Bergenhem produced his card and asked, “Krister Peters?”

The man nodded and gestured toward Bergenhem’s right hand holding the plastic pocket with his ID:

“That could be a fake.”

“Can I come in for a few minutes?”

“You could be anybody,” said Peters.

“Have you had bad experience with people knocking on your door?” asked Bergenhem.

Peters gave a little laugh, then opened the door fully, turned his back on apartment Bergenhem and went into his apartment, which opened out in all directions from the hall. Bergenhem could see the buildings on the other side of the square. The sky looked lighter from inside here, more blue, as if the apartment building soared up above the clouds.

He followed Peters, who sat down on a dark gray, expensive-looking sofa. A pile of magazines stood on a low glass table. To the right of the magazines was a glass and a bottle, and a misty little carafe containing what could have been water. Bergenhem sat down on an armchair that matched the sofa.

Peters stood up.

“I’m forgetting my manners,” he said, left the room, and came back with another glass. He sat down again and held up the bottle. “A drop of whiskey?”

“I don’t think I should,” said Bergenhem.

“It’s after twelve,” said Peters.

“It’s always after twelve somewhere or other,” said Bergenhem.

“Hell, it’s noon in Miami, as Hemingway said when he started drinking at eleven o’clock.”

“I’ll pass this time,” said Bergenhem. “I came by car and I have to drive home when I leave here.”

Peters shrugged, poured a couple of fingers into his glass, and topped it up with water.

“You’re missing a pretty decent Springbank,” he said.

“There might be other times,” said Bergenhem.

“Perhaps,” said Peters. He took a drink, put down his glass, and looked at Bergenhem: “When are you going to get to the point?”

“What time was it when Jens Book left you?” Bergenhem asked.

“Nasty business,” said Peters. “Will Jens ever be able to walk again?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s unbelievable. Only a couple of blocks away from here.” Peters took another drink, and Bergenhem could smell the alcohol. He could always leave the car here and take a taxi home. Hell, it’s noon in Torslanda.

“You were in the vicinity when it happened,” said Bergenhem.

“Yes, it appears so.”

“Jens wasn’t especially forthcoming about that,” said Bergenhem.

“About what?”

“That he’d been to see you.”

“Really.”

“That he was with you shortly before the attack.”

“Really.”

Bergenhem said nothing.

Peters held his glass in his hand but didn’t drink from it.

“I hope you don’t think I beat him up?” he said. “That I crippled him and he knows I did but is protecting me?” Peters took a drink. Bergenhem couldn’t see any sign of intoxication.

“Is that what you think?” Peters repeated.

“I don’t think anything at all,” said Bergenhem. “I’m simply trying to find out what actually happened.”

“Facts,” said Peters. “Always the facts.”

“According to Jens you separated about half an hour before he was clubbed down.”

“That could be,” said Peters. “I don’t know exactly when it happened, of course. When was he attacked?”

“Where was that?” asked Bergenhem. “Where did you separate?” He glanced down at his notebook, where it said “just past Sveaplan,” as Book had told Ringmar.

“It was just outside here,” said Peters, gesturing toward the window. “A little ways down the street from Sveaplan.”

“Exactly where?”

“I can point it out to you later if it’s important.”

“Good.”

Peters seemed to be racking his memory.

“What happened next?” asked Bergenhem.

“What happened next? You know what happened next.”

“What did you do immediately after Jens had left?”

“What did I do? I smoked a cigarette, then came back in and listened to a CD, and then I took a shower and went to bed and fell asleep.”

“Why did you go out into the street with him?”

“I needed some air,” said Peters. “And it was a pleasant night. It was only blowing half a gale at that point.”

“Did you see anybody else out there?” asked Bergenhem.

“No pedestrians,” said Peters. “A few cars went by. In both directions.”

“Were you watching Jens?”

“While I was smoking the cigarette, yes. He even turned around at one point and waved. I waved back, finished the cigarette, and went back in.”

“And you didn’t see anybody else in the street?”

“No.”

“Nobody else walking down the street?”

“No.”

Bergenhem could hear sounds from the street down below, which was one of the busiest in Gothenburg. Suddenly he heard an ambulance siren. The hospital was not far away. Then he recognized the music Peters was playing.

“The Only Ones,” he said.

Peters bowed in acknowledgment. “Not bad. You should be too young for the Only Ones.”

“Has Jens been here on more than one occasion?” Bergenhem asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you received any threats?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Has anybody ever threatened you?”

Peters said nothing. He took another drink, just a sip. Bergenhem could smell the high-quality malt again. The Only Ones continued their dark, 1980s journey through the world of drugs; a dark mass of music hovered over the room.

“Of course there have been threats,” said Peters. “Once people find out that you’re gay, you’re always exposed to that risk.”

Bergenhem nodded.

“Do you understand what I mean?” asked Peters.

“I think so,” said Bergenhem.

“I’m not sure you do,” said Peters.

“Do you understand what I’m getting at?” asked Bergenhem.

Peters thought it over. He held onto his glass but didn’t drink. The music had finished. Bergenhem saw a black bird fly past the window, and then another. A telephone rang somewhere in the apartment, and again, and again. Peters didn’t move a muscle. The music started again, something Bergenhem didn’t recognize. The telephone kept on ringing. Eventually the answering machine picked up. Bergenhem could hear Peters’s voice, but no message afterward.

“Surely you don’t mean that whoever hit Jens was really after me?” said Peters in the end.

“I don’t know.”

“Or that he was after Jens because of, well, for some special reason?”

Bergenhem didn’t reply.

“That he was being targeted? Because he’s gay?”

“I don’t know,” said Bergenhem.

“Well, I suppose that could be the case.” Peters held up his glass. It was empty now. “That sort of thing doesn’t surprise me anymore.”

“Tell me about when you’ve felt threatened,” said Bergenhem.

“Where do I start?”

“The last time.”

Aneta Djanali parked by the curb and they got out of the car. Halders was massaging the back of his neck as he watched Djanali lock the doors. She turned around.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I could give you a massage this evening.”

“I’d like that,” said Halders.

Djanali checked her notebook, and they walked to the entrance of the student dorm. There was a bicycle in the stairwell. A noticeboard was plastered with layer upon layer of messages and a big poster at the top advertised the autumn ball at the student union-which had taken place ages ago.

There was a vague smell of food, an aroma that had accumulated over decades of inventive cooking skills applied to cheap ingredients. Halders had lived in a student hall while he was at police college in Stockholm. He recognized the smell immediately.

“It smells just like the hall I lived on as a student,” he said.

“Toasted sandwiches and minced meat sauce,” said Djanali.

“Baked beans,” said Halders.

Aneta Djanali laughed out loud.

“What’s so funny?” asked Halders.