“I don’t like that expression,” said Beier. “You’re either dead or you’re alive. There’s nothing in between.”

“Have you seen her?” asked Ringmar.

“No.”

Ringmar said nothing, and it was an eloquent silence.

Winter broke it.

“The Elfvegrens are coming in again tomorrow.”

Winter dialed Patrik’s home number. The boy’s father answered, as if he’d been standing next to the telephone. Winter said who he was.

He had consulted the social services: the family was notorious, but there was no history of abuse.

Winter had been thinking about Patrik. It was his duty to report a suspected case of ill treatment. It was his duty, his obligation. Nevertheless he had hesitated, spoken to the authorities. But now he had filed the report. He didn’t say anything to the man.

“I’m looking for Patrik.”

“Can’t you leave us alone?”

“Is Patrik at home?”

“You’re the second damn cop who’s phoned today and asked for him.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The third, in fact.”

The murder investigation, Winter thought. But three cops?

“Who were they?”

“Can’t remember.”

“Did Patrik speak to them?”

“He’s not at home.”

“Can I speak to him now?”

“He’s not at home, I keep fucking telling you.”

The weather was fine again when they drove to Landvetter. There was not much traffic about as early as this in the afternoon.

“Blue skies both here and there,” his mother said. She turned to look at her son. “I’ll come back when the baby’s arrived.”

They drove around the terminal and parked in his usual place. He got a cart and they went into the departure lounge.

“There doesn’t seem to be any delay,” his mother said, then burst into tears.

He gave her a hug.

“This is the first time… the first time I’ve flown down there on my own,” she said in a faint voice. She looked up at him. “I know you want me to stay here, but I need to go. Can you understand that?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“I mean, that’s where… where your father is.”

Winter could visualize the grave, the grove, the mountain, the hill, the sea, the soil.

“He’s there and he’s also… here.”

“Of course he is, Erik.”

Let’s not go into it now, he thought, but he is here. Perhaps it’s easier this way.

She waved from the escalator up to customs and the departure gates. She was late.

He waited by the car until the plane rose like a heavy migrating bird of silver. It was sucked into the blue five thousand feet up.

FEBRUARY

47

There were fingerprints on the Zingo bottles, but far too many.

“Give me something to compare them with,” Beier had said.

“I can’t very well compare them with everybody‘s,” Winter replied.

“Half Gothenburg has held these bottles.” Beier looked at Winter, who seemed to be scrutinizing him. “Are they so important?”

Winter didn’t reply.

He drove to Häradsgatan and parked in roughly the same place as before. The wind was stronger now, and had brought clouds with it. Sleet was falling. It was afternoon again.

The clouds were scudding swiftly over the sky when he looked up at the windows of the Martells’ apartment on the sixth floor. He walked around to the entrance with its glossy tiles. A notice on a door to the right announced that a representative of the property owners would be available to tenants in this office between five-thirty and seven-thirty on the first Monday of every month. That’s this evening, he thought. They had spoken to the caretaker, but had failed to get any new information out of him.

So, somebody wearing a police uniform had passed by here in the early hours of New Year’s Day. Nobody had seen a police car. But a uniform had been seen. The witnesses all agreed: a police uniform. That had been after the murder, or murders, if Siv Martell didn’t survive. What lay in store for her if she did? Winter wondered. Not an enviable life, he supposed.

He walked back to the street and continued for a few yards as far as the crossroads. A woman was maneuvering a stroller into the Cityfast supermarket. Winter approached the shop. It looked run-down in the late winter light. There were streaks of rust in joints and around pipes, and in cracks in the paint. Winter went in. The shelves were half-empty. The only customers were Winter and the woman, who was already waiting at the checkout. At the back of the barren shop was a meat counter, the blue light around it highlighting two faded and soiled posters showing butchered cuts.

He went out again. An advertising poster had blown out of its frame and was fluttering toward the crossroads. It flew over the lawn on the other side and was stopped by the Martells’ seven-story apartment building, pressed against the wall level with the windows on the second floor.

The woman with the stroller followed him out. She turned left past a pizzeria and a baker’s shop, both of which had closed down. Chairs piled one on top of the other could be seen through the pizzeria’s windows. She continued up a hill. Winter could see the church tower. He went down the steps in the opposite direction. The buildings were in a hollow and the clifflike hillside blocked the view. Nobody was coming or going now. Cars were swishing past on the main road ahead. He walked as far as the shop called Krokens Livs, where he’d bought a packet of Fisherman’s Friends last time. Two posters advertising films were fluttering in the wind, like the last time. They were the same films, City of Angels and The Avengers.

Also like last time, a bus stopped ten yards away and several old people got out. Winter went into the shop to buy a box of matches. He stood among the dairy products, packets of chips, film, candy, dishwashing brushes, and newspapers. He could see the wind blowing outside through the glass in the door. The woman at the checkout was foreign, possibly from Turkey or Iran. She smiled. Winter took his matches and paid. Behind the woman was a picture of the building he was standing inside. It had been cropped drastically but showed the minimarket in bright sunshine. There was no doubt that it was the same shop. Then as now there were two frames on either side of the door with posters advertising films. The photograph had been enlarged to about two feet by three and was partly obscured by advertisements for cigarettes. Winter couldn’t remember seeing the photograph last time, but surely it must have been there? The colors were faded and pale. The picture could have been three years old, or ten. An old man was standing outside the shop door, holding a pile of newspapers and looking like the proud owner. But it wasn’t his appearance that made Winter continue to stare at the picture, forgetting all about his change and not hearing when the woman spoke to him. Over the man’s head was a sign that was no longer there. Now the sign projected at right angles from the wall, and on it was written Krokens Livs.

In the photograph the name in red letters was different: Manhattan Livs.

Börjesson had asked again at Powerhouse, the record shop in Vallgatan. The young detective didn’t mind going there. He’d been there before, on his own time.

“I’ve been here before. Privately, if you see what I mean.”

“That’s nice to hear.” The young man behind the counter was chewing away and working through a pile of secondhand CDs. “I haven’t seen you.” He opened a jewel case and checked the condition of the disc. “But I’ve been away this last year.” He closed the case, looked up at Börjesson and smiled. “New York, L.A., Sydney, Borneo.”