“That it will get worse,” she said.

“Yes.”

“That it could go on and on.”

“Yes.”

“But what can be done, though?” she asked. “Lock up the children? Have armed guards posted at day nurseries and children’s playgrounds, and schools?”

“It might be enough if there were more staff.”

“Ha!”

“But there’s no hundred percent certain way of stopping anybody who’s determined to hurt somebody.”

“So all you can do is wait?”

“Certainly not.”

“What would happen if the press announced that there was somebody out there. Waiting. Or preparing himself.”

“It wouldn’t be good,” he said.

“But what if you have to? What if you’re forced to inform the public?”

“There are various ways of doing that.”

“I’ve seen that little boy, Waggoner.” He could hear her breathing. “How is that possible? Eh? What makes a person do something like that?”

How is it possible to be rational and clear in reply to a question like that, he thought.

“I know there simply isn’t a rational and clear answer to that kind of question, but it has to be asked, don’t you think?” He could see that she was looking at him now. He could see a glint in her eye. “Don’t you think? Why? You have to ask why?”

“The answer to that question is what we’re always looking for,” he said.

“Is it enough?”

“Discovering why? I don’t know. Sometimes there is nothing.”

“No reason, you mean?”

“Yes. Why does somebody commit a serious crime? Is there only one reason? Is there a series of different reasons? Are they linked? Is it possible to analyze them logically? Should one even try to think logically if the crime, or crimes, are driven by chance and a lack of logic?” He looked at her again. “There could be so many possibilities. It could be pure lunacy, acute mental illness. Bad memories. Revenge.”

“Is that common? Revenge?”

“Yes. Revenge against somebody who has treated you badly. Directly or indirectly. Yes, it certainly is common. It can go a long way back.”

“A long way back in time?”

“A long way back,” said Winter again. “The past casts shadows. You know that. It happens so often. To find the answers now you have to pin down a

then. What happens now has its origins in that then.”

“So that could apply in this case as well? With the assaults on those students? As well as to the abuse of the boy?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“They are two different things, but still.”

“Hmm.”

“Aren’t they two different things?”

“Well…”

“You’re hesitating.”

“No, I’m thinking about this searching backward through time. Digging. Looking for answers.”

“You and your colleagues are acting like investigative journalists, you mean?”

“No. More like archaeologists. Archaeologists of crime.”

27

THE “WANTED” MESSAGE SENT OUT IN CONNECTION WITH ARYAN Kaite attracted a big response, but none of the tips led them to him, nor him to them.

“Anything new from the African clubs?” asked Fredrik Halders as they drove up through the hilly eastern suburbs to his house.

“No,” said Aneta Djanali. “He’s not a member. They knew who he was, of course, but he’s not on the membership rolls.”

“Are you a member?”

“Am I a member of what, exactly?”

“The Ougadougou Club.”

“What if I were to take you to Ougadougou, Fredrik? I sometimes think you dream about Ougadougou. You’re always talking about the place.”

“Isn’t everybody?” asked Halders.

Aneta Djanali was born in Eastern General Hospital in Gothenburg to African parents, immigrants from Burkino Faso, who had left their homeland when it was still called Upper Volta. Her father had trained in Sweden as an engineer, and they’d returned home when Aneta was about to become an adult. She had chosen to stay in Sweden. Of course. Her father now lived alone in a little house in the capital, and his house was the same bleached color as the sand surrounding the city. Everything there was hot, biting air (or blue frozen air), and people always cherished the same dreams about water that never came. Aneta had been back, if that was the right expression. It was a foreign country as far as she was concerned. She had immediately felt at home, but that was it-as if the expression “Home is where the heart is” had lost its meaning. She knew that she would never be able to live there: But, nevertheless, it would always be home.

She parked outside Halders’s house, where Advent candles were illuminating one of the windows.

“I can pick up Hannes and Magda, if you like,” she said, as he got out of the car.

“I thought you had a lot to do.”

“That can wait.” She gave a laugh. “I was going to get some tapioca root and dried bananas, but I’ve got enough to last me.”

“But what if your club throws a party tonight?”

“And what if people start taking your racist jokes seriously, Fredrik?”

“I don’t even want to think about that,” he said.

“Would you like me to pick them up, then?”

“Yes, please. I can make dinner for you.” She turned around with the door half open. “I’ve got sand cakes.”

“Yes, OK,” said Djanali, and drove off.

Winter was in Birgersson’s office. His boss was smoking in the semidarkness.

The pillars holding up Ullevi Stadium were splayed out behind him, against a clear evening sky. Winter could see a star.

“What are you doing for Christmas, Erik?”

“ Spain. Costa del Sol. If I can get away.”

“I hope you can’t.”

“I know what you’re saying, but even so I don’t understand.”

Birgersson grunted and tapped the ash off his cigarette.

“When are you going to start interrogating the children?” he asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“It’s going to be hard.”

Winter didn’t answer. He leaned forward and lit a Corps with a match, which he let burn for a few seconds. Birgersson smiled.

“Thank you for the Christmas atmosphere,” he said.

“They speak pretty well,” said Winter, letting the smoke float up. “More or less like adults.”

Birgersson grunted again.

“We’ve got quite a lot to go on,” said Winter.

“In the old days, which were not so long ago, we’d have said that a child was burned out after one interrogation,” said Birgersson. “It wouldn’t be possible to extract any more information after that.” He studied the smoke from Winter’s cigarillo. “But now we let the memories ripen. The images.”

“Hmm.”

“Let’s assume for the moment that all this actually occurred,” said Birgersson. “That what the children say is true. That these incidents did happen as described.”

“Simon Waggoner hasn’t said anything,” said Winter.

“But in his case, we know,” said Birgersson. “There’s no doubt about it.”

Winter thought.

“He has something that entices them,” he said.

“Is it just one thing? The same thing every time?”

“Let’s assume that for the time being,” said Winter.

“Go on.”

“And they have something that he wants.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He’s out to get something from these children. A thing. A souvenir he can take with him.”

“He wants them for himself, is that it? He wants… the children.”

“Let’s leave that for the moment,” said Winter. He drew on his cigarillo again. He could still see the star, and another one. It was as if he could see more clearly when he thought as he was thinking now. “He takes something from them. He wants to take it home with him. Or to have it in his possession.”

“Why?” asked Birgersson.

“It’s got something to do with… with himself. With the person he once was.”

“The person he once was?”

“When he was like they are now. When he was a child.”

“We know what he’s taken,” said Birgersson. “A watch, a ball, and some kind of jewelery.”