8

RINGMAR WAS STANDING BY THE WINDOW, LOOKING OUT AT HIS November lawn that no longer needed mowing; he was grateful for that. It was large, and lit up by the lantern over the front door of his house and the streetlights on the other side of the hedge.

The rain falling onto the garden covered it like a shroud. Wind was whistling through the three maples whose crowns he had watched developing over the twenty years they had lived in the house. For twenty years he had been able to stand by this same window, watching the grass grow, or resting, as now. Luckily enough, he’d had other things to do. But still. He was thirty-four when they bought the place. Even younger than Winter. Ringmar took a swig of the beer glittering in its thin glass. Younger than Winter. For a while, quite a long while, before even Winter grew older, that had been an expression in the Gothenburg CID, even the whole force, in fact. Nobody was younger than Erik. A bit like the slogan “Cooler than Borg,” which he’d seen in one of the newspapers when he was a UN police officer in the buffer zone in Cyprus eons ago. That was before Moa’s time, even before Birgitta’s time. Before Martin’s time.

He took another drink, listened to the wind, and thought about his son. Strange how things could turn out. His twenty-five-year-old daughter lived at home with them, temporarily; but it could take some time for her to find a new apartment. His twenty-seven-year-old son hadn’t even sent them his current address. Martin could be in a buffer zone, for all he knew. Aboard a ship on the other side of the world. Drinking life away in a bar in Vasastan. Gothenburg was big enough for Martin to hide himself away in if he wanted to. If nobody looked for him. And Ringmar didn’t look for him. No active search for a son he’d heard nothing from for almost a year. No looking for somebody who didn’t want to be found. Moa knew that the little brat was alive but that’s all.

But he did search for him inwardly instead, tried to figure out why.

Surely he’d treated him well? Tried to be there when needed. Was it because of his damned job, when all was said done? His peculiar working hours? The traces of post-traumatic stress that were not always just traces?

The memory of a dead child’s body wasn’t something you could rinse off in the shower the same night. The little face, the gentle features that could no longer really be made out. Younger than anything else, and that’s the way it would always be. Finished, finished forever.

Ringmar emptied his glass. I’m rambling, he thought. But the children have been the worst.

Now I’m longing for a conversation with my only son.

The telephone on the wall by the kitchen door rang. At the same time a little flock of small birds took off from the lawn, as if frightened by the noise.

Ringmar walked over to the telephone, put his glass down on the counter, and lifted the receiver.

“Hello, Bertil speaking.”

“Hi, Erik here.”

“Good evening, Erik.”

“What are you doing?”

“Watching the lawn rest. Drinking a Bohemian pilsner.”

“Do you think you could have a word with Moa?” Winter asked.

“What are you talking about, Dad?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t really know.”

“This isn’t something you’ve thought up yourself.”

“Not in that way,” he said.

He was sitting in the armchair in her room that had been there as long as the room had been hers. Twenty years. She usually sat by the window, looking at the lawn, just like her father.

“Not in that way?” she said from her bed. “What does that mean?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t really know,” he said again, with a smile.

“But somebody has dreamed up the suspicion that Jakob Stillman is gay, is that it?”

“I don’t know that I’d use the word ‘suspicion.’ ”

“Call it whatever you like. I’m just wondering what all this is about.”

“It’s about this job I have, among other things,” said Ringmar, shifting his position in the puffy armchair that was starting to sag after all these years. A bit like me, he thought. “We’re testing various theories. Or hypotheses.”

“Well, this one is way off base,” she said.

“Really?” he said.

“Completely wrong.”

“But you said you didn’t know him,” Ringmar said.

“He has a girlfriend. Vanna. I sent her to see you, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“Well, then.”

“Sometimes it’s not that straightforward.”

She didn’t respond.

“Well?” he said.

“What would it mean, anyway?” she asked. “If he did turn out to be gay.”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t really know,” Ringmar said.

“What exactly do we know?” asked Sture Birgersson, who was just about to light a new John Silver from the stub of his old one. The head of CID was standing in his usual place, in front of the window, behind his desk.

“I thought you quit,” Winter said.

“My lungs feel better,” Birgersson said, inhaling. “I thought I’d better reconsider.”

“A healthy approach,” said Winter.

“Yes, glad you think so.” Birgersson held the cigarette in front of him, as if it were a little carrot. “But we have other questions to consider here, me-thinks.”

“You’ve read the notes,” said Winter.

“Do you need more people?”

“Yes.”

“There aren’t any more.”

“Thank you.”

“If things get any worse, I might be able to dig a few more out,” said Birgersson.

“How can things get any worse?”

“Another victim, for Christ’s sake. If someone dies.”

“We could easily have had four dead bodies,” said Winter.

“Hmm.” Birgersson lit his cigarette using the glowing butt. “Bad, but not bad enough.”

“Four murders,” said Winter. “That would be a record, for me at least.”

“And for me.” Birgersson walked around his desk. Winter could smell the tobacco. As if the old tobacco factory down by the river had come back to life. “But you’re right. It’s nasty. What we’re stuck with might be a serial killer who hasn’t actually killed.”

“Assuming it’s the same person.”

“Don’t you think it is?”

“Yes, I suppose I do,” said Winter.

Birgersson leaned backward and picked up three pieces of paper from his desk. Apart from them, it was empty, clear, shiny. There’s something compulsive about him, Winter thought, as he always did when he was standing there, or sitting, as he was at the moment.

Birgersson read the documents again, then looked up.

“I wonder if this gay theory is valid,” he said.

“It’s only you and me and Lars and Bertil who know about it,” said Winter.

“That’s probably just as well.”

“You’ve taught me to investigate through a bifocal lens,” said Winter.

“Have I really? That was pretty well put.” Birgersson stroked his chin. He looked Winter in the eye, possibly with just a trace of a smile. “Can you remind me what I meant by it?”

“Being able to look down and also forward at the same time. In this case, investigating several parallel motives.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s obvious, really,” said Winter.

“I didn’t hear that.”

“Like all great thoughts.”

“Hear, hear,” said Birgersson.

“The gay theory might give us a motive,” said Winter.

“Have you managed to interview any of the kids again? With this idea in mind?”

“No, we’ve only just thought of it,” said Winter.

Birgersson didn’t respond, which meant that the discussion was over for the time being. Winter picked up his pack of Corps and removed the cellophane from one of the slim cigarillos.

Birgersson held out his lighter.

“You quit too,” he said.

“It hurt too much,” said Winter. “Now I feel better again.”