Larissa Serimov was waiting for him at reception.

“I went with them to the hospital,” she said. “The mother was worried. The girl’s father was there as well.”

“So the name of the family is Bergort?”

“Yes. The girl’s name is Maja.”

“What did the doctor have to say?”

“He found no injuries in the lower part of the body, nothing of that kind. But he said something else.”

“Yes?”

“The girl, Maja, had a few bruises.”

“Had she been abused?”

“He couldn’t say.”

“What did they look like?”

“Swelling. Bruises. Not big.”

“But he had an opinion, no doubt?”

“The mother said that Maja had fallen off a swing and hit the frame. She thought that’s what had happened. Maja had been crying, she said. And the doctor said that was possible.”

“The alternative?”

She looked down at the computer printout. The order of events, Winter thought. That could be of crucial significance.

“What he said was more or less exactly this: ‘I just thought that it’s not totally unheard of for parents who beat their children to report it to the police as an accident. Or to invent stories that might fit the bill, some of them absolute fantasy.’ I assume he was referring to the situation with the stranger.”

“But he didn’t want to make an official report.”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“What about you, though?”

She looked at him, as if she’d been expecting that question at any moment.

“I haven’t been able to let go. I went to see them and met the mother and the girl again.”

Winter waited. They were still in reception. He still had his overcoat on. He’d thought briefly that Inspector Larissa Serimov’s blouse was the same color as the sky out there. In summer the blouse might have looked overwashed against the aggressive brightness of the clear sky, but now it was a part of the winter world, a sort of camouflage uniform the police were obliged to wear when outdoors in December without a jacket.

“There was something about the child. Something had happened again,” said Serimov.

“Are you sure?”

“No. But yes.”

“How did the mother react?”

“As if nothing had happened.”

“But she reported the incident with the stranger,” Winter said.

“And the obvious question is: Why?” said Serimov.

“Do you want to file a report?” Winter asked. “Against the parents?”

“I’m still not a hundred percent sure,” she said. “Everything seems to be so… normal. So… as it should be. The harmonious little family. A family just like every other.”

Like mine, Winter thought.

“Have you met the father aside from at the hospital?” he asked. “What was his name again?”

“Bergort. Magnus Bergort. But to answer your question: No-he wasn’t at home when I stopped by.”

Winter looked out through the door and noted that the light was faint but nevertheless brighter than it had been for several months.

“Let’s step outside for a couple of minutes.” He held up his cigarillo by way of explanation.

They were standing in front of the parked police cars. Larissa Serimov wasn’t shivering without her jacket. It was so mild. Her blouse was the same color as the sky. Camouflage. Winter smoked his cigarillo. It was only his fourth today. Daily consumption was going down, but there was a lower limit.

“What’s your impression of this situation?” he asked.

“It’s all based on what the child says, of course. The mother doesn’t know what to think. The most concrete evidence she has is that the ball has disappeared, and that Maja says that this mister, or whatever we should call him, took her favorite ball and said he would throw it to her through the car window, but didn’t.”

“And where was the car parked?” Winter asked.

“Outside one of the day nurseries in Marconigatan. There’s a little hill. They were playing on it.”

“So there’s somewhere to park there?”

“Yes. And it’s sort of hidden. I checked.”

“But the staff didn’t notice anything?”

“No, nothing.”

“Should they have?” Winter asked.

“I really don’t know.”

They drove to Marconigatan. The traffic had intensified along with the gathering darkness. The enormous parking lot behind Frölunda Square was starting to fill. Some people were going to the Arts Center, the library, and the swimming pools, but most to the shops. Streetcars clattered past in a constant stream. Windows in the high-rise buildings were lit up like broad smiles, row upon row of them. The moon was stronger than the sun now. There were stars up there, a reminder that the sky hadn’t shut down for good. Winter suddenly felt hungry, and thought about food for dinner. He looked at his watch. He would have time to get to the market later in the afternoon, but buying food wasn’t the most important of today’s jobs.

Some children were digging in the sand. Two women were standing among them. Two staff members for three children, Winter thought. I’m assuming that’s not a normal statistic.

The nursery-school manager was still there. She looked tired, like most people who were trying to hang on until the holidays finally arrived. There were jam stains on her apron. A little child was sitting on her knee, and smiled when Winter stuck his finger into his mouth, puffed up his cheeks, and made a little popping noise to amuse all present.

“Now I guess I’ll have to keep doing that in the future,” said the manager, putting down the little boy who had only just learned to walk.

She took off her apron and revealed a dress that looked like the apron. Her eyes were wide apart, and she gave the impression of being more than competent.

Winter had already introduced himself.

“Let’s go outside,” said the woman, whose name was Margareta Ingemarsson.

“We’ve met before,” she said to Serimov.

She’s ambitious, Winter thought, looking at his colleague. But she didn’t contact us. If she had I wouldn’t have had anything to say. Not then. We would’ve had a memo of the call, just like she had.

They stood diagonally behind the U-shaped nursery school. The traffic had fused to form a continuous beam of headlights. There was a fence, and beyond it a hill and some trees. A narrow paved road ran around the hill linking the parking lot in front of the nursery to the one belonging to the housing estate on the other side.

“Just a moment,” Winter said, and walked higher up the slope in order to look down at the narrow road, partly hidden by the trees. He went back to where the two women were standing.

“Well, I really don’t know what else I can say,” said the nursery manager.

“Did you speak to Maja’s mother?” Winter asked.

“Yes.” She glanced up at the top of the hill, then looked back at Winter. “We don’t know what to think here.”

“Could it have happened?”

“What exactly do you mean?”

“What the girl said. That she sat in a car with somebody for a little while. Somebody she didn’t know,” Winter said. “That it happened here.”

“It sounds incredible to me,” said Ingemarsson. “But what can I say? We didn’t notice anything. And I would maintain that we keep a close eye on our children here.”

“Do they come up here to play?” asked Winter, gesturing toward the slope and the trees.

“Sometimes. But never alone.”

“What’s the staffing situation?”

“In relation to the number of children? Catastrophic.”

That was one way of answering the question, Winter thought. Nothing new to me. I’m a detective chief inspector, but I’m also a father.

Police headquarters was warm and pleasantly welcoming as always. My second home. Winter walked down the corridor, which would shortly be decorated with a Christmas tree. He could hear the rhythmic tapping of a computer keyboard. The last report of the day was being written in the front office. He could see a hunched back. A few more lines, then home, home, home. He thought about a venison steak with sliced oven-baked potatoes. Or mashed root vegetables. Mushrooms, perhaps. I didn’t use to think like this. Does it have to do with turning forty? No. It has to do with the fact that I haven’t had any lunch.