Winter repeated his question yet again, but didn’t get an answer. In the end she said that a mother knows things like that.

Winter continued questioning her about Louise’s life. He received vague answers regarding her boyfriends, evasive answers, just as when he’d asked about her friends, and best friend.

He stayed for an hour. When he returned to his car he switched on his mobile phone and found that he had several messages. The first was from Ringmar. The boy had been trying to contact him, Patrik. He didn’t want to say what it was about. Ringmar had the kid’s phone number, in case Winter didn’t have it handy. Ringmar didn’t know if he’d been phoning from home, as he’d hung up so abruptly.

Winter rang Ringmar, but there was no reply. In the bathroom, perhaps. Winter found the road home not too bad. It was still snowing, but more gently now. Traffic was moving faster than it had been when he’d driven south earlier. It was starting to get dark. The day was giving up the ghost, and he sympathized.

The piled-up snow at the side of the road was sometimes high, but in places the wind had blown it into the fields. It was like a wall, a hundred yards long. The Wall. Wall. His mind was wandering as he drove back toward the metropolis. Wall. He’d thought about it briefly, for the first time in days, while in the dark house at Kungsbacka. Wall. Vall. Vallgatan. Desdemona wasn’t in Vallgatan, but it wasn’t far away. Those middle-aged men dressed in black, among all those piles of CDs and all those computers, posters. Wasn’t there a shop selling CDs in Vallgatan? Had it closed down? There was nothing in the case notes about a record shop in Vallgatan. It must have closed down. He remembered passing by a shop selling music in Vallgatan, years ago. He thought of Patrik, and his friend who’d had the Sacrament CD. Where had he bought it? Didn’t he say Haga? But that wasn’t certain. Had Winter been too excited to ask the right questions? Did he have any more questions?

He came to the industrial district and turned off toward the docks. He phoned Ringmar and was given Patrik’s address.

“Is he going to call back?”

“He didn’t say.”

“What did he sound like?”

“Hard to say. It was so funn-”

“Did he sound upset? Scared? Calm?”

“A bit… upset. Maybe.”

“Surely he could have told you what it was about.”

“Don’t think I didn’t try.”

“This isn’t my personal case.”

“The kid didn’t say anything. He hung up the moment I said you were out. He didn’t ask for your mobile number, and I didn’t have a chance to say anything else before he slammed the receiver down.”

“All right, all right.”

“What are you going to do now? Call in on him?”

“I’m already on my way. I’m at Linnéplatsen now.”

Ringmar mumbled a good-bye and Winter continued driving northward. Ringmar was the last person he wanted to fall out with. It was Winter’s own fault if Patrik was not keen to talk to anybody else. He must have given off the wrong signals, given the impression that this was Winter’s case and nobody else’s… that it was essential for him, Winter, to be the one contacted first. This sort of thing could cause problems, delays.

He parked illegally on the other side of the road and walked up the three flights of stairs. There was an aroma of cooking. The walls were painted, but a long time ago. Somebody somewhere was playing music, and the bass echoed around the stairwell. There was a bicycle on the second floor, and a plastic shopping bag full of empty bottles outside one of the doors on the third. Winter rang the bell, but could hear nothing from inside. He rang again. Still no response. He knocked on the door several times. There was a scraping noise from inside. Somebody opened the door slightly. The man was between fifty and sixty and looked like an alcoholic. Winter could smell the telltale old wine plus some more recent fuel. The man was drunk, possibly dead drunk.

“Who ish it?” A woman’s voice could be heard from inside the apartment. “Ish it Perrer?” The voice was slurred. “Ish it the quack?”

“Who are you?” the man snarled. “Wodduyawant?”

“I’m looking for Patrik,” Winter said.

“What the fu-Wotsie done?” the man asked, glaring at Winter and his ID.

“He’s been trying to get in touch with us,” said Winter.

“He‘sh not well,” the man said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“He‘sh got nothing to shay,” the man said.

“Is Patrik at home?” Winter said, raising his voice. He could see the woman now, in the hall. As she staggered toward the door, he could see the fear in her eyes, perhaps something else.

“He‘sh got nothing to shay,” said the man again. Winter decided to act, entered the apartment, pushed the man out of his way and against the wall, and continued into the hall.

41

Patrik’s father collapsed in a heap behind Winter, and the woman had fallen into a doorway on the left. Winter went quickly through the long, narrow apartment. He could find no sign of the boy, so went back into the hall and looked down at the man, who didn’t raise his head.

“Where’s Patrik?” Winter asked. “Where’s the boy?”

“Eesh… out.” Saliva was hanging from the side of his mouth. He seemed to be more drunk than ever and on the verge of passing out. “Eesh out.” He waved his hand in the direction of the door.

“What’s the matter with him? Is he injured?” Winter took hold of his arm, but could feel only bone under the coarse shirt. “What have you done to him, you bastard?” Winter squeezed harder, had the feeling he was in danger of losing control. He let go of the arm, sank down on one knee, and tried to make eye contact with Patrik’s father, but it was no longer possible.

The woman had reappeared, leaning against the wall, gaping at the intruder.

Winter stood up.

“When did Patrik leave here?”

She shook her head, refused to answer such an obnoxious jerk who had broken into their lovely apartment. People couldn’t just burst into…

“I’ll be back,” Winter said, dashing down the stairs and into the street, at the same time dialing on his mobile phone the number he’d looked up in his address book.

“Is that Hanne? Erik Winter here. Have you seen Patrik? In the last couple of hours or so?”

“No. I can ask Maria. She’s just come home.”

“I’ll wait.”

He could hear the conversation in the background. Hanne returned to the phone.

“No,” she said. “She was out with another friend. But they’re supposed to meet tomorrow afternoon.” There was a pause. “Here, I hope.”

“Can I have a word with her?” Winter said, and waited until Hanne had handed over the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Maria. This is Erik Winter, from the police.”

But she didn’t know what Patrik had wanted to say, didn’t know where he was at the moment. He might be at Java or one of the other cafés in Vasagatan. Or round at Jimmo’s. She had Jimmo’s number. Yes, she’d tell him to get in touch with Winter the moment she heard from him. And a happy New Year to you as well.

Winter ended the call and tried the number he’d been given, but there was no reply.

He drove home, parked in the garage, and went to Java. All the tables were occupied, but none by Patrik. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke. There was a strong smell of coffee and hot chocolate, damp clothes, and perhaps perfume. The average age was eighteen at most. There were handbags or shoulder bags on every table. Young men even carry handbags nowadays, Winter thought. Practical, no doubt, but not for him. He’d suggest to Halders that he should get one.

He walked among the tables and felt like an alien.

It was similar in some of the other places along the street, and still no sign of Patrik.

He would call again but Winter was worried, and it was not primarily because of the investigation. He tried Patrik’s home number one last time, but nobody answered. The boy would phone again.