“OK,” said Ringmar. “But so what? Was their attacker there as well?”

“I don’t know. But it’s a possibility.”

“So he was specifically out to get these three?”

“It’s a hypothesis,” said Halders.

“But you could just as well say he was ready to attack anybody at all he happened to come across,” said Ringmar. “Late, deserted, a drink or two to dull their wits.”

Halders got to his feet and walked over to the wall map of Gothenburg. He stretched both arms back over his shoulders, and Ringmar could hear his colleague’s joints creak. Halders glanced at him with what might have been a little grin, then turned to the map again and put his finger on it.

“Linnéplatsen the first time.” He moved his finger to the right. “Then Kapellplatsen.” He ran his finger downward. “And now Doktor Fries Square.” He turned around and looked at Ringmar. “A pretty limited area.” He looked back at the map. “Like a triangle.”

“Not all within walking distance, though,” said Ringmar.

“There’s such a thing as public transportation.”

“Not much of it late at night, though. No streetcars, for instance.”

“Night buses,” said Halders. “Or maybe the Hulk has a car. Or he just walks. The attacks weren’t all on the same night.”

“But why change location?” asked Ringmar.

“He probably thinks we have enough resources to keep an eye on the previous place,” said Halders. “So he doesn’t go back there.”

“Mmm.”

“But we don’t.”

“There’s something about these places,” said Ringmar. “It’s not just coincidence.” Then he added as if talking to himself: “It rarely is.”

Halders made no comment, but he knew what Ringmar meant. The location of a violent assault was often significant. The attacker, or the victim, nearly always had some kind of link with that particular spot, even if it wasn’t obvious from the start. The location is always key. Always start off with the location. Spread your search out from there.

“I’ve had a word with Birgersson,” said Ringmar. “After the Guldheden incident. We’re probably going to get a few more officers so that we can knock on a few more doors.”

Halders could see the superintendent in his mind’s eye. As scraggy as the vegetation in the far north where he grew up, chain-smoking after yet another failed attempt to quit.

“What about the triangle?” asked Halders. “The triangle theory? Add the third line and you’ve got a right triangle.” Halders ran his finger over the map from Doktor Fries Square to Linnéplatsen.

“No. You’re the first to come up with that fascinating link.”

“Cut the sarcasm, Bertil. You’re too nice a guy for that kind of thing.” Halders grinned. “But Birgersson has a soft spot when it comes to math, I know that, especially geometrical shapes.”

Halders grinned again. Maybe it was Sture Birgersson who did it. Nobody could fathom the man. Once a year he would disappear, nobody knew where. Winter maybe, but maybe not. Maybe Sture was wandering around the streets in a black cloak, wielding the mechanical cloudberry picker he’d had as a kid and using it to draw crosses on students’ heads. Halders could picture his silhouette in the light from the street lamp: Doctor Sture. Afterward, Mister Birgersson. One might ask which of them was worse.

“So you think we’d get more officers because we can see a geometrical shape here?” wondered Ringmar.

“Of course.”

“And the more it changes, the more men we’d get?”

“Obviously. If the triangle turns into a square, it means that the Hulk has struck again.”

“I’ll stick with the triangle,” said Ringmar.

Halders went back to the desk.

“If they give us a few more detectives we might be able to do a proper check on what buses were running those nights,” he said. “Talk to the drivers. There can’t be all that many of them.”

“Taxis,” said Ringmar.

“Are you crazy? Our dark-skinned friends are all operating without a license. When’s the last time we got any useful information from a cabbie?”

“I can’t remember,” said Ringmar.

The sun made everything look even more bare. Yes, that was how it was. You could see what it was really like. Nothing existed anymore, just the trunks and branches of trees, and the ground.

The sun isn’t serving any useful purpose here, he thought. It belongs somewhere else now. Take off.

The children had spilled off the streetcar at Linnéplatsen. It was always the same, day after day. They always walked in a long line over the dead grass of the soccer field in the middle of the square.

Sometimes he followed them.

He’d parked his car on the other side, where the children were headed.

It was the first time he’d driven to this place.

He’d talked to the boy in his car. That had happened once.

He wanted to do it again. No. No. No! He’d shouted out loud during the night. No!

Yes. Here he was. Just because he wanted to… see, get… close. No big deal.

The long procession of children broke up, and they spread out in all directions. One little girl disappeared into some bushes, emerged on the other side, then turned back again, going around the bushes this time. He looked at the two women in charge and could tell they hadn’t noticed her.

Just think if some stranger had been standing behind the bushes when the little girl emerged on the other side?

There she was again, around the bushes once more, and then back to the other children.

He carried her in his arms; she was as light as a feather. Nobody noticed him; the trees were leafless, but they were densely packed. The surprise when he lifted her up and carried her off. Is this really me doing this? His hand placed so gently over her mouth. It all went so quickly. There’s the car. You can drive in and park here, but nobody ever thinks of doing that. Probably think it’s not possible, or not allowed.

This is just something I draped over here. Let’s lift it up and go into the tent. Yes, this is a tent. Let’s pretend!

We’ve got a radio. Listen, the nice man’s saying something. Did you hear that? They’re going to play some music.

Now, let’s see what we’ve got here. You can take whatever you like. There’s lots of interesting things here.

What lovely hair you have! What’s your name? You don’t know? Yeees, of course you do!

This is Bill. That’s his name. Bill. Billy Boy. He can fly. See that? Fly fly fly.

Ellen? Is your name Ellen? That’s a lovely name. A splendid name. Do you know what my mom was called? No, how could you know that?

What do you think, wasn’t it a marvelous name, my mom’s?

Have some more. Take the whole bag.

He… he… here it co-co-co-co-comes…

He moved his hand lightly over the girl’s head. Her hair was like the down on a baby bird, a little fledgling whose heart you could feel beating when you touched it. He’d felt that once on a little bird that was even smaller than Bill. He was just as small as a bird too, in those days.

He touched her again. The man on the radio was saying something. He found it difficult to breathe, rolled down the window, and found some air he could breathe. He touched the girl again, that down, all those tiny bones. She said something.

Evening was closing in. Clear outlines. The sun lingered there between the houses, like a memory that Winter breathed in. He could feel the late autumn air between drags as he stood smoking. Winter was closing in. He looked down on Vasaplatsen, and watched people heading off, gradually leaving the square deserted. Everybody was going home, by bus, streetcar, or car, and leaving him and his family behind, here where they belonged.