He woke up in darkness. The alarm clock was screeching seven.

Ringmar was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in front of him. The darkness outside was lighter because of the thin covering of snow everywhere. Ringmar was reading the newspaper.

“You’re already up,” said Winter.

“I never went to sleep.”

There was coffee in the pot. Winter prepared a cheese sandwich. He was shivering in his bathrobe.

“Professor Christianson, a research genius in the psychology department here in Gothenburg has concluded that the police should rethink the way they conduct interrogations,” said Ringmar, staring hard at the newspaper.

“Sounds interesting,” said Winter, and took a bite of his sandwich.

“He maintains that we’ve always thought that somebody who’s telling lies is shifty-eyed, seems nervous, and gesticulates a lot.” Ringmar gave a laugh, loud, brief, and sarcastic. “This white knight who has come to rescue us in our distress has concluded that liars don’t act like that!” Ringmar looked up at Winter and quoted: “ ‘Liars often look you straight in the eye and tell their lies calmly.’ ”

“Just think, if we’d only known that,” said Winter. “Now our interviewing methodology will be revolutionized.”

“All those mistakes we’ve made,” said Ringmar.

“Thank God for academic research,” said Winter.

Ringmar continued reading the article, then gave another laugh:

“I’ll quote you some more: ‘Research also shows that it is easier to expose a lie when the interrogation is recorded on video than when using the standard method.’ ”

Winter laughed, just as briefly and sarcastically. “And we’ve only been using the video technique for five years now.”

“Without knowing why,” said Ringmar.

“Get this on our intranet, pronto,” said Winter.

“To be on the safe side he states that the judicial authorities are badly informed about modern forensic psychology but have promised to read up on it,” said Ringmar. “Hallelujah.”

“But first he will have to write the books for them,” said Winter.

“I wonder what Professor Christianson thinks about this,” said Ringmar.

“I don’t think he needs any sympathy,” said Winter.

“Gesticulates a lot,” said Ringmar, “shifty-eyed.”

“Sounds like a film by Fritz Lang.

Doctor Mabuse, M.”

“Maybe Göteborgs Posten found this research report in an old archive?” Ringmar suggested.

“Researcher,” said Winter. “They found the researcher there.”

Ringmar looked for further wisdom in the article.

“This might be interesting despite everything. Our researcher has noticed that parents are better than others at detecting lies. They can also detect when other people’s children are not telling the truth. Adults without children are significantly worse at it.” Ringmar looked up. “We’re OK on that score, Erik.” Then his face fell, and despite his purported lack of knowledge about human behavior, Winter knew immediately what Ringmar was thinking.

Winter’s mobile rang on the countertop, where it was recharging. He could reach it without standing up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Lars here.”

Bergenhem’s voice sounded small, as if it were coming from a tunnel.

“What’s up?”

“Carolin Johansson overdosed,” said Bergenhem. “Micke’s mother. Some kind of pills, they don’t know yet.”

“Is she alive?”

“Barely.”

“Is she alive or isn’t she?”

“She’s alive,” said Bergenhem.

“There were no drugs at her place,” said Winter. “We should have a record.”

“Sleeping pills, they think. She had visitors at the time,” said Bergenhem.

“I want to know exactly who was there,” said Winter.

“That’s not so-”

“I want to know, Lars. See to it.”

“OK.”

“Is she in Östra Hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Do we have somebody there?”

“Sara.”

“OK. How’s the father taking it? Where is he?”

“He’s there as well.”

“Who’s keeping an eye on his telephone?”

“Two new officers. I don’t know their names. Möllerström can ask-”

“Forget it for the time being. Have you spoken to Bengt Johansson this morning?”

“No.”

Just as well, Winter thought. I’ll stop in on him this afternoon at his home. Assuming he’s back there by then.

Bertil had gathered what had happened, and stood up.

“Time for a day’s work,” he said. “Another day’s work. Christmas Eve or no Christmas Eve.” He looked at Winter. “They work on Christmas Eve in the USA.”

“How are you feeling, Bertil?”

“Excellent after a good night’s wake.”

“Won’t Birgitta be looking for you?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“You know where you stand with me, Bertil,” said Winter.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I believe you,” said Winter.

“How can you be so sure, Erik? Just because I’m swaying around like a Christmas tree in a storm and blinking like a lighthouse it doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m telling the truth.”

Winter couldn’t help smiling.

“You’re not swaying and you’re not blinking.”

“Oh shit, then I’m really screwed.”

“Never read newspapers,” said Winter.

“I didn’t even show you the front page,” said Ringmar.

“I can imagine,” said Winter.

“And it’s not even a tabloid,” said Ringmar.

He went into the hall.

“I’ll be going now. Merry Christmas again.”

“See you shortly,” shouted Winter, but the door had already closed.

He went to his desk and checked the telephone number he had added to his computer notes. He dialed it.

“Hello?”

The voice could belong to anybody, could be young, could be old. There was a noise in the background that he couldn’t identify.

“I’m looking for Mats Jerner.”

“Wh-wh-who’s asking?”

“Are you Mats Jerner?”

“Yes…”

“My name’s Erik Winter, I’m a detective chief inspector. I’d like to meet you. Preferably today. This afternoon.”

“It’s Ch-Ch-Christmas Eve,” said Jerner.

It’s Christmas Eve for me too, Winter thought.

“It will only take a couple of minutes,” said Winter.

“What’s it about?”

“We’re investigating a series of vicious attacks and, well, one of the victims comes from your home district, and we’re trying to get in touch with everybody who’s had cont-”

“How do you know where I come from?” asked Jerner.

Winter noticed that he sounded calmer. That was often the case. If you mentioned that you were a police officer, and especially a DCI, most people’s voices sounded a bit unsteady at first.

“We’ve spoken to your foster father,” said Winter.

Jerner said nothing.

“Mr. Jerner?”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to meet you today.”

Silence again. That noise again.

“Hello? Jerner?”

“I can come to see you this afternoon,” said Jerner.

“Do you mean come to police headquarters?”

“Isn’t that where you work?”

“Yes…” said Winter, looking around his apartment.

“When do you want me to come?”

Winter looked at his watch.

“Four,” he said.

“That’s fine,” said Jerner. “I finish up at twenty to.”

“Finish up?”

“Finish my shift.”

“What’s your work?”

“I’m a streetcar driver.”

“I see. It sounded a minute ago as if you wanted to keep Christmas Eve… free.”

“It was just because of the ph-ph-phone call,” said Jerner. “Realizing that you’re at work on Christmas Eve. Calling people up and asking questions and telling them to come in for more questioning and all that. Ordering them, or whatever the right word is. That was what surprised me.”

It’s not an order, Winter thought.

“What do I do, then?” asked Jerner.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I need to know where in police headquarters I should report to, don’t I? Or do you expect me to find my own way around the building?”