“Hello Winter, it’s Björck in the front office. You have a visitor. A Mr. Jerner, Mats Jerner.”

Winter looked at his watch. Jerner was an hour late. He’d forgotten about him, forgotten about him altogether. Had anything like this ever happened before? Not as far as he could remember. All that flashed through his mind before he said: “I’ll be right down.”

He spoke into his mobile again: “I’ll call you back a little later, Angela. Say hello to Mother in the meantime.”

“I can hear that you’re working.”

“It’s not in vain,” he said. “I love you.”

The visitor was still standing in the waiting room. He could be around Winter’s age, possibly a bit older. I know roughly how old he is. Carlström told us.

Winter opened the glass door.

“Mats Jerner? Erik Winter.”

Jerner nodded and they shook hands in the doorway. His hair was blond and his eyes blue. He was wearing a brown Tenson jacket and blue jeans, and heavy shoes suitable for the current weather. He was carrying a briefcase under his left arm. His hand was cold. Winter saw that he was carrying his gloves in his left hand. Jerner’s eyes had a transparent intensity that almost made Winter want to turn around in order to see what the man was looking at straight through his head.

“We’ll take the elevator up,” said Winter.

Jerner stood beside him without speaking. He avoided looking in the mirror.

“Are there any passengers at all at this time on Christmas Eve?” Winter asked as they stepped out of the elevator.

Jerner nodded again, straight ahead.

“No problems with snow on the lines?” Winter asked.

“No.”

They entered Winter’s office.

“Would you like coffee or something?” asked Winter.

Jerner shook his head.

Winter walked to his desk chair and gestured toward the visitor’s chair opposite. He had recently had a sofa and armchairs installed in one corner, but this was better for the moment.

“Well,” said Winter, “we’re trying to solve a series of attacks on young men here in Gothenburg. As I explained on the telephone.”

Jerner nodded.

How can I put this? Winter thought. You haven’t by any chance stolen a branding iron from your foster father’s farm, have you? Or two?

“The fact is, weapons that could have been used in these assaults have been stolen from your foster father’s farm. Natanael Carlström.” Winter looked at Jerner. “He is your foster father, is that right?”

Jerner nodded, and said: “One of them.”

“Did you have several?” Winter asked.

Jerner nodded.

“Living in that area?”

Jerner shook his head.

He’s the silent type, Winter thought. But you’ve met your match.

He hasn’t said a word about arriving over an hour late for an interview at police headquarters. Doesn’t even seem to be aware of the fact. Some people are like that. Lucky them.

“Have you heard your foster father say anything about a robbery?”

“No.”

Jerner crossed his legs, then recrossed them in the other direction. He had put his gloves on the table in front of him. Something was bulging in the left-hand pocket of his jacket. Maybe a hat of some kind.

Maybe he gets a discount on Tenson jackets, Winter thought. The Tenson League has threatened its way to a deal.

The Tenson League was the popular name for the inspectors working on Gothenburg’s streetcars, sullen men and women who had a lot to put up with as they rode the streetcars looking for fare dodgers. Halders had once been caught, and spent the whole afternoon on the telephone trying to convince the man in charge of his innocence, pleading absentmindedness, police business-no, not that-taking the kids to nursery school, taking his car to Mölndal for repairs, or whatever. But he had failed. Halders had never set foot on a Gothenburg streetcar after that.

“Did you ever see one of those branding irons?” Winter asked.

Jerner shook his head.

“But you knew about them?”

Jerner nodded.

We’ll have to put a stop to this, Winter thought. He doesn’t want to speak.

“When were you last at home?”

Jerner looked confused.

“I mean at Carlström’s.”

“I d-don’t know,” said Jerner.

“What month?”

“No-november, I think.”

“What did he say about the theft?”

Jerner shrugged.

“He told me he mentioned it to you.”

“Possibly,” said Jerner. Nothing else.

Winter stood up and went to the ugly filing cabinet he tried to hide behind the door. He retrieved a folder, returned to his desk, and took out the photographs.

“Do you recognize this person?” he asked, holding out a photograph of Aryan Kaite.

Jerner shook his head.

“He’s one of the young men who was attacked.”

Jerner seemed uninterested, as if he were looking at a stranger.

“He’s also visited your home village,” said Winter. “He knows Gustav Smedsberg.” Winter looked at Jerner. “Do you know anybody called Smedsberg?”

The man seemed to be thinking that over. He brushed his thin blond hair to the side. It was long.

He looks as if I’d asked him a perfectly normal follow-up question, Winter thought. No “Who’s Gustav Smedsberg?” He recognizes the name, or he’s trying to look uninterested. It’s been a long day. For him, for me. This conversation is getting nowhere. He can go home, I can go home. He has nothing to do with this. Or maybe he did steal the irons, maybe even used them. No. Not him. The only odd thing is that he seems to be able to keep on sitting here without getting annoyed. He was annoyed before, irritated, on the telephone. But now. Now he’s shaking his head.

“Georg Smedsberg?” said Winter.

“No.”

“A neighbor.”

Jerner’s calm face moved slightly to one side, perhaps as a protest: Smedsberg isn’t a neighbor. Too far away.

“Gerd,” said Winter.

The man gave a start. He looked at Winter, raised his head slightly. His eyes still had that same transparency.

“When did you meet Gerd?” Winter asked.

“Wh-what Gerd?”

“The Gerd who was one of your neighbors.”

What does she have to do with this business? He doesn’t ask that. He doesn’t say: Who’s Gerd? His face is exactly like it was before. I’ll put a stop to this now. I have to devote my energies to Micke Johansson.

“I won’t take up any more of your time on Christmas Eve,” said Winter. “But I might be in touch again if I need some more details.”

Jerner stood up and nodded.

“When do you have to work again?” Winter asked.

Jerner opened his mouth and looked as if he were swallowing air, then he closed it again.

“When’s your next shift?” Winter asked.

“Tomo-mo-mo-morrow,” said Jerner.

He is nervous. Nervous about something.

“You’re working the whole holiday?”

Jerner nodded.

“Tough luck,” said Winter.

They went out into the corridor and took the elevator down. Jerner had his left hand in his jacket pocket. He was carrying his gloves in his right hand, and his briefcase was tucked under his left arm. He was staring straight at his own reflection in the elevator mirror. Winter could see himself standing beside Jerner, but Jerner didn’t seem to see him. As if I were a vampire that doesn’t have a reflection. But I’m not a vampire. I am there. I look tired. Jerner looks more alert.

“What route do you drive?” Winter asked at they walked toward the exit.

Jerner held up three fingers.

This is almost comical, Winter thought.

“Number three?” he said, interpreting the sign language, and Jerner nodded.

Ringmar came out of his office just as Winter was getting out of the elevator. He didn’t look quite the same as before.

“I’m off now,” said Ringmar.