52

Hanne Ostergaard and her daughter were in the waiting room when Winter returned from the ward.

“They don’t really know yet,” he said. “It’s something to do with his brain.”

“Shit, shit, shit,” Maria said.

“Perhaps he’s had too many blows,” Hanne said. “For too long a time.”

“He said he’d remembered something else,” Maria said.

Winter turned to look at her.

“Something about him recognizing somebody. On the stairs.”

“Did he say that?”

“Yesterday.”

“Did he say anything else about it?”

“No.”

“But he recognized somebody? Somebody he’d seen before?”

“I don’t know any more.”

Now I have two hospital patients who can help us to make progress, Winter thought. Both of them are unconscious. We must have people here, around the clock. I’d better tell Angela. She’ll have to get used to seeing police officers at her place of work.

He met Morelius as he was about to leave.

“I know,” said Morelius, adjusting his belt. “It feels almost like being one of the family.”

‘Are you on your own?“

“Bartram is in the car. I just wanted to see how things were going.” He waved to Hanne and her daughter. “That fucking bastard.”

Winter drove through Toltorpsdalen to Krokens Livs. Jilna smiled at him, but he wasn’t convinced that she remembered who he was. He went outside. The wind was still battering the city, bang, bang. Elderly folk were getting off buses. He turned around and let his eyes wander. Somewhere…

Should they set up a camera in the shop? Make a video recording and show it to Killdén and Andréasson and Matilda Josefsson and all the other employees? If so, for how long?

The possibilities were endless. So was time, of course, but not now.

He had the feeling that time was slipping away. It was on its way to something that would be a bigger problem than anything that had gone before. He could feel it.

His mobile called again. It was Angela.

“Was it you who called a few minutes ago?” he asked. There was no number displayed on the screen, nor in his memory.

“No.”

“How are things?”

“I’ve just got home, and… I don’t know. I suddenly felt so… scared. Can’t you come home, Erik?”

“Has something happened?” He could feel his hand trembling slightly.

“Not really. It’s just that it suddenly felt odd when I went in through the front door. That’s all. As if somebody was looking at me. Scrutinizing me.”

“You didn’t see anybody?”

“No. I looked around, but there was nobody there. It’s ridiculous. Maybe it was that door at the bottom of the stairs, down to the cellar.”

“What about it?”

“It was open. It’s so dark and horrible in there.”

Winter drove home. He called Ringmar from his car.

“I want somebody posted to keep an eye on Angela.”

He’d spoken to Ringmar about the telephone calls and the break-in.

“Have you discussed this with Sture?”

“Screw Sture. Can you fix it?”

“From when?”

“Tomorrow morning. Outside. I’ll ring you later about times.”

Bergenhem kept his head still. Concentrated on following the painting’s frame, first with his eyes and then with his head. It went well. Better than yesterday.

“How do you feel?”

“Better than before.”

Martina had put Ada to bed. She’d been quieter than usual since he’d come home.

He stood up.

“Do you really feel well enough to go out?”

“I have to keep moving.”

“Is it really a good idea to start work again on Friday?”

“No.”

“Then don’t do it, Lars.”

“I can’t just stay at home all the time, Martina. All the time.”

“But you have to get better.”

“I am better. Nearly. I’ll be okay by Friday.”

Night was falling over Torslanda. It looked as if a searchlight had been aimed at the row of terraced houses. Perhaps the light is only shining on my house, he thought.

“I don’t know what to say,” Angela said.

“I’ve learned that almost anything is worth taking seriously,” Winter said.

“You feel so stupid,” Angela said. She smiled at him. “I’m influenced… by your job.”

He hadn’t said anything to her about his visit to the caretaker’s cubbyhole in the cellar. He didn’t know himself what he ought to do about that.

“Can’t you stop working?” he said.

“Not yet.”

“But can’t you take it easy… until April 1?”

“Isn’t it a bit early for April Fool’s?”

“No.”

“I want to work, Erik. It feels good. I don’t believe in going home and then sitting waiting for something to happen.”

“We’re keeping an eye…” He wondered about the best way to put it. “We… I’ve asked for a radio car to drive past now and again and to keep an eye on what’s happening.”

“Keep an eye on what’s happening?”

“Yes… you know.”

“You mean you’re giving me a bodyguard?” She was standing by the kitchen window. “Has it gotten that bad?”

“Not a bodyguard. More a bit of… observation.”

“Whenever I leave the apartment?”

He didn’t answer.

“Whenever I go to work?”

“It’ll be discreet, don’t worry.”

“Oh, yes? And who will it be?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“I don’t know. It depends on how much effort he has to put into it.”

“All right. I’ll ask Bergenhem to do it for a few days.” He needs to get back into the swing of things, Winter thought. And he’s good as a shadow.

“But he’s not going to hold my hand?”

“You won’t even know he’s there.”

It was late. He read very carefully the transcripts of the interviews with the film extras. The documentation had only just arrived, the first draft. It was a bit of a hodgepodge. All kinds of jobs, or rather joblessness. Some of the individuals seemed barely sane at first glance, but there was nothing unusual about that. It’s the normal ones we have to look twice at, he thought.

The filming went on. They had been hanging around the police station, but weren’t allowed in. The chief of police made it as difficult for the team as she could. Whoever sees that film will have to work out for himself if that building has anything to do with the uniforms, he thought.

It could be that the film has a role to play in this investigation. Thanks to the extras. It could be. It helps us to find a solution at the same time as it’s a possible indirect cause of what happened.

He was holding several papers in his hand. Names, addresses. He hadn’t recognized several of the names. He phoned Möllerström.

“Janne? Can you drop everything and compare the names and addresses of those film extras with the result of the door-to-door operation after the Mölndal murder?” Or murders, he thought. “Ringmar will send you a few more officers to help.”

“Okay.” There was a rustling noise on the line. “How wide a radius?”

“Make it pretty wide. I’ll be with you shortly.”

“Okay. Should I wait with Vasaplatsen?”

“Take Mölndal first.”

Winter hung up and took the photographs from one of his desk drawers. He scrutinized one of them on his desk, then held it up and studied the necks of the two dead bodies on the sofa.

One of the answers could be here, Lareda had said. It’s all down to the swapping of heads. Or bodies.

He was sitting outside the church. Next to him were two statues. He asked the guide, who was Alicia, and she said that it was always the same in Torremolinos. It was the Moors who cut off heads. Off with their heads. They had a different god. Once the heads are off, those people are no more. Their faces are erased. One of the statues was pointing at him now. Angela was sitting next to him. It’s pointing at me, she said. The statues were in a row outside the church. No heads, no arms. He could hear the music, the guitars, then the drums.