“What about the fourth child?” asked Aneta Djanali. “What was his name?”

“Skarin. Kalle Skarin. I’m drawing a blank there so far. I spoke briefly to his mother yesterday, and she is going to look into it,” said Winter.

“What’s the chronological order of the incidents?” Halders asked.

“In the order of the phone calls we received it started with Skarin, then Sköld, then Bergort, and lastly Waggoner.”

“If he is the last,” said Halders.

“Do we have any doctors’ reports?” asked Djanali.

“In two cases. Waggoner, obviously, and the Bergort girl.”

“And?”

“No sexual abuse, if that’s what you are wondering. We know about Waggoner’s injuries, and in the case of Maja Bergort there’s a suspicion of injuries.”

Everybody looked at him.

“A colleague in Frölunda, Larissa Serimov, took the call and was also at the hospital where the parents took the girl immediately after she told her story. The doctor found some bruises. Serimov visited their house a few days later and thought she could see more.”

“So maybe it’s got nothing to do with our case,” said Halders. “They beat their kid and drive to the emergency room with their hearts in their mouths to have the injuries checked, and seem to be innocent.” He looked at Helander. “Happens all the time.”

“But the mother’s story is almost exactly the same as what the other mothers have said,” said Winter.

“Why is it only the mothers?” wondered Halders.

“It fits,” said Winter.

Nobody spoke for a while. The candles were still burning as the daylight outside grew brighter. Winter had a clear view out the window and watched the concrete pillars of the Nya Ullevi stadium slowly acquiring the same wispy gray mist as the air around them. Everything was part of a whole, everything seemed to be hovering. There were no borders, no lines. Now he could hear the patrol cars down below, more traffic than usual. It was Lucia morning and Gothenburg was different, thousands of young people needed assistance after the night of partying. They were lying in bunches all over town, as Halders had put it when he arrived. The railway stations were full of teenagers sleeping off their intoxication and preparing to cope with their hangovers, which would be awful but not as deadly.

“I’ve been trying to find some kind of pattern in the locations,” Winter said. “Why those particular spots? Why those day nurseries, or those playgrounds?”

“Have you drawn a map of them?” asked Djanali.

“That’s what I’m going to sit down and do this morning.”

It will only raise more questions, Halders thought; but he didn’t say so. Instead he said: “Are you intending to talk to the parents?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to come with you when you go to the Bergorts out at Önnered.”

“If you get a grip on yourself.”

“You need me,” said Halders.

The morning wasn’t over. Work wasn’t over. They never worked on one isolated case at a time. That might have been the situation in an ideal world, but that wasn’t where they were living. In an ideal world they wouldn’t have existed at all as a profession. In an ideal world there was no such thing as CID detectives, no uniformed police officers. Law and order took care of itself. Everybody lived in a land of milk and honey.

But who the hell would want to splash around in that muck? as Halders said when the topic came up for discussion some time ago.

Fredrik did his best to keep the banter going, but Winter could see the shadows behind his eyes, even deeper than those behind Bertil’s.

Do you need to take time off? Winter had asked him casually not that long ago. Halders had taken time off, but not enough. I listen to what my children have to say, he’d said, and Winter might just have understood him. Fredrik had been condemned by fate to abandon the individual life he’d embarked upon and assume new responsibilities as the single parent of two children. How serious was it with Aneta? He didn’t know. Did she?

“There’s still no sign of our black medical student,” said Halders, looking at Djanali. “Have you put the word out on the home front?”

“They’re on red alert on the savannahs, from Kenya to Burkino Faso,” she said.

“Are there any savannahs in Burkina Faso?” asked Bergenhem, who was interested in geography.

“No,” said Djanali. “That’s the point.”

“It’s a matter of interpretation,” said Halders with a smile.

“I don’t get it,” said Bergenhem.

“You’re not the only one,” said Djanali.

“While you guys are bickering our man has escaped to South Africa,” said Winter.

“OK, we’ll nail him there, then,” said Halders.

“Come on now, Fredrik.”

Halders sat up straight. Winter could see how the pressure on the back of his neck was reflected in his face.

“We nailed Smedsberg late last night before he set off to visit his manure specialist buddies out in the flatlands. He confirmed that he’d fallen out with the Aryan, Mr. Kaite.”

“Over what?” Winter asked.

“A girl.”

“A girl?”

“That’s what he said. Kaite thought he had something going with a girl who thought she had something going with Smedsberg.”

“What did Smedsberg think?” Winter wondered. For Christ’s sake…

“He remained neutral, as he put it.”

“Does this girl exist?”

“We have a name and a telephone number.” Halders gestured with his arms. “We called, but nobody answered. We checked the address and went there, but nobody was in. We managed to get into the apartment. But Kaite wasn’t there, nor was the girl.”

“Were you involved in this, Aneta?” Winter asked, but she shook her head: “I was in the car.”

Winter looked at Halders.

“Did you leave a note on the hall table asking her to call you when she got back home?” Winter asked, with acid in his voice.

“That didn’t occur to me!” said Halders, raising a finger to the skies.

“Do you believe Smedsberg?”

“I don’t believe anybody,” said Halders, “but he did give us her name. Josefin. Josefin Stenvång.”

“Smedsberg is the only one of these four guys who wasn’t injured,” said Ringmar.

“Do you see a connection there, Bertil?” Halders wondered.

“Eh?… What?”

“Four students and three injured. Four children and three uninjured. Do you see a connection?”

“What did you have for breakfast today, Fredrik?” Ringmar asked. “You’re just a little bit on overdrive.”

“Doesn’t the job we do depend on links, connections?” Halders said. “Or have I completely misunderstood everything?”

“Fredrik,” said Winter.

Halders turned around.

Is this the moment when the crisis is going to kick in? Winter thought. Fredrik has managed to keep going until now. Oddly enough. Is there madness in his eyes? No. Has he started to hyperventilate? Not yet. What can I say now, when I have his full attention? What direction can I point him in?

“Please let Bertil finish what he has to say,” said Winter.

“OK, OK,” said Halders.

“Anyway, we have Smedsberg,” said Ringmar. “He avoids the blow to the head. He’s not marked by a branding iron or whatever the damned thing is. He saw a newspaper delivery boy. He grew up on a farm. He suggests that the wounds might reveal a number that could lead us to a particular farm, or some kind of code or symbol that would do the same. He lives in the same student dorm as two of the other victims, Kaite and Stillman. Book as well, come to think of it. So far he has denied knowing any of them, including Book.”

“He’s also a Chalmers student,” said Halders.

“Oh, come on Fredrik, can’t you keep your comments to yourself for once?” said Helander. Halders didn’t seem to hear.

“We mentioned Jens Book,” Ringmar continued. “Studying journalism, but not at the moment. He’s still in Sahlgren Hospital. He’s gotten some mobility back on his right side. The latest report is positive, very positive in fact, and it looks like he’ll be able to walk again eventually.”