Beier phoned.

“They match,” he said. “They’ve been in the apartment.”

“What about the Martells?”

“Nothing there.”

Winter winked at Halders and replaced the receiver.

“Did you take the bet?”

“We’ll bring them in again,” Winter said.

“Blood tests,” Halders said. “Don’t forget the sperm stains.”

“We can’t do that yet.”

“Are you sure?”

Winter was sure. The prosecutor would never agree to blood tests. That needed convincingly specific evidence, and all they had was a couple of witnesses, sort of witnesses.

“Copulating witnesses,” Halders said. “Two-backed monsters.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Fredrik. Maybe they only had coffee.”

It was the last time. She’d spent more time on him than he was worth. That’s the way he saw it.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said.

“No problem.”

“We had to take a drunk to the cells.”

“Was it difficult?”

“He fell asleep in the car.” He sat down. “We knew him, incidentally. Indirectly, at least.”

“Meaning what?”

“It was Patrik Strömblad’s father. I’ve come across Patrik once or twice and it was-”

“Don’t remind me,” Hanne said.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Morelius said.

He didn’t need to remind her. Maria seemed to be a changed character now, but the memory was crystal-clear and so were the after-effects. The investigation by the Social Services. “Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.”

They left the subject of Patrik and his father and spoke about Morelius himself.

He told her about his visions again.

“I can’t stop thinking back to that… accident,” he said.

Hanne nodded. Morelius looked down at the table. He wasn’t looking at her now, he was avoiding her eyes.

“She’s haunting me. That poor-”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said she was haunting you.”

“Did I?” He looked out the window. “Sometimes I don’t know what I’m saying. I mean that the experience I went through that day is haunting me, and maybe not only that. Other things that have happened.”

Later he said that he felt there was no point in continuing as a police officer.

The caretaker sat in his usual office, waiting for Winter.

“Newspapers? Magazines? I don’t have anything to do with newspapers and magazines.”

“You mean people take them to the trash room themselves?”

“Always.”

“Okay”

“I want to make a little report, incidentally.”

“Go on.”

“Somebody keeps getting into my little… cubbyhole in your building, and he sits there eating or drinking soda.”

“Your cubbyhole? You mean your office down in the basement?”

“Somebody keeps getting in there.”

“Breaking in?”

“It’s happened several times lately, in fact. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Is the door damaged?”

“No. It must be somebody with a key. Unless he picks the lock.”

“Has anything been stolen?”

“Not as far as I can see.” The man seemed to be keen that Winter didn’t downplay the crime. “It’s not very nice, is it? You can’t go around doing things like that, can you?”

“No. You should make an official complaint.”

“I’m doing that now.”

“Okay. But you should contact the police station in Chalmersgatan as well, so that the formalities can be completed.”

Winter said good-night and walked the few yards home. He took a deep breath. January would soon give way to February, and there’d be a whiff of something else in the air.

They’ll be well on the way to spring already in London, he thought. A few years ago he’d worked on a distressing case there. He didn’t want to think about it now. Instead he thought about the fact that the old guy hadn’t smoked a single cigarette while Winter was with him.

His mother shouted something from the kitchen as he entered the hall.

“Angela’s gone out to buy some bread,” she said when he came into the kitchen.

Winter went to meet Angela when she came back.

“There’s been another phone call,” she said.

“What do you mean? Who called?”

“Whoever it is that rings and breathes and doesn’t put the phone down again.”

“Shit!”

“What should we do?”

“It’s probably best to get a new number. Unlisted.”

“Good.”

“I’ve thought about doing that before.”

“Just do it now.”

That should put a stop to it, at least. But what’s going on? Should I speak to Birgersson and ask for an official bug? For what? It’s part of the investigation, Sture. He suddenly thought of what Lareda Veitz had said. He saw Angela’s profile in the door. Convex. He thought about the cellar.

He checked his notebook and rang the number of the office he’d just left. The old man was still there.

“You said that somebody had been in your office, drinking soda.”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“The bottle was still there. It’s happened several times. Several bottles.”

“Have you kept them?”

“Kept and kept. I’ve put three to one side. I was going to take them away tomorrow.”

46

Winter put on his gloves and took the elevator down. It was the first time he’d collected proof material in his own building. The world was getting closer.

He had to wait a few minutes until the man arrived.

“I didn’t realize it was so important,” he said. “Good thing I mentioned it.”

He unlocked the door.

“Look. No scrape marks around the lock as far as I can see.”

Winter agreed.

“This is a rapid response by the police, I must say.” He opened the door. “You evidently take everything seriously.”

“Yes,” Winter said. No, he thought. This was a response he didn’t really understand himself. Angela’s worries. Some silent telepl one calls. Somebody who shouldn’t be there sitting in the cubbyhole drinking soda. A case for Detective Chief Inspector Winter.

They were Zingo bottles.

“I’ll take them,” said Winter, picking up all three in his gloved left hand.

“I can see you’ve worked as a waiter,” the caretaker said.

Bergenhem regained consciousness and looked around the room. If this was paradise, it looked remarkably like the world he’d just left.

He could focus his gaze. There wasn’t the same burning sensation in his head. Martina’s face was distinct, close. She said something, but he couldn’t hear what. He tried to sit up. She said it again.

“Lie still, Lars. You have to be careful.”

Somebody in white was hovering behind her. It could be an angel, and in a way that’s what it was. He recognized her face first, then her voice.

“I just called in on my way past,” Angela said.

Same here, he thought.

“You look better.”

I have nothing to compare with, he thought.

“Where am I?”

“In a ward at the Sahlgren Hospital.”

Now I remember. Now I can ask the big question.

“Has the tumor gone?”

“The tumor?”

“The brain tumor. Did you take it out?”

Perhaps he detected a little smile in the midst of all the solemnity. She turned to another angel in white, who seemed to nod.

“We suspected encephalitis at first, but it turned out to be the nasti est attack of migraine imaginable.”

“Migraine? But I’ve never suffered from migraine.”

Beier had the bottles. I didn’t know they still sold Zingo, he’d said. Is this another message for us, do you think? he’d asked. Winter had waved a hand dismissively: end of messages.

He listened to Sacrament again and read the text. The singer was wading through blood in Lower Manhatten, but managed to get away and head for the outer Cosmos. Winter had listened to it so many times by now that he could make out more and more words without the crib sheet. Or perhaps he was just imagining that.