There had been something hanging from a peg behind the driver. Alinder thought it was some sort of toy animal, or a little bird perhaps, green in color and almost the same as the wall. It had a beak. Looked like a mascot.

The driver had swung around on his chair, raised his left hand, taken down whatever it was, and stuffed it into his briefcase. Hmm. A mascot. We all need some kind of company, Alinder thought; or protection, perhaps. To ward off bad luck. But that bunch of feathers hadn’t been much use on this occasion.

The streetcar had been half full. When he looked around he saw that people had started to get off. His fellow officers whose job would be to stop them hadn’t arrived yet.

“I’d appreciate it if you could stay inside the streetcar until we’ve got the situation under control,” he said.

Two young men with half their heads covered in piercings had looked around but continued on their way out through the door. Not that I blame them, Alinder had thought. Or intend to stop them. I can’t stop them, there’s no time for that.

There was no sign of the black man nor the white man any longer.

The driver was sitting in front of him. He was in some kind of shock, but it wasn’t bad enough to prevent him from saying something, now that he was about to start the interview.

At least he was sober.

He was fair-haired and about forty years old, and his eyes had a piercing sharpness that almost made Alinder want to turn around and see what the man was looking at straight through his head.

His uniform was badly cut and ill fitting, more or less like the one Alinder was wearing. He held his cap in his hand, twirling it around like the earth around the sun, around and around and around. He had a tic in his left eye. He’d hardly spoken, just mumbled and nodded when they’d finally managed to worm their way out of the circle of curious bystanders at the scene of the accident.

Alinder had noted his name and address.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” said Alinder, switching on the tape recorder and testing his pen by drawing a little peaked cap on the sheet of paper in front of him. “Looks like you got a little out of sync with the traffic lights, is that right?”

The driver nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“Why?” asked Alinder.

The driver shrugged, still twirling his cap around and around.

“Come on now,” said Alinder. “Was the drunk putting you off?” A leading question, but what the hell, he thought.

The driver looked up at him, those remarkable eyes.

“The man lying at the side of the driver’s cab had quite a few in him,” said Alinder. “What was he doing there? When the crash happened?”

The driver’s mouth moved, but no words came out.

Is he a mute, Alinder wondered. No, Gothenburg Tramways wouldn’t employ a mute driver. A driver has to be able to communicate. Is he still in shock? Can that make people mute? Huh! What an ignorant bastard I am.

“You have to answer the question,” he said.

The man twirled his cap.

“Can’t you talk?”

The cap, around and around.

OK, thought Alinder. Let’s try this. He slid forward a glass of water, but the man didn’t touch it.

His briefcase was standing by his chair, the kind all the streetcar drivers have. Alinder had always wondered what was inside them whenever he saw a driver walking toward his streetcar, like a pilot on his way to his aircraft. Alternative routes? A bit more difficult in a streetcar than up in the air. Harder to drive around and around Brunnsparken while waiting to approach your stop than to circle over the airport at Landvetter.

He knew one thing that was in the briefcase, but that had nothing to do with the accident.

“Was there something wrong with the lights?” he asked.

The driver didn’t reply.

“But you drove through a red light,” said Alinder.

The driver nodded.

“It’s a very busy intersection,” said Alinder.

The driver nodded again, somewhat hesitantly.

“Things could have turned out a lot worse than they did,” said Alinder.

The driver was looking elsewhere now. Ex-driver, Alinder thought. He’s not going to be driving anymore streetcars until this incident has been thoroughly investigated by the tramways people as well.

“We can help you,” said Alinder.

“H-h-h-h-h-h,” said the man.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ho-ho-ho-ho-how?”

So you’re a stutterer, poor bastard, thought Alinder. Is that why? Or is it the shock after the crash?

“We can help you by going through exactly what happened,” he said.

“Th-th-th-th…”

“Yes?”

“Th-th-th-the o-o-o-oth-oth-other,” said the driver.

“The other? You mean the other man?”

The driver nodded.

“The other man. Which other man?”

The driver jerked his head as if he were looking down at something on the floor.

“The man lying on the floor? Is that who you mean?”

The driver nodded. Alinder looked at the tape recorder, and the tape spinning around and around. All the nods and head shakes are duly recorded, he thought. All the st-st-st-st-stutters.

“Am I to interpret that as meaning the man distracted you while you were driving?”

They were preparing for a party. They had invited mainly recent parents from the prenatal group they used to attend, looking trim and fit after all those relaxation exercises. Angela had kept in touch with several of the girls, and he was surprised to discover he got on well with several of the men. Despite a considerable age difference.

“That’s because you are still so immature,” Angela said.

“And I’m so used to always being the youngest,” he retorted, opening another bottle of wine.

“Is that something worth striving for?”

“No, but that’s the way it’s always been.”

“Not anymore,” she said.

“Still.”

“Phone your mom,” she said. “You’re still the youngest in her family.”

“The youngest detective chief inspector in Sweden.”

“Is that still true?”

“Ask my mom!” he said, and the phone rang and they both guessed it was his mother calling direct from Nueva Andalucía: It was typical of her timing. He picked up the receiver, but it wasn’t her.

He recognized the voice, though.

“Long time no see, Erik.”

“Likewise, Steve.”

DCI Steve Macdonald had been his partner in a difficult case some years previously. Winter had been over in London, in the suburbs around Croydon where Macdonald’s homicide squad operated, and the pair had become friends. Long-distance friends, but still.

Macdonald had been in Gothenburg for the dramatic climax of the case. They were the same age, and Steve had a set of teenage twins.

“We’re coming over,” Steve Macdonald announced. “The kids want to see the land of the midnight sun.”

“More likely the land of the midday moon at this time of year,” Winter replied.

“Anyway.”

“When are you coming?”

“Let’s see, where are we now? Er, late November. They have a long holiday starting early in December, and so we thought: Why not? Otherwise it’ll never happen.”

“Good thinking. But that’s very soon.”

“Gothenburg’s almost commuting distance from London.”

“Mmm.”

“Do you think you could arrange a good hotel in the center of town? By ‘good’ I mean one that comes up to my modest standards. Not yours.”

“You must stay with us, of course,” Winter said.

“No, no. Beth’ll be coming as well, so there’ll be four of us.”

“You’ve been here before,” Winter reminded him, and pictured Steve, glass in hand, on the balcony one warm evening in May, very nearly falling over the railing to the ground twenty meters below. They’d been trying to relax after all the awful happenings of the previous weeks. “You know we have plenty of room.”