“That’s precisely why I called you, to tell you that.”

“Thanks a lot,” he said, and hung up. His hand was starting to shake again. It was clean now, but it was shaking.

He went back to the kitchen and sat down, then stood up again immediately and went into the hall and felt in his right-hand jacket pocket and took out the souvenir he had of the boy.

He sat on the sofa and contemplated it. Then burst into tears.

It had never gone this far before. Never. He’d felt it coming on and had driven around in a big circle first in the hope of maybe being able to snap out of it, but instead he’d been sucked into the spiral, and he’d known it would end up like this.

What would happen next time?

No

no no no!

He went to get the video camera from the hall, and continued arguing with himself.

He watched the film play on the television screen.

He heard the boy’s voice asking what his name was. He heard himself replying without knowing then what he’d said. But he didn’t say the name he had now. He said the other name he’d had when he was a boy, a little boy like him, no, bigger, but still little.

The film was flickering on the screen. Cars, trees, rain outside, traffic in the street, a set of traffic lights, then another, his own hand on the steering wheel. The boy. A glimpse of his hair. No voice now, no sound at all. His hand. A glimpse of the hair again, no face, not in this film.

Winter tried to think in time with the music, which was in tune with the November twilight outside. Car headlights on the other side of the river were stronger than the light from the sky.

He had taken the same route that Stillman, the law student, had walked that night. Climbed up the steps and passed Forum and his own dental office and the library and stood in the middle of the square where the attack had taken place. How could it happen? How could he not have seen what was coming? Bicycle, perhaps. But that was hard to believe. Somebody creeping up from behind? Hmm. No, he didn’t think so. Somebody Stillman had arranged to meet? Who came sauntering up from behind or the side or in front? More likely. But Stillman should have noticed, for God’s sake. Should have been able to say something about it afterward.

He might have met somebody he knew.

There was also the other possibility, that he was with somebody whose identity he didn’t want to disclose. Why?

Warum? Pourquoi? Porqué?

That was always the most difficult question, no matter what language you asked it in. “Who?” and “where?” and “how?” and “when?” were the immediate questions that required immediate answers, and when those answers were found, the case was solved. But there was always that “why?” often in the form of a little prick in his memory, long afterward. Something unsolved, or undiscovered. Always assuming there was an explanation. Not everything was wrapped up, with explanations as an extra bonus.

But nevertheless. If he could get a better idea of this “why,” and soon, he’d be able to discover the answers to “who” and “where” and “how” and “when.”

There was a knock on the door and in came Ringmar. Winter remained in his desk chair, and Ringmar perched on the edge of his desk.

“It’s gloomy in here,” said Ringmar.

“Are you referring to the light?”

“What else?”

“It’s serene,” said Winter.

Ringmar eyed the Panasonic on the floor under the window, and listened for half a minute.

“Serene music,” he said.

“Yes.”

“In tune with the light.”

“Bobo Stenson Trio.

War Orphans,” said Winter.

“War victims.”

“Not really. More like kids who have lost their parents thanks to war.”

“War victims sounds better.”

“If you say so.”

Ringmar sat down on the chair in front of the desk. Winter switched on his desk lamp and the light formed a little circle between them. They had sat there many a time and slowly discussed their way forward to solving a riddle. Winter knew he wouldn’t have gotten as far as he had without Ringmar. He hoped it was the same for his older colleague. No, he knew it was. Even so, there were things he didn’t know about Bertil, of course. Large chunks of his life. The kind of things he didn’t need to know, just as Bertil didn’t need to know everything about him.

But at this moment he did want to know more about the older man opposite him, assuming Bertil wanted to tell him. Perhaps it was connected with Winter’s own life, his… his development. His maturity, perhaps. His journey from being a lonely young man with a lot of power to something different that also encompassed others.

They needed each other, needed their conversations. The banter that wasn’t always merely banter.

Ringmar’s face seemed thinner than usual. There was a shadow behind his eyes.

“Why does everybody insist on telling lies all the time?” he said.

“It’s part of the job,” Winter said.

“Telling lies?”

“Listening to lies.”

“Take these guys who’ve been attacked. It’s becoming a real mess.”

“Theirs first and foremost.”

“But ours as well,” said Ringmar.

“We can untangle their mess. That’s our job. They can’t do it themselves.”

Ringmar nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“Or else it’s the truth and nothing but the truth.”

Ringmar nodded again, but still didn’t say anything.

“But that’s not why you came to see me, Bertil. Is it?”

Ringmar said nothing.

“To be honest, you don’t look all that good,” Winter said.

Ringmar ran his hand over his forehead and his face, as if trying to wipe away the tiredness and the shadows. It looked as if he were moving his head in time with the jazz coming from the Panasonic without realizing it.

“Do you have a fever?” Winter asked.

“It’s not that,” said Ringmar.

Winter waited for what was coming next. The music stopped, the CD had finished. It was darker outside now. He could see the car headlights more clearly, and the sounds coming from outside were clearer as well. A few drops of rain tapped hesitantly at the windowpane. It could turn into snow, but that didn’t seem likely. Snow was a rare gift to Gothenburgers. A surprise to the snow-clearing teams every other winter when chaos descended. Winter had always enjoyed that type of chaos. He liked to walk home over Heden in the eye of the snowstorm, and drink a glass of winter punch while looking out of the window.

“It’s Martin, of course,” said Ringmar.

Winter waited.

“Ah well…,” said Ringmar.

“There’s something else you want to say,” said Winter.

“I don’t know how to put it,” said Ringmar.

“Just say it,” said Winter.

“It’s about… about fathers and sons,” said Ringmar.

“Fathers and sons,” said Winter.

“Yes. I’m trying to figure out what the hell he’s thinking,” said Ringmar. “How things could have gotten this bad. What could have caused it.” He ran his hand over his brow again. “What I’ve done. What he’s done. No, what I’ve done above all else.”

Winter waited. Took out his pack of Corps but didn’t touch the cigarillos. He raised his head and Ringmar looked him in the eye.

“That’s why I thought about you,” said Ringmar. “About how it was for you, with your father. How things got to the state they did. Why you two… why you… didn’t have any contact.”

Winter lit a cigarillo and inhaled deeply. The smoke drifted through the circle of light from the desk lamp.

“That’s a complicated question you’re asking, Bertil.”

“You saw how hard it was to ask.”

Winter smoked again. He could see himself standing on a slope overlooking the Mediterranean when his father was buried after a funeral in a church as white as snow. Sierra Blanca. No possibility of contact anymore.

“He took off, and took his money with him,” said Winter.