“Candy!” said Kalle, who wasn’t too concerned about details. Unfortunately.

“Was there a toy in the mister’s car, Kalle?”

“Brrrrruuuuuum.”

He drove the car in circles, in a figure eight. She saw his little head and thought of the injured Simon Waggoner, and Micke Johansson who had disappeared. Was there a connection? They didn’t know yet, so what could they do? They were doing their best at the moment.

Kalle Skarin might have met the same person as Micke Johansson. She thought about that again now. His head bowed over the car and the gray carpet that was thin but soft.

It had been a very short meeting. Why? What did he want from Kalle? Was Kalle a part of a pattern? The other children: Ellen, Maja, and then Simon. Was there a pattern in the different meetings? Were they building up toward something? Did the man change? Why did he assault Simon? Was that a step on the way? Was he preparing himself? For what? For Micke Johansson? She didn’t want to think about that, not now, not ever in fact.

Erik had spoken to the forensic psychologist. There were various possible scenarios, all of them frightening.

We have a goal, and that is to find Micke Johansson. Please help me, Kalle.

“Brrrruuuuuuumm,” said Kalle, and looked up. “Birdie.”

“What did you say, Kalle?”

“Birdie.”

“Did the mister have a birdie?”

“Birdie?” said Kalle, parking by the edge of the carpet.

“Was the birdie called Billy?”

“Birdie.”

“Birdie,” she repeated.

“Said Kalle. ‘Birdie,’ said Kalle!”

“I heard you say Birdie,” said Djanali.

Berit Skarin had been sitting in an armchair during the interview. Kalle had forgotten about her, as had Djanali. But she heard the mother’s voice now: “I think he means that the birdie said his name. Said Kalle to him.”

Winter had asked Maja Bergort about the mister’s birdie. She couldn’t remember a name. Was it a parrot? Winter had asked. The reply he got was not 100 percent certain. We’ll have to get pictures of all kinds of birds, he thought. Starting with parrots. Where in Gothenburg do they sell that kind of thing?

The parrot Maja Bergort spoke about was hanging from the rearview mirror, or so he gathered from his follow-up questions. If it really was a parrot. What she called a parrot might have been one of those tree-shaped things supposed to remove nasty smells from your car. No, not this time, not this one.

Maja’s arm gave a sudden twitch.

“Does your arm hurt, Maja?”

She shook her head.

Winter could hear Kristina Bergort moving around the house. He had asked her not to stay in the kitchen while he spoke to Maja. He heard her again, close by. Perhaps she was listening. Maja didn’t see her.

“Have you had a pain in your arm, Maja?”

The girl nodded solemnly.

“Was the mister nasty to you?” Winter asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Did the mister hit you?” Winter asked.

She was drawing circles now with the black pencil, circles, more and more circles.

“Did the mister hit you, Maja? The mister you sat in the car with? The mister with the birdie?”

She nodded now, up and down, without looking at Winter.

“Was that when you got those marks?” Winter asked.

He held his own arm, tapping at the inside of it.

She nodded without looking at him.

There was something wrong. She was drawing more circles now, one on top of the other, like a black hole on which the center grew smaller and smaller every time. The darkness at the end of the tunnel, Winter thought again. The same terrible thought.

There was something wrong here.

“What did the mister say when he hit you?” Winter asked.

“He said I was bad,” said Maja.

“That was a silly thing to say,” said Winter.

She nodded solemnly.

He thought of the difference between the truth and a lie. There was something evasive about Maja now. A lie, even if he had led her into telling it. Had the man hit her? Which man? There could be several reasons why children don’t say who did it. And there could be several reasons for why they tell lies. But in most cases they feel threatened, he thought, as Maja filled in her tunnel and started on a new one. Children are scared, they want to avoid being punished. They sometimes want to protect somebody they are dependent on. Children want to avoid feeling guilt, embarrassment, or shame. It can sometimes happen that the traumatization makes it impossible for them to distinguish between reality, fantasy, and dream.

“Did the mister hit you many times?” asked Winter. The man had become several now, or two.

She didn’t answer. The pencil had stopped moving, halfway through building a tunnel. Winter repeated his question.

She held up her hand, slowly. Winter could see three fingers pointing up at the ceiling.

“He hit you three times?” Winter asked.

She nodded, extremely solemnly now, and looked at him. He heard a deep intake of breath behind him, turned around, and saw Kristina Bergort, who could no longer hide behind the half-open kitchen door.

In the car on the way back he spoke to Bertil, who was in police headquarters going over all the interviews, which were spreading in all directions now-or maybe some of them were heading in the same direction.

“It’s very quiet here,” said Ringmar. “You can hear your own feet on the stairs.”

“Has Aneta come back yet?”

“No.”

“Is she aware that she has to wait until I get back?”

“Aneta is no doubt just as eager to speak to you as you are to her, Erik.”

He drove around the Näset roundabout. A car ahead of him had a Christmas tree strapped to its roof. It looked a bit desperate, a last-minute transaction.

“I think Bergort beats his daughter,” said Winter.

“Should we bring him in?” asked Ringmar without hesitation.

“Damned if I know, Bertil.”

“How sure are you?”

“I’m fairly certain. The girl made it very obvious, between the lines. With her body language.”

“What does her mother say?”

“She knows. Or suspects it, in any case.”

“But she hasn’t said anything?”

“You know how it is, Bertil.”

Silence.

Oh my God, what have I said? thought Winter.

“That’s not what I meant, Bertil.”

“OK, OK.”

“I tried to talk to her, but she seems to be scared as well. Or wants to protect him. Or both.”

“He seems to have a solid alibi,” said Ringmar.

They had checked up on all the parents involved, as far as possible. The problem with Bergort was that he didn’t work regular hours and had a lot of freedom. Was Magnus Himmler Bergort, as Halders called him (among other things), something more than just a child beater?

“Bring him in,” said Winter.

“Will he be in his office?”

“Yes.”

“OK.”

“I’m going to the Waggoners’ now,” said Winter.

They hung up. Winter drove along the main road leading to the other end of Änggården. Here comes Santa Claus. Have you all been good little boys and girls?

The traffic was denser than he’d expected. Normally he would be sitting with a cup of excellent coffee and a large sandwich of freshly roasted ham at this time-at least, that had been normal for the last three years. We’ll never get through it all, Angela always said. This is the best part, he would say. The first slice after roasting.

No Christmas ham this year, not here in Gothenburg. No Christmas tree, not at the moment at least. He saw several desperate men with Christmas trees on their car roofs, an odd sight for somebody on their first visit from, say, Andalucía. This is Sweden: Take up thy fir tree and drive. Where to? Why?

Porqué? He suddenly felt an intense longing for some peace and quiet, some food, a strong drink, a cigarillo, music, his woman, his child, his… life, the other one. He could see Maja’s face, the photograph of Micke on Bengt Johansson’s desk. Simon Waggoner. And just as suddenly the longing had vanished, he was back at work. He was on his way, on the move. You can never let yourself stop, as Birgersson used to say, but less often now. Never stand still. Never lack faith, never doubt, never let it get to you, never run away, never cry, always put up with everything. Bullshit, Winter thought. Birgersson had also gotten the message, but later.