“The words,” said Winter. “Just tell me the words. Don’t bother about the order.”

Ringmar parked behind a copse on one of the narrow dirt roads that skirted the fields. Dark shapes were flying across the sky, like bats. He seemed to be walking over a frozen sea. The plain was white and black in the moonlight. He could feel the wind blowing through his body. The wind was the only sound.

There was a light and it came from Smedsberg’s farm. It was flickering, moving back and forth in the wind. It grew as he approached, acquired an outline, and became a window. He went closer, but not before picking up a handful of mud and dropping it into a plastic bag inside another one, which he then put in the pocket of his overcoat.

He stood next to a bush five meters from the window, which was at eye level. He heard his mobile vibrating in his inside pocket, but he didn’t touch it.

He recognized the kitchen, a late-medieval version of old man Carlström’s iron-age room. Georg Smedsberg was leaning over his son, who sat with his head bowed, as if expecting a blow. His father’s mouth was moving as if he was shouting. His whole body was a threat. Gustav Smedsberg raised an arm, as if to protect himself. For Ringmar it was a scene that said everything, that confirmed what had brought him here, Georg Smedsberg’s words that first visit: They mebbe got what they deserved.

He remembered what Gustav had said the first time they interviewed him: “Maybe he didn’t want to kill us. The victims. Maybe he just wanted to show that he owned us.”

Ringmar suddenly felt colder than he had ever been in his fifty-four years. He stood there as if frozen fast in the sea.

Then he found the strength to walk toward the house.

Winter rang Mats Jerner’s number again.

No, no, that couldn’t be it.

But everything was getting mixed up. Nevertheless, Jerner’s name had come into his head. Jerner had attacked the boys. His foster father had attacked them. They’d both done it. Neither had done it. Yes they had. There had been a lot of hatred or despair, and a lust for revenge. There were several people taking part in this dance: Georg Smedsberg, his son Gustav, Gustav’s mother Gerd (was she the mother?), Natanael Carlström, his foster son Mats Jerner (that was definitely true, Winter had read parts of Jerner’s grim curriculum vitae), the other students: Book, Stillman, Kaite.

Jerner didn’t answer. Winter looked at the clock. Had he gone back to work? Another overtime shift for the solitary man? Surely there weren’t any streetcars running now?

No sound of traffic from Vasaplatsen down below. He hung up, walked through the hall to the living room, and looked down at the street. There was no traffic, and nobody waiting at the streetcar stops. A taxi cruised by slowly from Aschebergsgatan, hunting for fares. The star on top of the Christmas tree smiled at him.

He called Police Operations Center and asked them to find somebody who would know. He didn’t have any timetables.

“I want to speak to somebody from their personnel department as well,” he said.

“Now?”

“Why not now?”

“There’s nobody there.”

“I realize that. But some of the staff will be at home, won’t they?”

“OK, OK, Winter. We’ll get back to you.”

He loosened the cord around the boy’s wrists, even though the little boy hadn’t asked him to.

It had been so quiet in there for so long.

He felt calmer now.

He’d called the old man when he got back from the interview with that superior policeman who had everything this world had to offer. He’d been so angry! Look at the clothes he’s wearing! As if he’s on his way to a ball at the Royal Palace! But the policeman hadn’t shaved! They’d never let him in!

That policeman had everything, but even so he’d been sitting there, on Christmas Eve, in his ugly office, with a visitor’s chair that was worse than anything they had in the coffee room at the streetcar sheds.

Did that policeman live there, in his office? Why wasn’t he at home, with his… with his family? The policeman had a family, he could tell that. Superior. I have and you don’t have. That was what the superior person had meant, and demonstrated.

There was something familiar about the policeman. He’d thought about that as he’d hurried home. He’d been in a hurry when he left the policeman’s house.

The boy wasn’t moving, but he didn’t remove the cord. The boy hadn’t touched the food he’d left for him, but it struck him that maybe it wasn’t so easy to reach the dish. Perhaps it had been impossible.

Micke. When he’d removed the scarf placed so delicately and gently over the boy’s mouth, Micke had tried to scream again, and it was just like when that little boy had started screaming in English at him. As if the boy thought he wouldn’t understand! As if he was stupid!

It was the little boy who was stupid. Everybody was stupid. That little boy who spoke English had been nasty to him, just like all the others.

And now Micke was starting to be nasty to him as well.

When he tried to say something to the boy, he refused to answer. He either screamed or didn’t say anything. That was no way to behave.

He’d driven the car on the carpet next to where Micke was lying. Brrrrmmm! That was only one of the things he’d done. He had all the other toys that children liked, their favorite things. He’d borrowed them for Micke’s sake. Well, not exactly borrowed… He could give them to Micke and they’d become his best things as well. He’d done all that for him. He’d bounced the ball, but it hadn’t bounced very well on the carpet, and so he’d stood up and bounced it on the bare floorboards and that had been much better. Hiiigh! Micke had been given the little bird that gleamed like silver. Maybe it was silver. It was hanging from Micke’s shirt. He’d noticed that the shirt smelled unpleasant when he’d pinned the bird to it, so he’d done it quickly. The watch was on the table next to the bed. The English watch, as he’d said when he gave it to Micke. It might be an hour slow!

He carried the boy out into the living room now.

They watched films. Look, Micke: That’s you!

He told the boy how he knew he was called Micke. Easy. It was in your jacket! A little tag sewn in.

But he’d known that before. He’d heard both the boy’s father and mother say “Micke” to him. You could see that they were saying Micke on the video, and they were doing that just now. They were too far away for it to be heard, but you could read their lips. He’d zoomed in, and you could see.

“Look, Micke! You’re sitting in the stroller now!”

It was in the hall, the same stroller. He’d show it to the boy later if he doubted it.

He showed a few more recordings from a different nursery school. A little girl, then another. They were in several of the sequences. The first girl, and the other one. And a boy he’d filmed later.

Would you like a brother and sister, Micke? We’ve got room for them here.

He looked at the first girl in the film. He watched somebody come to collect her, a man, a back, an overcoat. They went into the building then came out again. It was a long way away and he’d used the zoom.

He recognized the man in the overcoat. Recognized him.

Now he didn’t feel calm anymore; he wanted to feel calm. He also wished that Micke wasn’t being so nasty to him.

Winter was standing with yet another cup of espresso, in the middle of the biggest room. He felt stiff, but his eyes were still open.