“And none of the others noticed anything?”

“I don’t know. As I said, I sort of forgot all about it. Until now.”

Winter stood up. Thought. He could see the group in his mind’s eye. Staff first, in the middle, and at the back. He’d seen a set up like that lots of times. What did they do? Pause, fuss around, carry on. It was December now. Not long to go before the holidays. Everybody was caught up in the spirit. Something to celebrate coming up. Everybody on vacation. In a way, the holiday had already started. What do you do when there’s a holiday mood in the air? You sing. Dance. Have fun. Perhaps you might want to record these moments, or this mood. Record it. Watch it again later. Record it. Keep it.

He looked at Lisbeth Augustsson.

“Did any of you have a video camera with you when you went out?”

“Er… No.”

“An ordinary camera, perhaps?”

“Er…”

He could see that she was thinking hard.

“Did any of you have a camera with you when you went out on this excursion?”

Lisbeth Augustsson looked at Winter with a curious expression.

“Good Lord! Anette had her camera with her! An ordinary film camera. She might have taken a few pictures when we were crossing the soccer field. She said she was going to take some, but I was looking in the other direction.” Lisbeth Augustsson looked at her boss and at Winter again. “She might have a picture of him!”

“Could be,” said Winter.

“Amazing that you thought of that,” she said.

“We’d have found out anyway when we spoke to the others,” Winter said. “Where can I get hold of Anette?”

Ringmar was waiting for Gustav Smedsberg. He could hear voices in the corridor, somebody trying to sing a Christmas carol. The echo was not to anybody’s advantage. A peal of laughter, a woman’s voice. Detectives winding down for the holiday.

But here we are not winding down, we’re winding up, up, up.

He called home but there was no reply. Birgitta ought to be at home by now. He needed to ask her what she wanted him to buy from the market.

He tried Moa’s mobile. “The number you have called cannot be reached at this time.”

He would have liked to call Martin, if he’d known what to say.

The phone call came from the duty officer. Smedsberg was waiting downstairs in the cozy foyer, “the charm suite,” as Halders called the reception rooms. The first stimulating contact the general public had with the police authorities, step one on the way to the ombudsman.

Gustav Smedsberg looked thin, standing on the other side of the security door. He seemed underdressed, wearing a cap that appeared to be more of an accessory than anything else. Denim jacket, a thin T-shirt underneath. Open neck. The boy’s face was expressionless; he might have been bored stiff. Ringmar beckoned to him.

“This way,” he said.

Smedsberg was shivering in the elevator up.

“It’s cold out there,” said Ringmar.

“Started yesterday,” said Smedsberg. “A bastard of a wind.”

“You haven’t gotten around to digging out your winter clothes, I take it?”

“These are my winter clothes,” said Smedsberg, scrutinizing the buttons in the elevator. He shivered again, and again, like sudden tics.

“I thought you were used to chilly winds where you come from out on the flats,” said Ringmar. “And how to protect yourself from them.”

Smedsberg didn’t respond.

They exited the elevator. The brick walls were a big help to anybody who wanted to suppress the Christmas atmosphere. The thought had occurred to Ringmar that morning. Or perhaps in his case he had lost the Christmas spirit already. Birgitta had said nothing when he got up. He knew she was awake, she always was. Silent. He’d said a few words, but she’d just rolled over onto her other side.

“Please come in,” he said, ushering Smedsberg into his office.

Smedsberg paused in the doorway. Ringmar could see his profile, a nose curved like that of his father. Perhaps there was something in his bearing reminiscent of the old man as well. And in his accent, although the boy’s was less pronounced.

“Please sit down.”

Smedsberg sat down, hesitantly, as if he were ready to leave at any moment.

“Will this take long?” he asked.

“No.”

“What’s it about, then?”

“The same thing we’ve talked about before,” said Ringmar.

“I don’t know any more about it than I did then,” said Smedsberg. “He stirred things up about Josefin, and that’s about it.”

“What do you mean? Who’s ‘he’?”

“Aryan, of course. Isn’t he the one we’ve been talking about all the time?”

“There are others involved as well,” said Ringmar.

“I don’t know them, like I said.”

“Jakob Stillman lived in the same building as you.”

“So did a hundred others. A thousand.”

“You said before that you didn’t know Aryan Kaite.”

“Yes, yes.” Smedsberg shook his head dismissively.

“What does that mean?”

“What does what mean?”

“Yes, yes. What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Snap out of it,” said Ringmar, sternly.

“What’s the matter?” said Smedsberg, more alert now, but still with a remote, bored expression that wouldn’t disappear that easily.

“We are investigating serious violent crimes, and we need help,” said Ringmar. “People who lie to us are not being helpful.”

“Have I committed a crime?” Smedsberg asked.

“Why did you tell us you didn’t know Aryan Kaite?”

“I didn’t think it was significant.” He looked at Ringmar, who could see a sort of cold intelligence in his eyes.

“What do you think now, then?” asked Ringmar.

Smedsberg shrugged.

“Why didn’t you want to tell us that you knew somebody who’d been assaulted the same way you almost were?”

“I didn’t think it was all that important. And I still think it was just coincidence.”

“Really?”

“The argument I had with Aryan had nothing to do with anything… anything like this.”

“What did it have to do with?”

“Like I said before. He misunderstood something.”

“What did he misunderstand?”

“Look, why should I answer that question?”

“What did he misunderstand?” said Ringmar again.

“Er, that he had something going with Josefin.” Gustav Smedsberg seemed to smile, or at least give a little grin. “But he hadn’t checked with her.”

“Where do you fit in, then?”

“She wanted to be with me.”

“And what did you want?”

“I wanted to be free.”

“So why did you have an argument with Kaite, then?” Ringmar asked.

“No idea. You’d better ask him.”

“We can’t do that, can we? He disappeared.”

“Oh yes, that’s true.”

“The girl vanished as well. Josefin Stenvång.”

“Yes, that’s odd.”

“You don’t seem to be particularly worried.”

Smedsberg didn’t answer. His face gave nothing away. Ringmar could hear a voice outside in the hall, a voice he didn’t recognize.

“You and Kaite were such good friends that you both went to your home to help out with the potato picking,” said Ringmar.

Smedsberg still didn’t answer.

“Didn’t you?” said Ringmar.

“So you’ve been to my dad’s, have you?” said Smedsberg. All I need to do is to mention die heimat, Ringmar thought, and the boy’s back home again on that godforsaken plain.

“Didn’t you?” said Ringmar again.

“If you say so,” said Smedsberg.

“Why didn’t you tell us about your friendship with Aryan Kaite?” Ringmar asked.

Smedsberg didn’t answer.

“What did your dad think of him?” Ringmar asked.

“Leave the old man out of this.”

“Why?”

“Just leave him out.”

“He’s already in,” said Ringmar. “And I have to ask you about another matter that is linked to this business.”

Ringmar asked about Natanael Carlström’s foster son.

“Yes, there was one, I guess,” said Smedsberg.

“Do you know him?”

“No. He moved out before I-well, before I grew up.”