He couldn’t see any sign of a daughter, nor a prophet. Nor a cross, unless the mace one of the men was holding could be interpreted as a cross together with one of the trees.

The last page comprised white text on a black background. A lot of text, most of it very small and densely packed. As if it had intentionally been made unreadable, Winter thought.

But he was going to read it. He had his reading glasses with him. He’d had to face up to that reality this last year.

The disc was recorded in the Machine Room, Edmonton. The winter of 1995. All the songs had been written by the Masters of Horrid Nuclear Hate-filled Blackness.

He started reading the piece in the top left, the first song. The narrator was walking through a forest that could have been the one he’d seen on page two of the leaflet.

He played the first track again, and tried to follow. He listened as he read. Blood trickles to the floor. This woman has broken a sacred bond. The black angel. This woman has deserted me and I must take revenge.

Winter switched off the music and continued reading. He found himself sinking into a sea of blood. Black galaxies of hatred. Stars that exploded in the underworld and created demons who wandered through demilitarized zones on the hunt for victims. Perhaps it contained some kind of humor, but it was difficult to see that after what had happened in that room.

30

Dusk was approaching again. The buildings on the other side of the river were yellow and red in the beams of winter sun. The sun goes away just when it’s at its best, thought Winter, and left his office, walked along empty corridors and staircases to forensics.

Beier was at his desk, waiting for him. He was wearing a tie and a white shirt. He was generally smartly dressed. Winter sat down.

“The sperm is Valker‘s,” Beier said.

Winter nodded. They had found traces of sperm on the sofa the couple had been sitting on.

“But not exclusively,” said Beier. “There was sperm from two or three other men as well. Two, I think.” He tapped a folder on his desk. “It’s all in here. Several stains from several occasions. From at least five months ago, and at various times later.” He picked up the folder and handed it to Winter. “But the latest is Valker’s own.”

“Could it have been from the night of the murder?”

“Yes.”

“But nothing from anybody else? At that time?”

“No.”

“There could have been several people in the apartment on that night,” Winter said.

“Obviously,” Beier said. “We have about ten fingerprints from various people that are not in any of our registers. But there again, fingerprints are not unusual in an apartment or a house. People come and go.”

“But not all of them leave sperm behind.”

“No.” Beier stood up when the coffee arrived. He always gave Winter coffee whenever he visited his office. Beier took the tray from the secretary, put it on his desk, and handed a cup to Winter.

Winter wondered briefly how Beier could persuade the girl to come in with a tray of coffee. Perhaps they had an agreement. Next time it would be Beier’s turn to go around with the tray. Beier added milk and sugar and looked up. “All the secretions we’ve found were on that sofa. Or adjacent to it.”

“What does that mean?”

“What does it mean? That things happened on the sofa and adjacent to it.”

“Nothing from the woman?”

“Oh yes.”

“Hers? And two others?”

Beier nodded.

“Three men and three women,” Winter said.

“Three couples.”

“We have three couples in the investigation,” Winter said.

“I know.”

“So all we need is more sperm and secretions that we can compare.”

“Good luck,” said Beier.

“Am I letting my imagination run away with me?”

“I don’t know.”

“They know something,” said Winter.

“What do you mean?”

“I spoke to the Martells. Djanali and Halders spoke to the others. The Elfvegrens. There was something behind what they said, something implied but not spelled out. With both couples.”

“It’s called the subtext,” Beier said. “But it doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with what happened at the Valkers’ place.”

“No. I don’t know if the Martells are mixed up in the murder in any way. I don’t think anything. But we need to put more pressure on them. And the Elfvegrens. I’ll drive out to Järnbrott tomorrow.” Winter stood up, folder in hand. “There’s one other thing, by the way. I haven’t seen the complete list of objects in the room.”

“You haven’t? That’s also in the folder, of course.” Beier looked at Winter. “There might be a few other things to add.”

“Were there any newspapers or magazines?”

“You must be joking. The hall was full of old copies of Göteborgs Posten.”

“I mean in addition to those.”

“Not many. Is there anything specific you have in mind?”

“I don’t know,” Winter said.

He was reading Sacrament’s texts. The hero in song number three flew into space imprisoned in his own hatred. There was a lot about hatred, of oneself and others.

This is the most idiotic load of old crap I’ve ever read, thought Winter.

They’re teasing us.

Here is the dream I live with, this is my plan. To kill mankind and destroy the universe.

A big task that others have tried before.

Most of the text was in the first person. Whoever it was rarely stayed on earth. Just a short visit to Manhattan. A voyage on the Red Sea. A voyage on the Black Sea. Otherwise it was alien worlds.

This could keep a dozen psychologists going for years, Winter thought. But it’s not much good to us. I can ask the guys at Desdemona if this is any different from other lyrics in the genre.

He noticed several references to walls, a few in every song. Wall of Hate. Wall of Blood. Wall of Corpses. Wall of Horrors. It became tedious after a while, worn, like flaking wallpaper.

He took off his reading glasses and examined them. The lenses seemed to have been dirtied by the words, covered by a thin layer of translucent soot.

His mobile phone rang in the inside pocket of his jacket. The display showed his mother’s number in Nueva Andalucia. Winter felt a sudden shooting pain in his chest.

“Hello, Mom.”

“Hello, Erik. I can never get used to the idea that the person I’m calling can see my number.”

“Makes you wonder why some people never answer, eh?”

“You always answer, Erik.”

“Of course! How are things?”

“I’m taking it a day at a time, as they say. But it’s going… quite well. I visit the grave almost every day. It’s a sort of outing. You can see the sea from there.”

“It’s an attractive place for a grave.”

“It’s so lovely with the mountain and the sea. He’s gone to a beautiful place, at least.”

“Yes.”

“And now Christmas is approaching. I suppose serious Christmas shopping is getting under way now?”

“I don’t honestly know. Not for me it isn‘t, at least.”

“I can understand that. Another murder. It’s terrible. And just when you got back home from here.” There was a pause and Winter could hear the sound of ice cubes in a cocktail glass of Tanqueray and tonic.

“I read about it in GP. Awful. And only a few doors away from where you live.”

“Where I live isn’t a crime-free zone, Mother.”

“I was thinking mainly about Angela. She must be wondering what kind of a place she’s landed in.”

“She is.”

“No, that was a silly thing for me to say. How’s she doing?”

“Everything’s fine.”

“Have you felt any kicks yet?”

“Yes.”

“What was it like? Tell me!”

“It was… fantastic. A very special experience.”

“I remember when you… when I…” and Winter heard her voice break and the sound of ice cubes rattling next to the receiver. “I’m sorry, Erik. I was thinking about when you… and Dad…” and her voice broke again, more rattling, and then she was back. “It was like you say. A… very special experience. When we felt Lotta and when we felt your… kicks.”