“Fin de siècle. ”

“Yes. The end of the century, in spades: the end of the millennium. We’re a bit lost about where we go from here.”

“Whether we’re on our way up or down, you mean?”

“Yes. Heaven or hell.”

“And we finish up with a remarkable mixture of both,” Winter said. “The world is being pulled in different directions.”

“Not my world,” said Hanne, and smiled again. “In my world we spend all our energy on fighting against evil.”

“But does it produce results?” Winter closed his eyes; then looked again at Hanne. “ ‘Our Lord, how long must I call for your help before you listen? How long before you save us from all this violence?”’

“That sounds like the Old Testament. I’d guess Habakkuk.”

“Right the first time.”

“Are there any quotations here? From the Bible?” she asked, holding up the printouts of the text.

“Not as far as I can see. Not literal quotations.”

She put down the leaflet.

“More and more people are looking for some kind of guidance in life, some kind of comfort or consolation,” she said. “In their different ways.”

“Everybody wants a box of chocolates and a red rose,” Winter said.

“Isn’t that reasonable?”

“I suppose so.”

“Or a bowl of soup,” she said. “Our parish runs a pretty good soup kitchen.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Isn’t that awful?”

“The soup kitchen? I don’t know about that. If you didn’t do it people would starve out there in the darkness.”

As he said that she turned and looked out the window.

“Light will soon be back,” she said.

32

Morelius stopped at a red light. The town theater was attractively illuminated. The same applied to the whole city. One week to go to Christmas, and the light was intense when it grew dark.

A Santa Claus went past, and bowed in the direction of the police car.

“Do Santas bow?” Bartram asked.

Morelius didn’t answer. The light changed to green.

The Avenue was full of people carrying packages.

“Have you bought any Christmas presents?” Bartram asked.

“Not yet.”

‘Are you staying in Gothenburg for Christmas?“

“Why do you want to know?”

“I was only asking.”

Morelius turned into Södra Vägen. The council workers were busy on Heden, building a stage that would be used for the New Year celebrations. Gothenburg would enter 2000 with bright lights and a fanfare of trumpets. That applied to the whole city. Everybody would be on their feet, apart from those who had already fallen over before the clock struck midnight, thought Morelius. And he would be standing in the midst of them.

“All right. I’m going to spend Christmas with my mom.”

“Kungälv?”

“Kungsbacka.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. You’re from Kungsbacka. I don’t suppose you knew the woman who was murdered? Louise?”

“No.”

“I guess the town isn’t all that small.”

“No.”

‘Are they talking much about it? In Kungsbacka, I mean?“

“Mom phoned but she hadn’t heard anything.” Morelius waited while several people carrying parcels walked over the pedestrian crossing. “She didn’t know her, either, this… Louise.” He set off again. The city center was packed, and driving was a nightmare.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“For Christmas, you mean?”

“Hmm.”

“Working.”

“What? You’re going to be working over Christmas as well?”

“Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.” Bartram shifted his position. “All the more free time for next summer.” He looked out at the people, the packages, the lights. “I don’t like all this stuff anyway.” He turned to Morelius. “I’ve never liked Christmas.”

“I bet you’ll like it even less if you’re working in the middle of it,” Morelius said. “It’s not much fun having to sort out families when Mom and Dad have been overdoing the celebrations.”

Bartram didn’t respond, seemed to be lost in thought.

“I’d be happy to skip it,” Morelius said. “It feels pointless sometimes.”

“ ‘Our Lord, how long must I beg for your help before you listen? How long before you save us from all this violence?”’ Bartram said.

“That sounds like a quotation.”

“It’s from the Bible.”

“You don’t say.”

“Don’t ask me which part. It’s the sort of thing that sticks in the memory but you don’t know why. Useless knowledge.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

Winter met the caretaker in the latter’s cramped office. He’d considered summoning him to the station for questioning, but decided to take the softly, softly approach. The man had given the impression of being nervous from the start, and that could be disastrous for his memory.

The office smelled of tools and tobacco. Shabby files were stacked on a desk that also seemed to serve as a chopping block. There was nothing of the century-old elegance of the rest of the building down here.

The man looked down at his desk as if he were searching for something.

It occurred to Winter that this might be the caretaker of his own building as well. He asked.

“What’s the address?”

Winter told him.

“Yep, that’s me. That’s part of my job as well. I look after three buildings in all, from here down to Storgatan.”

“You do?”

“Yep.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply “That’s what they’ve saddled me with this last year.” He looked at Winter and tapped ash into an old soda bottle that was half full of cigarette butts and dark brown tobacco juice. “Nowadays you have to be thankful that you’ve got a job.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.”

“Too much.”

“Still, I’m glad that you discovered that there was something wrong in that apartment.”

“In the end, yes.”

“You didn’t speak to anybody else about it?”

“What do you mean, anybody else?”

‘Anybody else who also thought the same thing.“

“No.”

All right, Winter thought. We’ll leave it at that for now. He might get wary on his guard for anything and everything.

The man flicked off more ash, half of which missed the neck of the bottle. A fire risk? Winter thought. There again, the caretaker was sitting in his own basement room. His own office. If this could be called an office.

“Do you have an office in my building as well?”

“Of course. There are three, from here down to the crossroads.” He inhaled again, and squinted through the smoke hanging in a cloud around him. “The second crossroads, that is.”

“Of course.” Winter could feel the irritation in his throat. No point in a discreet cough here. The old bastard lit another cigarette. Winter coughed even so. “Er… the Valkers… how often do you think you met them?”

The caretaker didn’t remove the cigarette from his mouth. He wiped his hands along his trousers to get rid of the oil on them. He examined his palms, which had been clean at the start. Then he turned to Winter, with a new furrow between his eyebrows.

“Not very often, I must say.”

“Were you working here when they moved in?”

“I’ve always worked here,” he said, and succumbed to a combined cough and laugh that turned into a nasty smoker’s hack and reminded Winter of the man at the next table when he’d breakfasted at Gaspar’s in Marbella.

The caretaker finished coughing and dropped the cigarette end into the bottle, where it hissed away and went out. He lit another one, and waited for the next question.

“But you did meet the Valkers sometimes?” We’ll take them separately later, Winter thought.

“I don’t know about meet, but I’ve come across them, obviously. I’ve never been in their apartment, though.”

“Never?”

“I suppose he managed to change washers himself.” The man took another drag on his cigarette, flicked ash in the direction of the bottle. “It’s the same with you. I look after the building you live in but I’ve never spoken to you. I’ve seen you, but that’s not the same thing.” He looked up at the ceiling and then back at Winter. “On the other hand, I’ve only been in charge of your building for the last few months.”