“Such as?”

“Are you stupid? Such as what he was wearing, for instance.” She’d picked up the pillow again, was holding it, thinking. “Do you remember what he was wearing?”

“He had on an overcoat.”

“Long? Short? Black? Brown? Beige?”

“Dark… is this a cross-examination?” But Maria wasn’t smiling. “There was… there’s something else as well. I’m trying to remember what it is… It’s been at the back of my mind. It was something he had on… under the overcoat, that I saw. But I can’t remember what it was.”

“You mean something you recognized?”

“I’m not sure. Yes, could be. Something that… seemed familiar. But I can’t put my finger on it.”

23

The letter was third in the pile. The return address said “Dirección General de la Policía,” but Winter had no doubt about who had written it. He put the white envelope to one side. It was burning the light-colored wood of his desk in protest at the intrusion of his private life into the workplace. The Spanish police stamp was a symbol for the borderline between life and work: dangerous, shifting. The scorch marks on his desk were much the same as those made by Alicia’s business card on the dark table in his room at La Luna.

They had drunk another glass of wine-or was he the only one who had done so? His despair had intensified when he heard some people walking past in the Plaza Altamirano, speaking Swedish. The older man’s voice reminded him of his father. Alicia had understood. Just then, at that moment, he had sensed that she understood.

Hours later he had seen the sea from the window in a house overlooking the ocean. He had no idea of the name of the street, or how to get there. A dog had barked down below, then all was quiet. There was nobody else around.

Some hours later he had woken up in his room at La Luna, and could no longer remember. It had been morning. He’d taken a shower and driven to the airport.

Bergenhem knocked on the door and entered. Winter was holding the envelope in his hand.

Bergenhem looked thinner. He didn’t look at Winter to start with. He remained standing.

“You wanted me?”

“Sit down, Lars, please.”

Bergenhem sat down and ran his hand over his brow. His hair looked damp.

“I’m a bit late. Somebody had skidded off the road just after the bridge.”

“Nobody is ever prepared for winter.”

“Then again, we hardly ever have one.”

“How are things in general, Lars?” Winter kept his voice down.

“Fine. I took Ada to nursery school.”

“Have you managed to get… a bit of rest?”

“I certainly have. I only needed a few days.”

“A week. Is there anything that we can talk about?”

“Meaning what?”

“Is something getting too much for you? Something to do with work?”

“Of course not.”

Winter took a deep breath and considered his next move. He leaned forward.

“Listen, Lars. I know that some of the things we do here are… pretty difficult to put up with. We get bad memories. It’s hard to shake off some of the things we go through. And you have been subjected to worse things than a lot of others. No, not subjected to. That’s not a good way of putting it. You’ve had to… survive things.”

“It was my fault after all,” Bergenhem said.

“Stop it.”

“But it was.”

“I said STOP IT.” Winter lowered his voice again. “What I’m saying is that we have to try to work as a team, and give it our best shot. Our best shot. Do you feel that you-”

“For God’s sake, Erik, I’ve been at home for a few days to get a bit of rest, and it sounds as if you’re trying to get me put away in a home. A mental home.”

“Did I say that?”

“No, but…”

Bergenhem seemed to have fixed his gaze on a spot over Winter’s head.

“Look at me, Lars.” He did. “What I wanted to say is that you are perfectly normal. You’re a human being. But if a person feels… if you feel that things are getting to be too much, it’s best to face up to it.”

“What do you know?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Bergenhem had risen to his feet.

“You don’t know the whole damn story,” he said. Winter could see his lower lip trembling slightly. Bergenhem started to sit down, but remained standing. “Just think if you‘d-” he said, then sat down. Winter waited. Bergenhem looked up. “For Christ’s sake, Erik, I’m sorry. I know of course… your dad.”

“Maybe I said too much myself.” Winter reached out to grasp Bergenhem by the arm. “I’d just like you to know that you’re welcome to talk to me… about what’s on your mind. I’ll try to listen. And I won’t call in any psychologists.”

Bergenhem breathed out. It sounded as if he’d spent the last half-hour collecting air.

“It’s just that there are a few little problems at home.”

“Hmm.”

“That’s the kind of thing you have to sort out yourself.”

Work and private life, thought Winter, glancing at the letter lying on the desk between them. That’s the kind of thing you have to sort out yourself. This is work. Private life is this evening. Tonight. He’d meant to ask Bergenhem about other things. About children. What it was like.

Some other time.

“Johan called in on you,” he said instead.

“Setter? Yes, he did.”

“But it wasn’t your thing?”

“Death metal? No thank you.”

“Or black metal. There seems to be a difference.”

“I’m not at all sure that I want to know what it is,” said Bergenhem, smiling for the first time.

“It might be necessary to know in this particular case,” Winter said. “Setter said this morning that there’s a distributor in Gothenburg who specializes in the genre, or genres. They have a couple of record companies as well. If they don’t know what this is, then nobody will, according to Setter.”

“Has he been there?”

“No. I thought you and I might pay them a visit.”

Their premises were in Kyrkogatan. Church Street -an appropriate name, Winter thought as they walked up the stairs. Posters with infernal and Satanist motifs covered the walls.

The poster to the left of the door of Desdemona Productions featured a naked woman at prayer: Fuck Me Jesus. Something new from the group Marduk. There was more: the rocking Dildos, Driller Killer, the Unkinds, Ritual Carnage. Necromantia. Dellamorte. Order from Chaos. Angelcorpse.

Winter paused and considered the name. Angelcorpse. They were proudly presenting a new disc: Exterminate.

A man with long black hair and wearing a colorful T-shirt opened after the third ring. The T-shirt was black with a bright yellow sun setting behind mountains and a burning cross hovering above. The message was etched into space: Eternal Death.

Makes you feel at home, thought Bergenhem. Or rather, at work.

“Well?”

“Rickard Nordberg?”

“Yes. Are you Wester? The detective?” He eyed Bergenhem up and down. “Two murder hunters from the crime unit?”

“Winter, and this is Bergenhem. May we come in?” Winter could hear music coming from inside, guitars, drums. The singer was screeching in unspeakable horror. Death patrols were executing victims nonstop.

Rickard Nordberg ushered them in.

The place was a loft. Computers, paper, stereos, some guitars in one corner. CD covers wherever you looked, posters. The loft was light and clean, daylight poured in through skylights, a bright blue visible through all of them. Rickard Nordberg sat down at one of the desks. Winter noted that they were about the same age. Nordberg’s hair was waist-length, graying, thin at the temples. He was wearing tight black jeans and boots with chains. He lit a cigarette. Seemed content with life. On the wall behind him was a poster for his own record company, Dead Sun, on which somebody’s innards were being cut out. Nordberg was partially obscuring an armful of intestines. When he flicked the ash off his cigarette, Winter noted next to the ashtray a photograph of two little girls. Next to it was a card in a frame: “To the nicest dad in the world.” To the right of the frame was a pile of CDs. Winter read the title of the top one: Tortura Insomnae.