They saw the flashing light on the radio car from the Frölunda station. A group of young boys had already gathered. The light was illuminating their faces.

“Switch it off,” Winter said when he reached the car.

“Number seven,” said Ringmar behind him, and Winter turned around. Ringmar was pointing at the entrance to 7D. The apartment buildings were in brick, possibly red. Three or four stories, it didn’t matter.

“He lives on the second floor,” Ringmar said.

The entrance door was open, fastened to the wall by a chain. A man carrying a box emerged from the basement as they went in. He nodded at them, and released the chain.

Nobody answered when they rang the bell. The name MORELIUS was in white letters against a black background on the flap of the mail slot. Winter rang again and heard the sound echoing through the apartment, but he could hear no footsteps, no voices. He shouted through the mail slot, listened. Then he drew his pistol and fired a shot through the wooden door, next to the lock.

56

Winter put his hand through the hole he’d made in the door and unlocked it. He flung the door open. His brain was detached from his body now, everything was animal instinct. The cordite was irritating his nose. He regretted nothing.

There was mail on the hall floor, an envelope, a newspaper.

The apartment was lit up by lights from the main road and the estate. All was silent. No guitars, no drums, no hissing.

No Angela. They went from room to room. Everything was neat and tidy. The sink was clean and glinted in the light from the kitchen window. Nothing on the table.

There were two men’s magazines on the bedside table, next to an alarm clock. Aktuell Rapport. In the living room was a bookcase filled with stacks of paperbacks, an imitation leather sofa, two armchairs facing a large television set. Neat and tidy. Total control.

“Hmm,” said Ringmar, seeming disappointed as he looked, first around the room and then at Winter.

Winter could feel his face starting to twitch, and the shock and tension gradually ebbed away. Ringmar’s disappointed face. The empty apartment. The shot. The feeling of confusion, disappointment, and infinite relief. Infinite relief. He was twitching, shaking; he gave vent to a sound that could have been a sob or a laugh and what came first was laughter, loud and abandoned: You should see your face, Bertil! He noticed that Ringmar took a step toward him, like a nurse, and he had another attack and then it was over and he held up the hand that wasn’t holding his pistol and said, “Let’s get out of here, Bertil,” and he set off through the hall.

Winter gave instructions to the two police officers from Frölunda, a man and a woman.

“I’ll drive this time,” Winter said.

“How are you feeling, Erik?”

“Better,” he said as he drove through the Järnbrott intersection.

“Where are we going?”

“To the Elfvegrens.”

“It’s nearly midnight.”

Winter didn’t reply, but drove through the little streets and Ringmar asked yet again for the address. All small houses looked the same. It was like entering another age, the 1950s. Small houses, big gardens.

The Elfvegrens’ house was in darkness. Winter rang the bell. Ringmar stood behind him, waiting to see what happened, as if expecting to draw another blank.

Nobody opened the door, nobody switched on a light. Winter pounded on the door then turned on his heel and went down the stairs.

“She’s not here at least,” he said, and Ringmar understood who Winter was referring to.

They drove past Radiotorget. Winter’s mobile phone rang.

“Hello?”

“You were looking for Morelius… at Lorensberg…” The reception deteriorated, then improved again.

“Hello?”

“You were look-”

“I’m listening,” Winter said. “Have you found him?”

“He’s here at the station,” said the duty officer at the Lorensberg police station, the man Winter had spoken to before. “He came in with Ivarsson, who’d bumped into him in town. He’s not on duty-”

“Make sure he stays there,” Winter said.

“That won’t be a problem. He says he wants to talk to you.”

Morelius was in the television room. He stood up when they came in. He was wearing jeans, a black leather jacket, and black boots.

“I think I might be able to help you,” he said. “I don’t know.” He looked at Winter, who didn’t reply. An hour ago Winter had been ready to… to… Now he could grab hold of him, demand answers. He ought to get started.

“I understand that it’s urgent,” said Morelius, heading for the sink.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Ringmar said.

“What the…?” Morelius said. He stared at them, first at Ringmar, then at Winter. Something gave way in his face. “But, for Christ’s sake, surely you don’t think I did it?”

“The advertisement,” Winter said.

“Eh? What advertisement?”

“We talked to your neighbor. He admitted that he’d been your… agent,” Ringmar said.

“But, for Christ’s sake, that’s got nothing to do… I haven’t even…” He turned to Winter. “Nothing came of it.”

Winter took a step toward him.

“In that case you have kept from us important information-”

“We can deal with that later,” Morelius said. “But is this urgent or not, Winter?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s evidence to suggest a police officer is involved. The uniforms and all that. Even we know that, the public order police. I’ve thought about it a lot. It has to do with the fact that I’ve been considering my position in the force. I’m packing it in, but I have a colleague. He wants to become a detective. He’s got it into his head that it’s a posher job.” Morelius looked again at Winter. “I’m talking about Bartram. Greger Bartram.”

“And?”

“You haven’t heard what he’s been saying lately. Haven’t listened to him. Seen him. There’s something funny about him. I don’t know… I’ve thought a lot about it. Walked the streets. Took an extra day’s leave. Thought about his right to play-” He turned to Winter again. “But then that business with your woman happened.” He turned to Ringmar. “I tried to get hold of him at home, but he wasn’t there. That’s because he doesn’t live there anymore. He moved out over a year ago, but he hasn’t submitted his new address.” Now he was looking at Ivarsson. “We’ve had his old address all the time.”

“Where does he live now, then?” asked Ivarsson.

“It’s called Tolsegårdsgatan. In Mölndal. I haven’t been there, but-”

“How do you know?” asked Ringmar. “The new address, I mean?”

“Directory inquiries,” Morelius said. “It was as simple as that.”

“What is there about Tolsegårdsgatan,” Winter said. “I recognize the name.”

“It’s at the end of Hagåkersgatan,” Morelius said. ‘And that’s close to where that couple was murdered. Or him… if she survives. Häradsgatan it was.“

He didn’t mention Kroken, Winter thought. Nor Manhattan Livs. Nobody outside my inner circle knows about Manhattan Livs. If he’d mentioned the shop, we’d have nailed him.

“Where did he live before?” Winter asked.

“Not far away,” Morelius said. “Even closer to the building where the couple were killed.” He paused. “There’s a minimarket on the ground floor of the block, I think.”

Before Winter had time to comment, Morelius held up his hand.

“Let me show you his computer.”

“His computer?”

“This way,” Morelius said. They went down the stairs and into the newly built extension on the other side of the courtyard. Nobody spoke. Morelius sat down in front of a computer and logged in. Waited, then tapped in a few commands. Waited again.

“You know what you’re doing,” Ivarsson said, who’d tagged along as well.

“Yes,” Morelius said. “Computer knowhow isn’t linked exclusively with crooked cops.”

He keyed in another command, and turned to look at his audience. Then he turned back to the screen.