That was how the man got in. Winter had wanted to know how he got into the apartments, and this could be the answer, the solution.

But the ads could have been put in at any time, several years ago. Calm down now.

He asked the woman a few practical questions, hung up, then phoned Stockholm again and talked to a DCI colleague.

No answer from Matilda Josefsson, who had worked at Krokens Livs. Djanali tried the other number, and a man answered by repeating the numbers she had just keyed in.

She said who she was, and why she was ringing.

“That was ages ago.”

“What was?”

“When I worked there. The fool was out of his mind.”

“The fool?”

“Andréasson. Claimed I couldn’t count. So I quit. Of my own free will.”

Djanali asked some more questions about regular customers.

“I suppose there were a few who came in quite often. It would have been odd if that hadn’t been the case.” Pause. ‘And then there were the shoplifters.“

“Excuse me?”

“We used to get a few shoplifters. A few little things kept disappearing. I never noticed anything myself, but there were a few incidents.”

“When?”

“I can’t remember exactly. I didn’t write it down in my diary or anything. But the girl who worked there at the same time as me knows more about it.”

“Matilda? Matilda Josefsson?”

“Exactly. That was her name.”

“Did she tell you about shoplifters?”

“She said something about shoplifters when she was on shift. You’ll have to ask her.”

“We will. But she’s left as well.”

“There you see. And she could count. Ha, ha.”

“We’re trying to contact her now.”

“She was always going on about running off to where the sun is. Try there.”

Winter checked up on where the sun is. His mother didn’t know anybody called Ake. He probably didn’t live in Nueva Andalucia, but that wasn’t the only colony. The Swedish consul in Fuengirola answered after the third ring. Winter could picture the town in his mind’s eye, the motorway looking like a black wound, the houses that seemed to have been hurled down the mountain at the sea.

“Of course I know Åke,” said the consul, who was a Swede. ‘And your name also sounds familiar.“

There was no reply from Killdén in the Elviria colony. That was to the east of the hospital, on the other side from Marbella. He could remember restaurants, hotels, golf courses, little whitewashed houses.

Passing through by taxi one night on the way to Torremolinos. The taste of wine lingering on his palate.

Winter drove out to the Sahlgren Hospital. Siv Martell was still in a merciful coma. He didn’t need to drive out there to discover that, but he wanted to escape the confines of his office. Her body was a sort of reminder of something.

He studied her through the glass. Would she be able to provide any answers if she came around? Or was allowed to come around? He felt a cold flush. As if he had a layer of ice underneath his clothes.

He went out. The new and old buildings at the hospital gave the impression of being a stage set. Ambulances and police cars drove backward and forward over the stage. Nurses in white hurried over the stage, doctors. Angels. He was on the stage himself, but there was no limelight.

He had no script. Just the feeling that a catastrophe was on its way.

50

Bartram bought the magazine and rented a war film. The woman gave him a friendly smile. He didn’t know if she recognized him from one time to the next. She should. That kind of thing was the same even at the other end of the world, or wherever she came from.

She was pretty new. They’d come and gone. He didn’t like the young man. Not suited to work involving service. If you’re going to provide a service you have to make an effort to help your customers. Otherwise you’re better off doing something else.

He’d seen the old man one evening. Presumably he owned the place. He didn’t look like a service type either. Seemed to have a bonfire under his backside when he sat on the chair. Couldn’t keep still.

He’d liked the girl. Then one day she’d gone. She could have said something the previous week. But there again, why should she say anything to him? Just because he liked her didn’t mean that she had to like him. Perhaps she laughed at him when he’d gone. Or behind his back. He’d spun around quickly and she hadn’t been laughing then, but maybe that was because she didn’t dare. She knew that he was a police officer sometimes. When he had his uniform on he was a policeman and he would come in here and be a policeman. Now he wasn’t a policeman because he was wearing civilian clothes. Now he couldn’t go around telling people to put their seat belts on and expect to be taken seriously.

She’d been there when he stood in the way of the boy who stole some videos. He thought it was better to see it like that. He’d stood in the way. The boy had intended to pay, he said. Just forgotten.

He’d made a concession. He’d written down the boy’s name and address but that was mainly because the girl was watching. She didn’t want to report him. He could give the boy a second chance. Why not? The boy produced his ID card. That meant he’d been identified and could be arrested. Bartram let him sweat a bit, then allowed him to go. Don’t do it again. That kind of crap. The boy seemed a bit odd. You almost felt sorry for him. Stared at the uniform as if the man wearing it was a general, as if it were covered in glittering medals. Mumbled something.

He’d asked her if she knew the boy and she’d just shrugged. He didn’t ask her what that meant.

Outside, the wind was making the posters flap. Must be goddam terrific films to be popular for so long. He glanced at the apartment building a bit farther on.

He crossed the street and walked through the silence. The clifflike hill on the left shut out the noise from the city center, and the slope up toward the church muffled the traffic noise from the main road.

It was a long street, but he didn’t get tired. There were yellow buildings to look at after all. They were different from the building he lived in, which was red brick.

Two workmen came out of the building with advertisements on the gable end. They were carrying a bathtub that was long past its expiration date. Bartram never took a bath. Didn’t have time.

Three children were running around in the playground as he went past. The Dumpsters were blue like yesterday’s sky. The wind was making the birch trees sway. Now he could hear the traffic on Göteborgsvä gen. The entrance door lock still wasn’t working. The walls in the stairwell were the same blue as the sky the day before yesterday. The apartment door was the same brown as this morning’s shit. He unlocked it, went in, and shouted that he was home. One of these days somebody might respond.

He sat down at the computer without taking off his jacket and had soon entered the right files. He was following the investigation. Everything was there, he knew all about it, and smiled.

Hanne Östergaard phoned Winter.

“How is he?”

“He’s had a nasty bang on the head.”

“Does he need to go to the hospital again?”

“I don’t know, Erik.”

“That bastard. I’ll send a car around to the apartment and we’ll throw the swine in a cell.”

“What will we do with Patrik?”

“What do you think?”

“He’s having a rest here. I think somebody has to have a look at him.”

“Should I send an ambulance?”

“No, I’ll take him in the car.”

“All right.”

“There’s…”

“Yes?”

“There was something I was going to ask…” she said. “But it can wait. I’ll take Patrik to the hospital.”

Morelius and Ivarsson went to get Patrik’s father. The man was unconscious when they got there. The woman opened the door, then ran away down the stairs with no shoes on. She’d been red under the eyes, blue. There’d been blood on her shirt or whatever it was. Blouse.