Winter woke up, his ears throbbing. Angela moved, but didn’t wake. He got out of bed and drank some water. It was three-fifteen. The little red lamp was shining on his laptop. She’d said good-night, and then he’d worked on into the early hours.

Neither the Valkers nor the Martells had a computer. That didn’t necessarily mean that they’d never owned one. But there’d been no sign of them on the Net. Despite millions of souls seeking contacts. Tens of thousands of sex contacts.

Winter went back to the bedroom and got his dressing gown from the chair, then went to the living room and sat down in the armchair by the window.

What should he do about Per Elfvegren? There was something about him… Something he didn’t want to let go.

Winter had asked Molina about a DNA check, but there was no chance of that-yet.

“Put a bit more pressure on him,” Molina had said. “Then we can talk about an arrest.”

“More pressure? How?”

“Halders. Give him his head.”

“Not possible. I don’t dare.”

They’d interviewed them. Individually.

“Give me the details,” Halders had said to the woman.

“The… details?”

“Everything. From the moment you got to their front door.”

Per Elfvegren was talking about engaging a solicitor now. About time, Winter thought.

Then he changed his mind. I have nothing to hide.

They’d searched the Elfvegrens’ apartment. Nothing. No computer. Halders had the men’s magazines. They’d read the Valkers’ ad. Per Elfvegren had thrown away his reply. Of course.

Why hadn’t they found anything in the Valkers’ apartment? Nothing at all. The place was clean. There ought to have been something there. Why had they cleaned up the apartment? Not cleaned up. Thrown things away. Got rid of things. No magazines. No notes. Not even a copy. Did the murderer take those away with him? Maybe. Or maybe not. Could he have been in a fit-enough state to make a search? Who else could have done it?

Elfvegren didn’t seem to be able to understand that it could happen again. That also made Winter think. Elfvegren was putting on a mask, maintaining a mask. It could fall off.

We can save you, Halders had thought while he was conducting the interrogation; and then he’d said as much outright to Elfvegren. You, and perhaps others.

53

There was a small, flat package on the hall floor among the rest of the mail.

“Why don’t you try this tonight?” Steve MacDonald wrote in the letter accompanying the CD. Winter read the title: Tom Waits. Sword fishtrombones. “His real breakthrough in a way,” MacDonald wrote, “and there’s more to come. It’s got some jazz in it too! And: good luck with the baby.”

His colleague in Croydon was continuing with his mission to educate Winter in classic rock and other music that was more than an arm’s length away from Coltrane.

“Steve’s sent another CD,” Winter said to Angela, who was lying in the bath with her feet in the air. He ventured a couple of paces into the mist. “Hard day?”

“It’s even worse for the patients.” She moved, making the water slop about. “This is my famous imitation of a walrus turning over in the bath.”

“Imitation?”

“Shut up, you pig. What has Steve sent now?”

“Tom Waits.”

“He’s good.” She sat up and reached for the shampoo. “It would be nice to meet him. And his family.”

“Tom Waits?” said Winter, with a smile.

Angela stuck out her tongue.

“We’ll head for London just as soon as we can,” Winter said. “All three of us.”

“I can just see you strutting around in front of Steve and the whole of the south of England,” she said, peering through the lather. “The proud paterfamilias.”

“With every right,” he said as the telephone rang in the hall.

“I hope I’m not calling at an inconvenient moment.” It was Benny Vennerhag.

“If you’ve phoned here it must be something important,” Winter said. Vennerhag had been given a new unlisted telephone number.

“I don’t know, but there is something. As you can probably imagine, some of my… business colleagues are very good at recognizing the police officers in Gothenburg.”

“You keep tabs on us just as we keep tags on you.”

“Hmm. My acquaintances might go a bit further than that definition. But all right. I asked around a bit and there wasn’t a lot of solid resistance, if I can put it like that. What’s been happening doesn’t do anybody any good. People get worried. Your boys can get a bit inquisitive, if you see what I mean.”

“So you did some asking around.”

“All right, Erik. Somebody has been seen a couple of times wandering about in a police uniform, but he hasn’t been recognized. He might be a cop, of course, but I don’t think so.”

“Go on.”

“That’s about it. A couple of times. But it was some time ago now.”

“Where and when? Who?”

“You can’t ask me to disclose a source of information, Erik. But I’m happy to continue helping. I’ve asked a lot of questions, in fact.”

“Where and when, then?”

“In several places in the center of town.”

“Day or night?”

“Night… both times.”

“When?”

Vennerhag mentioned several dates.

“That was it. I hope it’s useful.”

“Now I need a face and a name. Or an address.”

“Don’t we all?”

“You’ve taken this seriously, Benny. Keep on doing so.”

“I can’t see what else I can do. Am I supposed to attach a shadow to the fake cop if he’s seen again?”

“That would be good.”

‘Are you joking?“

“No. Tell that to everybody.”

It was light in the morning. Nearly March. On March 5 he’d be forty. Less than a month later he’d be a father, and life would really start.

They’d listened to the CD from Steve last night and Winter was going to buy everything else by the same guy, when he found the time. I think he made a new one last year, Angela had said. His first for several years. Last year. Last year was the twentieth century, now they had to remember to say two thousand. The naughties, Halders had said.

“Can I take the car today as well?” Angela asked.

“Of course.”

“I can’t cope with the tram anymore.”

“You ought to stay at home.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

She could take a taxi, but she preferred to drive. A bit of freedom. The Mercedes gave her a feeling of security, the smells, the soft, dark colors inside.

The investigation material was growing in breadth and height, with names, addresses, transcripts of interviews.

“We still haven’t been able to get hold of some of the people who replied to the advertisement,” Ringmar said.

“So I see.”

“Several of them didn’t give their real names, but we usually discover that when we check the address.”

“Some helpful neighbor who lets them use his name or address?”

“Hmm, that’s a thought.”

“Maybe we should go a step further. Bring in the neighbors as well.”

“Huh?” Ringmar said.

Winter was studying the lists on his desk. He was wearing his reading glasses.

Six days to go now, and he’d be forty.

“There’s something odd about these two addresses,” Winter said. “Call me paranoid, but I requested the home addresses of the entire Gothenburg police force and… well, if you compare them there is none among them that matches any of these four ad replies.”

“Yes, we’d established that. Good, isn’t it?”

“In a way. Möllerström has been working with the addresses of the film extras, and with this lot as well. Sture gave the green light for a few more officers. When he smells something in the air he smells something in the air, as he put it.”

“And?”

“It’s the uniforms…” Winter thought of Vennerhag, but he wasn’t a hundred percent convinced that there was somebody dressing up as a police officer.