“Are you sending out a search party?”

Winter thought of Natanael Carlström when she said “search party.” That had been one of the first things he’d said.

“There are a lot of people out looking,” he said. “As many as we can possibly muster. But Gothenburg is a big city.”

“What do your local stations have to say?”

“What do you mean?”

“The officers who took the phone calls in the first place. Do they have anything to say about a stutter, or any other details?”

“Am I talking to DCI Angela Winter?”

“What do they have to say?” she repeated. “And it’s DCI Angela Hoffman.”

“I don’t know yet. I’ve tried to contact the ones at Härlanda and Linnéstaden, but they’re off duty and not at home.”

He called the Bergorts, who were still a man short. When Magnus Bergort vanished Winter had called Larissa Serimov and asked her point-blank if she could go be with the mother and daughter. He had no right to do that, and she was under no obligation. She was off duty.

“I’m not doing anything special tonight anyway,” she’d said, and he thought he could hear her smiling.

“It’s a lonely family,” Winter had said. “Kristina Bergort has nobody who can be with her and the girl tonight.”

“What if he comes home?” she’d asked. “He might be violent.”

What could he say? Use your SigSauer?

“I could always shoot him,” she’d said.

“He won’t come home,” Winter had said. “Be careful, but he won’t come home.”

“Do you think he’s offed himself?”

“Yes.”

He’d been waiting for news that somebody had driven into a cliff or a tree on one of the roads heading east. Nothing yet. But he thought that Magnus Bergort was no longer of this world, or soon wouldn’t be.

Serimov answered:

“Bergort residence, Serimov speaking.”

“Erik Winter here.”

“Hello, and Merry Christmas,” said Serimov.

“Is Maja in bed?”

“She’s just gone to sleep.”

“Can I speak to her mother?”

Kristina Bergort sounded tired but calm. Maybe it’s a relief for her. Regardless of what happens next.

“Has anything happened to Magnus?” she asked.

“We still don’t know where he is,” said Winter.

“Maja is asking for him,” said Kristina Bergort.

Winter could see the girl in front of him, when she didn’t want to enter her father’s study.

“Has she said anything about the man she sat with in the car stuttering?” Winter asked.

“No, she’s never said anything about that.”

“OK.”

“Do you want to ask her about that?”

“I think so, yes.”

“When? Now?”

“Maybe tomorrow. If that’s all right?”

“Yes, that should be OK. Everything is so…” and he could hear that she was losing her grip on her voice, not much, but enough for him to be clear that the call must come to an end now.

His mobile rang. For a moment he wasn’t sure where it was. He found it in the inside pocket of his jacket, hanging in the hall.

“You didn’t call.”

“I haven’t had time, Bülow.”

“You never do.”

“I’m up to my neck in it at the moment,” said Winter.

“So am I. I’m staring at an empty computer screen.”

Winter had gone to his study. His laptop was gleaming vacantly on his desk.

“The situation is very sensitive at the moment,” said Winter.

“The night editor has sent reporters out to Önnered,” said Bülow.

“What the hell did you say?”

“To the Bergorts’. Since you put an APB on-”

Winter pressed as hard as he could on the red key. The problem with mobile phones was that there was no receiver to slam down. You would need to hurl the whole thing.

It rang again. Winter recognized the number.

“We ha-”

“It’s not my fault,” said Bülow. “I don’t like it either.” Winter could hear voices in the background, a snatch of music that could have been a Christmas carol or some such stuff being played for the lowlifes in the newsroom. “Are you always happy with your job, Winter?”

“If I’m allowed to do it,” he said.

“Carolin Johansson is interviewed in tomorrow’s edition,” said Bülow.

“Words fail me,” said Winter.

“You see? It only gets worse.”

“Who’s next? Simon?”

“Who’s that?” asked Bülow. “What’s happened to him?”

“That was only an example.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Are you sending out the reporters now?” asked Winter.

“I’m not the night editor,” said Bülow.

“How long are you working tonight?”

“I’m on until four in the morning. So much for my Christmas.”

“I’ll call.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“I’ll call,” said Winter again and pressed the red key for the second time, put his mobile down on the desk, and picked up the receiver of the main telephone.

A patrol car drove past in the street below, its siren wailing. That was the first sound he’d heard from outside. He could see the top of the Christmas tree in Vasaplatsen, a lone star.

The Bergorts’ phone was busy. He considered calling the Frölunda station, but what would they be able to do? He called Larissa Serimov’s mobile number, but didn’t get through.

He called Ringmar at home, but there was no answer. He tried Ringmar’s mobile. No contact.

He was beginning to feel manic, standing in the middle of the quiet, dark room with his fingers hovering nervously over the keys. He tried a number he’d looked up in his address book.

He waited. Three rings, four. The world was unavailable tonight. A fifth ring, a crackling, an intake of breath.

“Car-Carlström.”

Winter said who he was. Carlström sounded worn out when he mumbled something.

“Did I wake you up?” Winter asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. But I have a couple of questions about Mats.”

Winter heard a sound coming from somewhere close to Carlström. It could have been a stick of firewood crackling in the stove. Did Carlström have a telephone in the kitchen? Winter hadn’t thought about that when he was there.

“What about Mats?” asked Carlström.

“I met him today,” said Winter, checking the time. It wasn’t midnight yet.

“And?”

“Does he know Georg Smedsberg?” Winter asked.

“Smedsberg?”

“You know who he is.”

“I don’t think he knows him.”

“Could they have had any contact at all?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Smedsberg’s son is one of the young men who’ve been attacked,” said Winter.

“Who said that?” asked Carlström.

“Excuse me?”

“He said that himself, didn’t he?” said Carlström.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Winter.

“Maybe not enough,” said Carlström.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’m not saying any more,” said Carlström.

“Did Mats have any contact with Georg Smedsberg?” Winter asked again.

“I know nothing about that.”

“Any contact at all?” said Winter.

“What if he did?”

That depends on what happened, Winter thought.

“What kind of a life did Mats have with you?” Winter asked. I’ve asked that before. “How did he get along with other people?”

Carlström didn’t answer.

“Did he have a lot of friends?”

It sounded as though Carlström gave a laugh.

“I beg your pardon?”

“He didn’t have any friends,” said Carlström.

“None at all?”

“Them round here couldn’t stand th’ boy,” said Carlström, his accent getting broader. “Couldn’t stand the boy.”

“Was he mistreated at all?”

That same laugh again, cold and hollow.

“They made a mockery of him,” said Carlström. “He might have been able to stay, but-”

“He ran away?”

“He hated ’em and they hated ’im.”

“Why was he hated?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. Who knows the answer to a question like that?”

“Was Georg Smedsberg one of those who abused him?”