“So long,” Winter said and started walking away, but after a few feet he looked around and smiled, as if at the hustle and bustle all around him, and something jogged in Patrik’s memory. He caught sight of the dark gray trousers that Winter had on under his overcoat. They could be… could be the same kind of trousers that… that he’d seen when he was on the stairs and he came down in the elevator and went out through the front door. Was that it? Was it the trousers he’d been searching for in his memory bank, as the detective had called it?

Maria said something, but he wasn’t listening.

He was standing on the stairs now. He’d seen half the man’s face, or a bit less, and the overcoat rode up and there was something about the trousers. And there was something else as well, higher up. Something higher than the trousers that sort of gleamed. There was a gleam on the trousers as well, like reflector tape. It could be reflector tape, or just a reflection of the light. And he had a sort of belt over his chest, diagonally.

Patrik could still see the detective, but only the head now, bobbing up and down a bit higher than most of the others.

The man who’d left the apartment building had been wearing a uniform or something of the sort underneath an ordinary overcoat. Patrik turned to Maria, who said something again.

“What?” he said.

‘Are you asleep or something?“

“Let’s move on,” Patrik said.

Bartram went home with two videotapes. It was starting to snow again, but the sun was still shining. Perhaps it was so localized that it was only snowing on him and this part of the street. He hadn’t gotten to know it yet. At first it had just seemed long, but now it was divided up by recognizable things. The advertising agency that was unable to do much in the way of advertising even for themselves, judging by their own display card.

The playground.

Ladies’ clothing-or was it just hats?

The buildings that changed color block after block, but didn’t have much color left after all the rain and wind and sun. It was very windy here. Perhaps that had to do with the hill. The wind came from below, was stopped by the hill and sent back to create a circle of wind. When it was at its worst it became a vicious circle.

Now the snow had stopped, as if he’d walked right through it. Just as the wind could turn back when it hit the hill, the haze of the sun had come back and grown stronger.

He was inside now. There was a faint smell of hyacinths. That’s what Christmas ought to smell like. He’d bought ready-made meatballs, and they might add to the Christmassy aroma. He had a bottle of spiced wine to mull, a new brand. That didn’t really matter. He didn’t have a Christmas ham, and had hardly given it a thought.

He put the videos on the chair in the hall. The crispbread was still out in the kitchen. He’d forgotten to put the tub of margarine back into the fridge, and it had acquired various yellow streaks that reminded him of piss. Piss. The tub was more than three-quarters full. He held it at arm’s length and threw it into the sink. Right on target at the first attempt. He raised his fist and lapped up the applause. Anybody who is bang on target raises his fist. As far as he could see, he was the only one doing so.

That night he held Angela in his arms. She moved slowly in time with his movements, her back toward him. His body was a part of her. After a few minutes he abandoned his caution. He lifted her up and it was as if she were floating on air. She shouted something in a different voice, but he didn’t hear as he was on his way to the same powerful feeling as she was, simultaneously. It was filled with light.

Afterward, as they listened to her CD, the boatman calls from the lake, a lone loon dives upon the water, and they were lying still and silent, he thought about a name for their child, but didn’t dare to be too bold. Angela had also grown more careful.

It was to do with the fact that the time was coming. January, February, March, April. Perhaps before then. Less than three months, perhaps. Had he really grasped that? Had he, hell! Had she? Of course not. Who could?

There will always be suffering, it flows through life like water. It was dark, self-evident music, beautiful, suitable for bright afternoon light, but here, on the way into the small hours, it was floating on air, just as they had floated into each other a few minutes before.

Ringmar had said that there’s an Arab proverb: “You’re not a man until you’ve written a book, planted a tree, and fathered a child.”

He’s done the biggest of those. Almost there now. Angela hadn’t said anything more about houses, but he knew. A plot with a hole he’d dug, a tree, a hundred trees.

He could write a book, or think one, keep it in a drawer within a drawer, pages full of thoughts. Was his life over already? In that sense? Retirement after working for thirty years and then the quiet life that always followed. Had he ever set foot in life?

Or did he have anything else in him? Good Lord! Imagine writing a book that wasn’t a handbook on interrogation techniques or about the significance of intuition in criminal investigations.

To write well you needed to think well, it seemed to him. Did he think well? He’d always had faith in himself in that respect, relied on his thoughts sooner or later moving things forward. Now he knew. So much was happening in his life this winter, and had happened that autumn. Who he was, who he was becoming. His father, and the baby, everything part of an enormous progression that was bigger than anything else he could conceive of.

His wavering concentration on the case, on the murders. Yes. Wavering concentration. He had to admit that to himself. He was still being professional, but his mind could wander off in the wrong direction. That hadn’t happened before, not like this. It had wandered off in various directions, but never very far. Was something happening to him? Was it only the child, and his father’s death?… and Angela, their new, more serious relationship?

“I can hear that you’re thinking,” she said, making the effort to turn and face him. “I hope it’s about us.”

“Yes.”

“I hope you’re not bringing your work to bed with you.”

“Not in that way”

“Meaning what?”

“I don’t know. I feel as if it’s becoming… becoming more difficult to keep my eyes fixed on what I’m doing. This case. I don’t know…” He kissed her.

Maybe he knew what it was. He’d barely had the courage to allow the thought to enter his head. Maybe he was afraid. Afraid for them. There was something making him afraid.

She sat up and was about to get out of bed and go to the bathroom. He felt thirsty, and at that very moment she asked him if he wanted something to drink.

“Yes.”

“Wine for you.”

“Sounds like an excellent idea.” He reached out for her before she’d had time to leave the bed.

“Angela.”

“Yes?”

“Have you had any more silent calls?”

“Wrong numbers, you mean? Isn’t that what you called them?”

“Have there been any more?”

She could see from his face that he was serious. Why was he reminding her? Was he afraid, in spite of everything?

She had moved on. She wasn’t scared now. They weren’t scared. It was one time then, another time now. Everything was bright and she’d been feeling optimistic at last, happy. That damn business of the letter was a misunderstanding. No more misunderstandings.

“No,” she lied.

The flight from Málaga landed in the Nordic twilight. Winter saw it touch down as he pulled into the little parking area to the east of the international terminal.

His mother was one of the first out through customs. She hugged him tight. She smelled of sand and a different kind of sun. No gin. Her trolley was fully loaded, in danger of tipping over from the weight.