“There’s a lot of death around here,” said Bergenhem, surveying the room.

“Well, yes. That’s my job.” Winter noticed the gleam in Nordberg’s eye. “I suspect the topic isn’t all that unfamiliar to you gentlemen either?” He spoke with a refined Gothenburg accent.

“Have you brought the tape with you?” Nordberg asked. He gestured with his hand and a man similarly dressed and of more or less the same age came up to introduce himself. Winter handed over the cassette, and Nordberg inserted it into a cassette player. The music started to play, and Winter was transported back to the room in Aschebergsgatan.

Nordberg and his colleague listened attentively.

“Low budget,” Nordberg said after ten seconds.

His colleague shook his head.

“I’ve never heard this before. Must be American. It’s not Norwegian, in any case.”

“Norwegian?”

“They’re biggest when it comes to black metal,” Nordberg said.

“So this is black metal?” Winter asked.

“No doubt about it.”

“How can you tell?”

“The drive, the speed. Just listen. A drum roll on every beat. At least.”

‘And the vocals,“ his colleague said. ”Pretty high-pitched.“ They listened to the screeching that had long since passed the limits of falsetto. ”This is GOOD.“

“I don’t agree,” Nordberg said.

“Why is it good?” asked Bergenhem, turning to the colleague.

“It’s straightforward and unpretentious. Straight to the point. Influenced by the early eighties.”

“Is it early eighties?” asked Winter.

“No way. Sounds as if it was made a couple of years ago. Rubbish production. A touch of Bathory, but it’s not them.”

“Why isn’t it good?” asked Winter, turning to Nordberg.

“It’s too uniform. Nothing that stands out. I prefer something with more of a tune.” He stopped the tape and started a CD. More guitars strumming away at full speed, drums everywhere. Vocals from the crypt. “Can you hear it? That’s what I mean.”

Bergenhem looked at Winter.

“I can hear the tune,” Winter said. “A touch of The Clash.”

Nordberg gave him an odd look.

“Funny you should say that, they’ve said themselves that they owe a lot to The Clash.”

“London Calling, ” said Winter.

“ Sweden is very big in black metal,” Nordberg said.

“How big?” Bergenhem asked.

“Depends what you’re comparing it with. But it has its niche market. Let’s say that a big-name Swedish band sells five thousand CDs. There are a few that do better, such as giant companies like Music for Nations, Dimmu Borgir from Norway, and Cradle of Filth from England. There we’re talking about a hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Black metal?”

“Black metal.”

“Who listens to it?”

“Well, mainly young guys. Almost exclusively young guys. Ordinary people.”

Ordinary people, Winter thought. The nicest people in the world.

“Where does… Satanism fit in?” he asked.

“That’s the basis of black metal,” Nordberg’s colleague said. “But it’s more Devil worship.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Devil worshippers like the Devil, but they jettison all the rest,” Nordberg said in his posh accent. “But I’m no expert. Nor a worshipper, actually.”

“And this is music for Devil worshippers,” said Winter, indicating the CD player. A new track had started, just as intense as the first one.

“Not necessarily,” said Nordberg’s colleague. “Not many of the people who listen to this stuff are really Devil worshippers, or Sa tanists. It’s more the packaging that counts.”

“Packaging?”

“The style just as much as the music. People want to look like KISS, but in spades.”

“Sverker knows all there is to know about KISS,” said Nordberg with a smile. “By the way, I haven’t gotten around to introducing you. Crime unit, Sverker. Sverker, crime unit.” He stopped waving his hand about. “Sverker works for a record company. Depression. Mainly metal punk. Knows all there is to know about punk. Just like you do,” said Nordberg, nodding at Winter. “He’s collared a few new bands only today.”

“Slaktmask and Skitsystem,” said Sverker modestly. ‘And Arse destroyer.“

“But neither of you recognizes the music on this cassette?” Winter said.

“Let’s do this,” Nordberg said. “We’ll post a sound file on the Net with one of the tracks from the cassette. I can say that I’ve discovered an unknown band from somewhere or other and I’m curious to know who they are.”

“Which is the truth anyway,” said Sverker, stroking back his long, wispy hair.

“Great idea,” said Winter.

“He has thousands of addresses all over the world,” Sverker said. “Radio stations, record companies, private customers.”

“Excellent. When can you do it?”

“As soon as we finish work. Whether we get a response is another matter, of course.”

Winter went back to the apartment one final time. Everything was the same as before. The stains were no bigger, no smaller. The music still seemed to hang in the room. Black metal. Fresh in his memory from the airy loft that was Desdemona Productions.

The forensic team had finished. What needed to be analyzed was already in the laboratories, in marked containers. The apartment would be cleaned up and restored to pristine condition. New tenants would move in. I’ll have some new neighbors, he thought.

He waited for the elevator that never came. Probably somebody hadn’t closed the door properly. He walked down the stairs, at which point the elevator started moving down. It passed by, but whoever was in it had already left the building by the time Winter reached the ground floor. The stiff front door was slowly closing.

It was windy, but a clear evening. Winter noted the back of a man walking down the street. Perhaps the person who had taken the elevator. Winter turned left. The sky was a dull blue in the direction of Nordstan. He poked his scarf inside his overcoat and fastened a few more buttons.

There were four crisp rolls left at the baker’s. He hoped Angela was home by now. He wanted to say something to… them. He could lie down next to her stomach and tell them a happy story.

A woman with a stroller passed by as he left the baker’s. He stepped to one side. He had a sudden desire to take a look at the baby. He caught up with the woman.

He apologized to her and she stopped.

“Do you mind if I take a look at the baby?” he asked.

“Eh?”

She seemed more surprised than scared.

“I’d just like to take a look at your baby.” He felt like an absolute fool, but he didn’t care. “I’m going to have a child myself soon. For the first time.” The stroller was colorless in the neon light. “I’m going to be a father,” he said.

24

They traced back the lives of Christian and Louise Valker. They had requested all available data from colleagues in Västerås and Kungsbacka, but the couple had committed no recorded crimes. The church, the state, and the local authorities supplied what information they had, but so far nothing useful had emerged.

“Was it somebody they knew?” wondered Ringmar. They were sitting in his office after the morning meeting. Djanali and Halders were there as well.

“Well, he didn’t break in,” Winter said. “He might have stolen a key or had a copy made, but it clearly wasn’t a surprise visit.”

“No,” said Ringmar. “Not in that sense. They’d eaten, after all. And drunk.”

“Two bottles of wine,” Winter said.

“And harder stuff. Beier says there were traces of gin and tonic in their glasses.”

“Does Beier know what brand it was?” said Halders.

Winter thought of Tanqueray. Might as well buy the Christmas bottle now, before Mom gets here.

Ringmar looked at Halders.

“Hmm. Are you suggesting that knowing the brand might help us?”

“If the murderer had brought the gin to the party, yes. If he always drinks Gordon‘s, for instance, and somebody at the System shop in the Avenue remembers somebody who always buys Gordon’s… well…”