There was still a smell of candle wax and hot punch, in anticipation of Christmas. There was a sound of voices from the other rooms, but fewer now. “But when you hear what happened to that poor boy, it makes you wonder.”

Angela said nothing.

“What do you think?” asked Lena Sköld.

“Have you tried talking to Ellen about it again?”

“Yes, several times.”

“What does she say?”

“More or less the same thing. I’ve been thinking about that. She doesn’t seem to have forgotten about it. It’s the same little story. Or maybe it’s just a… fairy story. A fantasy.”

18

ANGELA WALKED HOME DEEP IN THOUGHT. SANTA CLAUS WAS IN most of the shop windows, but there was no snow on the ground. The pavements glistened damply in the electric light from the streetlamps and windows. She thought about the injured boy and his parents. She thought about Lena Sköld and her life as a single parent. No man in her life now, and no father for Ellen. Maybe later.

She paused outside the front door. Vasaplatsen was quiet this evening, but the wind was picking up from the north and blowing along the Allé. She raised the collar of her overcoat and paused to take in the scene. A streetcar stopped on the other side of the street, then trundled off again in the same direction as the wind. She could see two people in the front car, but nobody at all in the second one. A way of traveling for someone who wanted to be alone. She noticed the driver looking at her as he drove past.

Driving a streetcar was one way of seeing Gothenburg. Anyone who drove the same route for a long time would get to know all the surrounding streets and the intersections and the parks. And the streetcars didn’t go fast, either. In fact, they were annoyingly slow, and she was glad she had her Golf; but then again, she also had the usual guilty conscience about ruining the quality of the air that everybody was forced to breathe, whether they wanted to or not.

She would leave the car at home. Occasionally.

Elsa has to breathe this air. Vasaplatsen isn’t the best place to be, from that perspective. Elsa is still a tender rosebud. What do we do? Do we have any choice but to move? We’ll have to discuss it again, Erik and I, seriously. She had shouted from the hall but there was no reply, so she’d gone to the bedroom. They’d fallen asleep in the double bed. There were about ten picture books scattered around them in a rough circle.

Elsa mumbled in her sleep when Angela picked her up and put her to bed in her own room, where the light was on.

Winter was in the kitchen now, and had put the kettle on.

“How about a cup of tea?”

“Yes, please. I need that after all the coffee at the meeting.”

“Would you like a slice of pie?”

“No thank you.”

“Half a baguette with brie and salami?”

“

Non, merci.”

“Smoked mussels.”

“Erik, I’m not hungry.”

“How did it go?”

“There was some talk about that… that incident. The Waggoner boy.”

“We’re going to try to speak to him tomorrow.”

“Any leads?”

“We’re checking all the local loonies now. Nothing yet.”

“What does Pia say?”

Angela had met Pia Fröberg, the forensic pathologist, several times.

“She can’t see any signs of sexual assault,” he said. “It’s probably just your usual assault.”

“Just?”

“Didn’t you hear the quotes? I prefer not to write them in the air.”

“Where’d that tea go?”

The wind was blowing rain all over the big windshield. There was something wrong with one of the wipers: It was out of sync with the other one. Or perhaps it was the other one that was faulty. In any case, it was like watching somebody with a limp, dragging one leg. He’d have to report it.

Gothenburg glittered as he drove around the city. It would soon be Christmas again. The old man had asked him. He’d said no.

Hardly anybody in the streetcar, but he wasn’t complaining. Somebody got off at Vasaplatsen, but nobody got on. There’d been a woman standing in a doorway, watching him. Didn’t people have anything better to do? There was a restaurant on the corner to her left. She could have gone there.

Several people got on at the Central Station, on their way to the northern wildernesses that he was also heading for, of course. Wastelands with high-rises so tall they looked as if they were trying to fly up to heaven, but they could ask him about heaven and he would’ve told them the truth about it. There’s nothing there.

He drove alongside the river, which was as black as it always was. He could see the other bridge to the west that was bigger and more beautiful. You could see a lot of beautiful things from here. There were fir trees decorated with a thousand Christmas candles.

The boy had put up a fight.

He bit his hand so hard it hurt.

Bill was dangling on his string beside him. The parrot was positioned in such a way that nobody getting on would be able to see it unless they sort of bent around the driver, and why would anybody want to do that? Besides, it wasn’t allowed.

He stopped the streetcar, and lots of people got on. Why on earth did they want to be out at this time? It was starting to get late.

Why hadn’t he driven the boy back to where he’d found him?

He’d intended to do that. He always did that. Assuming that he’d driven away in the first place.

I don’t understand why I didn’t take him back. Perhaps because he put up a fight. That was no doubt why. He didn’t want to be nice when I was being nice. I tried.

Somebody to his right said something. The doors were open. He could feel the wind coming in from the outside. This could create a sort of spiral of wind in the streetcar.

“Why aren’t we moving?”

He turned to look at the man standing next to his cab.

“Sixteen kronor,” he said.

“Eh?”

“A ticket costs sixteen kronor,” he said. People should know that if they were going to take a streetcar ride. Some didn’t pay at all. Cheated. Some of them got caught when an inspector came onboard. He never talked to the inspectors, who were known as the Tenson gang because they always wore ugly Tenson jackets. They did their job and he did his.

“I don’t want a ticket,” said the man. “I’ve already got one and I just got it stamped.”

“No ticket?”

“Why are we standing here? Why don’t you start moving?”

“This is a stop,” he said. “I have to stop so that people can get on and off.”

“They’ve already done that, for Christ’s sake!” said the man, who appeared to be drunk. There were always drunks on the streetcars. He could tell you all about that!

“We got on and off about a hundred years ago, and now we want to go,” said the man, leaning forward. “Why the hell don’t you start moving?”

“I’ll call the police!” he said, without having intended to say that the second before he did so.

“Eh?”

He didn’t want to say it again.

“Call the police? That’s a fucking brilliant idea. Then we might finally get moving. They can give us an escort,” said the drunk. “I can call them myself, come to that.” He produced a mobile.

Now I’m off.

The streetcar started with a jerk, and the man with the mobile was flung backward and almost fell over, but managed to hang on to one of the straps. He dropped his mobile and it crashed to the floor.

They were off.

“You’re a fucking lunatic,” yelled the man. His posture was most peculiar. A drunk who couldn’t stand up straight. Now he was bending down. He was visible in the mirror. “I dropped my mobile.” It was impossible to hear what he said next. Now he was back by the driver’s cab again. It was forbidden to talk to the driver while the streetcar was in motion.