him to the station and I’ll have a word with him later.”

“Okay.”

“Who’s inside the apartment?”

“Morelius. Simon Morelius. We were the first. And now you.”

Winter went in through the open door. He had to step over a pile of mail and newspapers. The hall was dark, long and narrow, not unlike his own. There was no sign of a light on anywhere. He knew that these officers were experienced enough not to touch the walls and switches.

The stench was awful, but he’d tried to prepare himself for that, and it helped. He breathed it for a couple of seconds, then took out a handkerchief and pressed it over his nose and mouth.

Music was thundering through all the rooms. He couldn’t be sure where it was coming from. The volume wasn’t all that high, but it was very intrusive even so.

It sounded like something from another world. He’d never heard anything like it. I’ve lived a sheltered life, he thought.

The guitar was grinding like a mill wheel, as did the bass, the drums… Winter was reminded of a concrete mixer. Suddenly: a voice, hardly human, a high falsetto hissing noise. No discernible words. The drummer seemed to be having an epileptic fit.

The music was coming from a room directly ahead of him. A door at the far end of the hall stood open. Light from the street was coming in through the large windows. A figure was visible in the doorway, outlined against the lighter room behind him, motionless. Winter could see the silhouette of a police officer, his uniform, his weapon. He didn’t seem to have heard Winter approaching, but ought to have done so despite the music.

He hadn’t seen Morelius for ages. He was younger than Winter, but not all that much.

The music stopped and Winter approached the room. The outline moved, then turned back toward the room again without speaking. The music surged, louder now, more intense. It seemed to get louder as Winter advanced. When he reached the door, the figure that had now become a man in uniform moved out of the way. Winter nodded. He could smell the stench through his handkerchief now as he stepped into the room.

The singer wasn’t hissing any longer, he was screeching at top volume. The stereo equipment was on the left, glowing red and yellow. Next to it was a sofa, and on the sofa sat a couple who didn’t appear to be wearing any clothes. Their bodies were crisscrossed with shadows and light and something else. Winter realized what it was.

Their faces were turned toward the door, toward the police officers who were looking at them. Winter had a sudden feeling of disgust, of wanting to be sick.

It was always the same. He was violating these people now, when they were defenseless.

He took a step forward. There was a dark wreath around their necks, like a jagged necklace. He took another step forward and looked into their faces and the feeling of sickness was suddenly more than a vague feeling. He turned back to the door.

“There’s something written on the wall as well,” said the police officer, pointing to the right at the far end of the room.

18

The room quickly filled up. Winter had sat alone in his office for ten minutes, watching the snow falling outside. Somebody had put a vase of flowers on the table, but there was no card accompanying it. As he was about to leave for the meeting, there was a knock on the door and Ringmar came in. He’d been home to get some pills to ease his tonsillitis. He had looked far from well when he turned up at the apartment, taken one look at the dead bodies, started coughing, and gone back into the hall.

“You ought to be in bed,” said Winter.

“Yes.”

“Do you have a temperature?”

“Yes.”

“Go home.”

‘After the meeting.“

“We can’t risk you infecting all of us, Bertil. The bottom line is that I don’t want you here.”

“Erik…”

“If you really have to work, take the photographs and all the rest of the stuff and do some thinking as you lie in bed, if it’s possible to think with the infection you’ve got.”

“All right, all right.” Ringmar was in the middle of the office now. “This is a fine welcome-home for you.” He looked at Winter, who had retreated behind his desk. “What a goddam mess!”

They went to the meeting. Winter started by summarizing what they knew. The photographs were passed around.

He hasn’t got much of a tan, thought Aneta Djanali. That wasn’t why he went to Spain. Aneta Djanali didn’t have much of a tan herself, although she was very black. She was born in Gothenburg, to parents who had had to leave the troubled African nation of Burkina Faso for political reasons. But “leave” was not quite accurate; they had fled for their lives.