It was nearly dark now, and a car came down the Allé, followed by another. One was a taxi and the other jumped a red light. His head felt wet, even through his hood. It was more rain now than snow.

He walked down the Allé as far as the Avenue, which was deserted and quiet. Another taxi drove past, and he saw a police car turn around at Götaplatsen and head back toward him. He crossed over the Avenue when the police car had gone past, and he thought about that again. There’d been a flash, as if from a reflector or something of the sort.

There were two police officers in the car. It continued in the direction of Kopparmärra. A number-five tram was approaching, and he noticed that he was more or less at the Valand stop. When the tram came to a halt he got on. He’d meant to pay, but the inspectors weren’t going to ruin their Christmas celebrations by chasing fare dodgers on Christmas Eve.

He got off at Saint Sigfrids Plan and before he knew where he was, he found himself standing outside Maria’s house. Light shone from most windows, but he couldn’t see anybody inside. Then he saw Maria’s mom walking from one room to another with something in her hands. Now he could see an old lady: that must be Maria’s grandma.

Lights were on in all the houses but one. Either they were away, or they were in bed, snoring, he thought. Quite a few were in bed snoring tonight, but that was okay. He hadn’t given his father his Christmas present yet, but it didn’t have to be today, did it? Christmas would carry on for ages yet.

Once again his legs started moving without his being in control. He found himself standing on the steps leading up to her front door, and he had to hold himself back from going closer still and ringing the bell. He turned away, then back again. Then he turned away once more and started to walk off.

“Patrik.”

He turned back yet again. Hanne was standing in the doorway.

“Why don’t you come in, Patrik?”

“Nooo… I’d better be off…”

He set off down the steps with the open door behind him, and then he noticed Maria standing there.

“Come on in, Patrik.” She came up and almost touched him. “Have you eaten?”

“Er… yes, of course.”

“Do you think you could force down a bit more? We haven’t started our Christmas dinner yet.”

“Er… I mean, it’s your…”

“Don’t be silly! Come on in now, the cold wind’s blowing into the house.”

Bartram was driving, for a change.

“Rain, for once,” Ivarsson said.

“The farmers could do with a bit,” said Bartram, turning off when he came to Götaplatsen.

“We used to block off this square in the evenings,” Ivarsson said.

“Block it off?”

“It’s not all that long since the public order police used to come here every evening and block off the whole of Götaplatsen with chains, and then we’d open it up again the next morning. Weren’t you here then?”

“No, I was working somewhere else.”

“I see.”

“Why did you block it off?”

“Teenage hell-raisers in their cars.”

“Eh?”

“The hell-raisers. The bosses didn’t want them congregating here every night.”

They were heading northward, toward Kopparmärra.

“Look at that poor bastard. Left to his own devices on Christmas Eve,” Ivarsson said, pointing at the boy plodding along the Avenue, his woollen hat clamped down on his head as he leaned forward into the driving rain.

“Yes.”

“Or maybe he’s on his way from one party to another.”

“Could be.”

“Just like we are.”

“It’s pretty quiet so far.”

“The partying hasn’t really gotten under way yet,” said Ivarsson.

“And when it does, we’ll turn up and gate-crash.”

“Is that how you see it? That we gate-crash?”

“I’m only making conversation.”

“I suppose we have to do that when we’re going around and around here on Christmas Eve.” Ivarsson looked at Bartram. “Back home they’re all celebrating Christmas, but not us. Sad.”

“We’ll have to make up for that later.”

“You can say that again.”

Kungsbacka looked as if a neutron bomb had hit it. The buildings were still there, and the streets, but there was no sign of any people. Morelius drove through the town before it was dark enough to be able to see if the windows were lit up.

“Couldn’t you have come yesterday?” was the first thing his mother said to him.

“You know what it’s like. Work.”

“Haven’t you nailed whoever it was that did such awful things to Louise who came from here?” asked his mother. He hadn’t even taken his overcoat off.

“No. Not yet.”

“She came from here, though, poor thing.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps he’s from here as well. The one who did it.” She went to the kitchen, and he followed her. The ham was on the work surface, and there was a smell of anchovies and spices. The lutefisk was still soaking in an enormous cauldron. “Have they thought of that possibility?” She opened the oven door to check what was inside. Ah! Jansson’s Temptation-the traditional sliced herring, potatoes, and onion, baked in cream. Best of all, the anchovy topping. “They must have thought of that,” she said, addressing the Jansson’s.

“When are we due to eat?” he asked.

“In an hour or so. It sounds as if you can’t wait.”

“I was just wondering if I could do anything to help.”

“Nothing, thanks.”

“I’ll go for a little walk, then.”

“Now?”

“I think I need some fresh air before we start eating. There wasn’t any in the car.”

He went out, but after a hundred yards turned off in the other direction and was soon standing outside the school, which was the same color as it used to be.

They used to go through the pedestrian underpass that was still there, but the graffiti at the entrance was different now. From where he was standing, the tunnel was just a black hole.

Run. They’d sometimes run. The shouts and laughter had been magnified by a thousand decibels inside the tunnel, bounced around from wall to rock wall.

“Did you see any people out there?” she asked when he got back.

“Just one,” he said.

39

Sture Birgersson had returned from his excursion into the blue. It was Boxing Day. Birgersson was not tanned, but, then, he never was when he came back from his mysterious holidays.

Maybe he stays in Gothenburg, thought Winter, who was sitting opposite the head of the crime unit.

Birgersson squinted at his second in command through a thick cloud of smoke.

“Did you have a good Christmas?”

“Excellent.”

“Mind you, it’s not over yet. Technically speaking.” Birgersson flicked ash into the ashtray, cleared his throat tentatively, and held up some documents.

“Interesting.”

“What’s that?” Winter asked, lighting a Corps. He didn’t like cigarette smoke, never had.

Birgersson put the papers back on the desk.

“Lots of possible leads shooting off in all directions. But interesting.” He was holding one of the papers in his hand now, a transcript of a tape recording. “I liked your chat with Lareda. Smart girl.” Birgersson used the ashtray again. “Perhaps a bit too smart.”

“What do you mean by that, Sture?” Winter drew at his cigarillo and looked hard at him. “She came up with ideas, hypotheses. We’re the ones who make the judgments.”

“Have you made any, then?” Birgersson waved the documents. “On the basis of this stuff?”

“Not yet. There’s a lot to take in.”

“Like I said, lots of possible leads shooting off in all directions. That business of uniforms, for instance. That sounds interesting, but we’ll have to be careful, I suppose.” Birgersson stubbed out his cigarette and eyed Winter’s cigarillo. “Is there any risk that somebody might leak stuff to the press, do you think?”

“Who would do that, Sture?”