Maja Bergort had also heard bad words.

Simon Waggoner had nodded. Perhaps he had heard them as well.

“He has a special time,” said Winter. “He goes on his excursions at the same time.”

Djanali suddenly went cold at the thought.

Ringmar nodded.

“Is that because of his job?” wondered Djanali. “His work?”

“That’s possible,” said Winter. “It’s during the day. He has to adapt. He does shift work. Or he doesn’t work at all and so has all the time in the world.”

“But even so, it always happens at the same time?” said Djanali.

“We don’t know that for certain,” said Winter. “I’m just thinking out loud.”

“Who is the man swearing on the radio?” asked Djanali.

“Fred Gustavsson,” said Ringmar. “He swears all the time.” He looked at Djanali. “Radio Gothenburg. He’s been on ever since it started.”

“Is he still on now?” asked Winter.

“I don’t know,” said Ringmar. “But if there’s somebody saying bad words on the radio it’s bound to be him.”

“Find out if he’s still working for Radio Gothenburg, and if so when that program is broadcast,” said Winter.

Ringmar nodded.

Djanali wound back to the beginning and pressed “play” again.

“Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa,” said Ellen Sköld.

Winter didn’t listen this time, he simply tried to study her face, her facial expressions. That was the main reason they used the video recorder. Her face was in a separate picture now.

There was something there. In her face. In her mouth. Her eyes.

“She’s aping somebody!” said Winter. “She’s imitating somebody!”

“Yes,” said Djanali. “It’s not her face anymore.”

“It’s not her own face when she says her pa-pa-pa-pa-pa,” said Winter.

“She’s imitating him,” said Ringmar.

“Bi-bi-bi-bi-bi,” said Winter.

“Co-co-co-co-co,” said Ringmar.

“Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa,” said Winter.

“What is she trying to say?” asked Ringmar.

“It’s not what she’s trying to say,” said Winter. “It’s what he’s trying to say to her.”

“Pa-pa-pa-pa-parrot,” said Djanali.

Winter nodded.

“He stutters,” said Djanali, looking at Winter, who nodded again. “He stutters when he talks to the children.”

They were sitting in Winter’s office. Ringmar had called for Thai delivery in attractive cardboard cartons. Winter could taste coriander and coconut with prawns in red chili paste. It was spicy, and he could feel the beads of sweat on his forehead.

“Anyway, Merry Christmas,” said Aneta Djanali, waving her chopstick in the air.

“It’s not head cheese and red cabbage, I’m afraid,” said Ringmar.

“Thank God for that,” said Djanali.

“Do you eat any of the traditional Swedish Christmas meals?” asked Ringmar.

“I was born here in Gothenburg,” said Djanali.

“I know that. But the question stands.”

“Do you think it’s genetic, or something?” she said, fishing up a prawn with her chopsticks.

“God only knows,” said Ringmar. “I’m just curious.”

“Jansson’s Temptation,” she said. “I just love the herring baked in cream with onions and potatoes.”

“Did your African parents make Jansson’s Temptation at Christmas-time?” asked Ringmar, dropping a lump of chicken, which fell back into the carton.

“Thai food shouldn’t be eaten with chopsticks,” said Winter. “We can blame Chinese restaurants for drumming the wrong idea into our heads. The Thais use a fork and spoon.”

“Thank you for that, Mr. Know-it-all,” said Ringmar, “but couldn’t you have mentioned that sooner?”

“It was just a thought,” said Winter. An attempt to distract you, he thought.

“Do you have any forks in your office?” Ringmar asked.

“In Thailand they never stick the fork in their mouths,” said Winter in an exaggeratedly pompous tone of voice. “It’s just as bad as when we put a knife into our mouths.”

“No wonder they’re all so small and thin,” said Ringmar.

“You’ve got it all wrong, Bertil,” said Djanali. “You can shovel more food down if you use a spoon.”

“Do you have any spoons in your office, Erik?” Ringmar asked.

It was dusk. Winter had turned on the lights in his office. He was smoking by the window, the day’s first Corps. It was a must after the food, even though the chili and coriander didn’t really go with the spices in the cigarillo.

He could see the stars, very faintly. It might just be a clear Christmas Eve evening. A sky full of stars. The silent beauty in the sky. He thought of Simon Waggoner. He had decided not to do any telephone interviews. That might only confuse the boy, spoil the possibilities.

He took a drag at his cigarillo. He had a taste of roasted onion in his mouth that disappeared, thanks to the smoke. Many thanks. Peeling an onion, he thought. This job is like peeling an onion, layer after layer. What will be in the center? That’s our problem, isn’t it, Erik? An onion is made up of its layers. When the last one has gone, there’s nothing left. But we keep on peeling.

He heard a streetcar approaching before he saw it. A distant and muffled clattering on the tracks.

They’d talked about it.

“Chasing after a streetcar?” Ringmar had said.

“Follow the tracks,” Djanali had repeated. “Why streetcar lines, or streetcar tracks, Erik?”

“It was the first thing I thought of,” he’d said. “I was standing in the Allé and I could see the streetcars and the streetcar lines and I just associated them with what Simon had said.”

That was where they had gotten to now. He turned around.

“Be careful,” said Ringmar.

“I know,” said Winter. “But we don’t have much time. If an idea pops up, you go with it.”

“But what if we think of other tracks?” said Djanali.

“We should,” said Ringmar.

“His own tracks,” said Djanali. “He was driving around with Simon and following his own tracks.”

“A criminal returns to the scene of the crime,” said Ringmar. “Or retraces his tracks.”

“What were his tracks?” wondered Winter.

“Where he’d been before with the children,” said Djanali.

“But then the question is:

Why there?” said Winter. “If we assume that the places weren’t chosen at random, that there was a reason why he picked those particular ones.”

“Maybe he lives nearby?” said Djanali.

“Near what?” said Ringmar. “The locations of those playgrounds and day nurseries cover an area several kilometers in diameter.”

“Near one or more of them,” said Djanali.

“We’ve already followed up that possibility,” said Ringmar. “We’re checking up on all the various housing estates.”

“But he might not live there at all,” said Winter. “The point could be that he lives for away from all the places.”

“Which are quite close to one another nevertheless,” said Djanali, glancing at Ringmar. “Central. Apart from Marconigatan.”

“Which is only ten minutes by streetcar from Linnéplatsen,” said Ringmar.

Winter took another drag at his cigarillo. He could feel the chill from the open window.

“Say that again, Bertil.”

“Er, what?”

“What you just said.”

“Er, well… Marconigatan, which is only a ten-minute streetcar ride away from Linnéplatsen. But the same from lots of other places as well, I assume.”

“The streetcar,” Winter said.

“Wasn’t the idea that we should forget the streetcar link for a moment or two?” asked Djanali.

“Where were we, then?” said Winter.

“A criminal returns to the scene of the crime,” said Ringmar.

“I want to drive around with Simon again,” said Winter. “It’s necessary. It might work better this time.”

“Does he remember what route they took?”

“I don’t know,” said Winter. “Probably not. But we know where he was picked up, and we know where he was dropped off. Obviously, we know the area in between-but there are lots of possible routes. Then again, there can’t be that many different ways of getting from A to B.”