“The press would love it,” Birgersson said, without answering Winter’s question. “Love it.” He looked at the papers spread out on his desk. Birgersson’s desk was usually empty. It was a peculiarity of his, possibly something more serious than that. He would read things by the window, on a chair, keep everything away from his desk. But not now. Maybe something had happened while he was out in the blue, Winter thought. Birgersson looked up. “Just as much as some people evidently love this so-called music. That’s just as odd.” He seemed to be smiling. “They’re similar to each other in that respect. The press and the death rockers.”

“Is that what you call them, death rockers?”

“Or black rockers or whatever their goddamn name is. I know it’s really called black metal, but here, in front of you, I’ll call it what the hell I like.” He stroked his chin, then rummaged among the papers again. “I was a bit curious about this prophet, Habakkuk. Have you got anything more about him that isn’t in this paper?”

“Not really. What it says there is taken from a biblical encyclopedia.”

“The thing that seems to be the biggest distinguishing feature of this prophet is that there was evidently nothing of interest about him as a person,” Birgersson said.

“Yes. He was apparently very reticent about his private life,” Winter said.

“That’s a good quality,” said Birgersson. “We know next to nothing about Habby and even less about his daughter.” Birgersson looked at Winter. “Did he have a daughter?”

“I’ve just sent Halders back to the seventh century B.C. to investigate that very thing.”

“Excellent. Halders needs to get out more.” Birgersson looked at the document again, and read an extract out loud. “‘So, Habakkuk was a professional prophet at the temple in Jerusalem, he was a Levite, and an angel took him by the hair and flew with him to Daniel in the lion’s den with some food.’ ” He looked up again. “The information has no historical value.”

“That’s where Halders comes in.”

“On second thought, I don’t think the seventh century B.C. is up to coping with Halders,” Birgersson said. “He could cause a lot of trouble.” Birgersson gave a short, hoarse laugh. “Perhaps we wouldn’t be sitting here now if Halders had been on the loose twenty-six hundred years ago.” He put down the paper and turned to Winter again. “That reminds me of another thing, in parentheses, as it were, before we go on.” Birgersson stood up and seemed to be stretching his long legs. He towered over Winter, shutting out the Boxing Day light. He was a gigantic, shadowy figure and Winter could imagine his body in a long silken robe, with long hair and a beard, brandishing newly written documents on parchment rolls. Or stone tablets. Habakkuk had received a message from the good Lord: “‘Then the Lord told me: I will give you my message in the form of a vision. Write it on tablets clearly enough to be read at a glance.’”

The Book of Habakkuk. Winter thought about Ringmar and what he’d said about the word “rubric.” It was all connected.

Evil will be conquered in the end, even if it always seems to win, was what the prophet meant. The story always had a meaning for those with eyes to see and the ability to put it into the perspective of their faith.

Habakkuk could mean “dwarf.”

Birgersson said something.

“I beg your pardon?”

“There’ll be nine of us on duty in the control room on New Year’s Eve and I’ll be one of them. I’ve known that for some time, but it won’t have any effect on your work.”

“No.”

“I admit that I did think about sending you, for a moment.” Birgersson had sat down again, and the robe, shoulder-length hair, and beard down to his chest had disappeared. “To make it clear that you are as important as I am. An equal deputy. But I don’t think it would have been a good idea, with this case on the go.”

“Things shooting off in all possible directions, is that what you mean?”

“You think well when you’re at home, Erik. I’ve no doubt you’ll be doing that while Gothenburg celebrates the party of the century.”

“Of the millennium.”

“Yes. I can hardly wait to celebrate it along with the chief constable of the province, that very dear lady.”

“You won’t be on your own,” Winter said. He could see them now in his mind’s eye, the nine senior officers from the various units with the task of supporting the communications HQ on this exceptional night that was drawing ever closer. It was a sacrifice by those in high places, proof that the top brass put duty before partying.

“It’ll be interesting,” said Birgersson. “I’ll be able to say afterward that I was there.”

“I’ll think about you when midnight comes,” said Winter. “I hope all the electronics can cope.”

“That’s why we’ll be there.”

Winter laughed.

“What will you be doing at the magical moment? Any special plans?”

“Yes… we’ll be eating at home. My mother’s visiting us. Angela and Mom and me. Nice and quiet.”

“I suppose a bit of peace and quiet is what’s called for, in view of the coming addition to the family. And all’s well with Angela?”

“She’s working away and getting more annoyed about the goings on in the hospital than ever. So, yes, all is well.”

“Anyway. Now you know where to find me when the carnival explodes in a riotous crescendo.”

“Let’s hope that everybody can handle their jubilation,” Winter said.

“To be honest, I think it’s going to be a hard night for the boys on the ground,” said Birgersson.

“There are quite a few gals in the cars as well,” Winter said. ‘And in the street patrols.“

“Yes, yes, but you know what I mean.” Birgersson lit his second cigarette since Winter had come to his office. Winter was reminded of the chain-smoking caretaker. Perhaps Birgersson was cutting down? He looked up: “We’ve said it a thousand times before, but it’s still true that what holds us back in this job is a lack of imagination. But, in a way, the reverse is true with regard to this case. Are you with me? There’s so much imagination floating around that we have to make an effort to keep it in check. The material is somehow… so comprehensive. All these trails that could be leading us in the same direction but don’t necessarily do so.” Birgersson’s face suddenly looked heavier, older. “This is an imaginative sonofabitch we’re dealing with here. The bastard. He’s building up a façade that takes up more space than the deed itself. Are you with me?”

“I’m with you. It sounds interesting.” It was interesting. This was Sture Birgersson the detective speaking.

“Just for a second you think it hasn’t happened. That feeling. You have to go back to an earlier feeling in order to proceed. Try to think under and over these tracks. Messages.”

“I’m with you.”

“Do you think he’s making fun of us, Erik? In the sense that all those messages are really fakes?”

“Fakes?”

“That they are fantasies and nothing to do with the deed. Something that happened afterward… consciously. Intentional misinformation.”

“No.”

“Nor do I really. But what we’ve got is not enough.” Birgersson looked down at the pile of papers again. “There are marks and stains and fingerprints but nothing to compare them with. Beier’s team found some sperm stains, but that’s not enough.”

“I’m afraid I can’t present you with a suspect yet.”

“I’d be happy with somebody to interrogate.”

“Not even that.”

“Perhaps AFIS could be of help,” Birgersson said.

Yes. That had helped in the past. The automated fingerprint identification systems contained the prints of everybody who had been arrested for any crime or misdemeanor, so they could insert the prints they had and see if there were matches. The case could be solved.

“What does the team say?” asked Birgersson. “Is anybody complaining about how long it’s taking you to get anywhere?”

“Not that I know of.”