“Can you help me with this case?” Winter asked.

“Okay. I have to say that I’m getting quite curious myself. Just a minute… Sverker wants to say something.”

Winter waited. Heard distant voices on the telephone. Then Nordberg returned: “Well, let’s be honest, we get lots of promotional CDs every year, and we farm a lot of them out to our friends or whatever, but we do save a few, or, rather, we dump them in the attic archive. It’s expanded beyond our wildest dreams. There’s a possibility that the disc is up there. I mean, it’s highly probable that we’ve had the disc here at one time or another.”

“Do you have time to check your archives?”

“No.”

“Okay. I’ll send a colleague.”

It was evening. Winter walked home through Heden. It was still cold, clear. A dozen or so men were playing football on one of the gravel pitches, with much shouting and dull thuds as the ball was kicked. Football in November? Why not? In England the season has barely gotten off the ground by then. Somebody shouted. He turned and saw that the ball was rolling toward him. He side-footed it back to them. Far from finished yet.

He thought about Steve, a colleague in London. Steve was obstinate about what records he listened to. Winter had sent him some jazz, but had been forced to accept that it was a waste of time. I’m more impressionable than he is. People who listen to classic rock are conservative.

They hadn’t spoken to each other for months. Winter had considered dashing over to London briefly before Christmas, but now he wasn’t sure. Go by all means, Angela had said. If it’s possible.

Why shouldn’t it be possible? The baby wasn’t due until the beginning of April. The first one, Angela had insisted, and she wasn’t joking. London was tempting. London calling. It had been a long time.

Winter heard more dull thuds behind him, followed by whoops and cheers: somebody had scored.

The last time they’d spoken on the telephone, Chief Inspector Steve MacDonald had had his leg in a cast after an obligatory Sunday match for his pub team in Kent. Come over for a few days whenever you feel like it, he’d said. You’re not so important, but I’d like to see Angela. Again.

They had met Steve briefly in Gothenburg just over three years ago, but they hadn’t met his wife. Or the twins. Perhaps they should wait until there were three youngsters. At the beginning of April. Three.

“What do you think of Elias?” asked Angela as he marched into the kitchen. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

“Should I do it?”

“Yes, please.” She handed over the knife and Winter started chopping the onions. Half of them were still waiting to be done.

“What do you think? Elias? Or Isak? Emanuel?”

“Why not Esau?”

“Be serious now.”

“Well… a bit biblical… but I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“You believe in God.”

“Occasionally.”

“You’ve always said that we have to have something to give us strength.”

“Yes.”

“Isabella.”

“An excellent name.”

“Olivia.”

“Also excellent.”

“Leo.”

Winter blinked away the tears as the onions were chopped.

“Hmm… maybe. You seem to have stopped feeling sick now.”

“It normally stops after twelve weeks or so, and we’re well past that point. Now comes a quiet, peaceful period. For the mother, at least.”

“How’s your stomach? How’s Elias?”

“Feel for yourself,” she said, getting up from the chair she’d only just sat down on. “Come with me.”

She went to the bedroom and Winter put down the knife and followed her. Angela lay down and exposed her stomach, which had grown bigger still. Winter sat down on the bed. It could be the first time. He hadn’t felt anything so far. Everything was so hard to grasp. Was it real? She’d been feeling fetal movements for weeks now, maybe five. Kicks. Winter thought about football again, could picture the guys at Heden.

“Put your hand there.”

He did as he was told. He could feel something moving. It was real.

25

Morelius and Bartram stopped at a red light. Morelius saw a movement in a car way over to his right out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head and saw an elderly man fastening his seat belt. Bartram had seen him as well. Morelius gave the man a friendly nod.

Bartram grinned. “If he’d kept still we wouldn’t have noticed.”

“No.”

“One thing this job gives you is split vision,” Bartram said.

“What else does it give you?” said Morelius, moving away as the lights changed.

“Eh?”

“What else does this job give you, apart from split vision?”

Bartram didn’t answer. He was busy watching the Christmas decorations going up in the streets and at the entrances to the arcades.

“Here we go again,” he said.

“What?”

“The hell that is Christmas is once more upon us.”

Morelius stopped at a pedestrian crossing. A young woman was wheeling a wide stroller with two children in it. She waved in acknowledgment, and Morelius raised his hand in return.

“Poor her, having to push those two around when she goes Christmas shopping,” Bartram said.

“Poor you, when you have to go Christmas shopping,” Morelius said.

Bartram didn’t answer.

“You don’t seem to hear what I say today, Greger.”

“I hear.”

“But you don’t answer.”

“I don’t go Christmas shopping. I never wander around the center of town when I’m not on duty. Especially in this seasonal hysteria.”

“Really?”

“Don’t you get annoyed by all the drunks and other scum drifting around? Don’t you think: there’s somebody who’s sure as hell wanted? Don’t you think: there goes the bastard, and where are the damn police?”

Morelius agreed. It wasn’t only when he was on duty. Whenever he walked down the Avenue he noticed the staff entrances where they’d been to pick up shoplifters. He saw the entrance to a pub or outside the post office where everybody peed after dark. That’s where somebody had his shoulder broken. That’s where that woman ran amok. That’s where that guy was shot. That’s where the fight took place…

“I don’t like Christmas,” Bartram said.

“Is there anything you do like?”

Bartram didn’t answer. He was staring straight ahead. Morelius turned into Götaplatsen. The sun was strong, the sky blue. The high pressure was persisting, which was unusual. There were little drifts of snow in corners on the steps. Gangs of youngsters were standing around outside the library. People streamed into the Park Avenue Hotel for lunch. A line of twenty taxis were outside. Some of the idiots had left their engines running for half an hour. The exhaust fumes hung in clouds around the cars. Morelius was tempted to stop and make them switch off.

“What was it like inside there?” Bartram said.

“Eh?” Morelius turned right after the hotel and found himself behind a bus in Engelbrektsgatan. “Inside where?”

“What was it like inside the apartment? Aschebergsgatan. The double murder.”

“You’re asking me now?” They’d hardly spoken about it at all since it happened. It was like that sometimes. He hadn’t said anything. Bartram had stayed outside on the landing. “What do you want to know?”

“What did it look like?”

“What do you mean, look like?” He glanced toward Bartram on his right, but Bartram didn’t turn to look at him. They’d gone as far as the Scandinavium. No calls were coming over the radio. A gang of ice-hockey supporters were parading around with banners before that night’s match. “What did they look like, do you mean?”

Bartram nodded without looking at him. Morelius didn’t say any more. They were negotiating the roundabout at Korsvägen. I’ve been around this thing eighteen million times, he thought. Over there I was in another squad car once. I lugged teenage drunks from the Liseberg pleasure gardens, and then their friends hauled them back again. I’ve bought newspapers and Snickers bars at the newsstand over there. Now we’re driving up Eklandabacken. I’m at the wheel. The car’s going straight ahead like it’s on rails.