There was a checked cap hanging out there in the hall. They didn’t need it anymore. Jerner didn’t need it anymore.

The buildings on the other side of the road now appeared on the television screen. It was like seeing images of a story you’d been told, Winter thought. Or watching the movie of a book you’d read.

A blackout, then Micke Johansson was in the picture, in a stroller with Bengt Johansson. Winter recognized the location, and so did Bertil.

“Can you call and ask them to send a car there right now?” he said, without taking his eyes off the screen.

Ringmar dialed, and they continued watching the video. Micke Johansson with his dad, with his mom, on his own on a swing, leaving the nursery in his stroller, half asleep, his legs sticking out. On the way through Brunnsparken heading for the entrance to Nordstan’s shopping mall.

“My God,” said Ringmar, “it’s just before it happened.”

“He must have taken the camera in there with him,” said Winter.

Another cut, a brief sequence of disturbance, then a steady picture taken on a day that was grayer, wetter, perhaps starker.

“November,” said Ringmar.

“The chronology on the cassette is mixed up,” said Winter.

The picture showed a different playground with children playing. Winter suddenly felt sick: He recognized the building. It was Elsa’s nursery school.

It was Elsa on the swing.

It was her face that the camera zoomed in on, as close as the goddamn lens could get, her mouth smiling out into the wonderful world she’d only recently been born into.

The camera followed her as she jumped down from the swing and scampered toward the playhouse.

Winter could feel Bertil’s supportive hand around his arm.

“She’s in Spain, Erik. Spain.”

Winter tried to breathe, to break the spell. He was here, Elsa was there, Angela, his mother. He felt an overwhelming urge to reach for his mobile and call Nueva Andalucía.

He saw himself appear on the screen. The camera followed him from the gate to the door. He vanished. The camera waited, still aimed steadily at the door. Winter turned around in the room where he was standing now. He was in that film! Both here and there at this very moment!

There is a mound on the other side of the road, in front of the cemetery. That’s where he’s standing, Jerner.

The camera waited. Winter and Elsa emerged. He said something and she laughed. They walked back to the gate, hand in hand. He lifted her up and she tried to open it. They went out, and he closed the gate behind them. He lifted Elsa into the front seat of the Mercedes and strapped her into her child seat. I’m a detective chief inspector, but I’m a father as well.

The camera followed the car as it drove off, signaled right, disappeared around the corner.

Black screen. Winter looked at the next cassette on the table. We didn’t take them in order, he thought. That one will feature Kalle Skarin, Ellen Sköld, Maja Bergort, and Simon Waggoner. Before and during. Maybe after. These were future victims. Ringmar had called again. Sent another car to another place.

“There’s more to come,” said Ringmar.

Another place, swings in the background, a slide, a wooden train showing its age that the children could play around in.

“The playground at Plikta,” said Ringmar.

Winter nodded, still thinking about Elsa.

“The conductor,” said Ringmar.

A little boy of about four was busy checking the tickets. The children sat down. The camera concentrated on the conductor, and followed him when he grew tired and wandered off. Followed him back to the swings, watched him swinging back and forth, back and forth. The cameraman moved the camera in sync with the swing, and Winter had the feeling that this was the worst he’d been through, one of the worst things he’d ever experienced during yet another day at work. There were more pictures of the same boy, in different places. The sun shone, it was raining, the wind thrashed its way through the trees.

“Who the hell is that?” said Ringmar, and Winter could hear the desperation in his voice. “Who’s the boy?”

They watched the little boy slip and fall, and burst out crying after the usual intake of breath before the pain and the surprise. They watched a woman come to bend down over him and console him. Winter recognized her. He even remembered her name. Yes. Ingemarsson. Margareta Ingemarsson.

“That’s the nursery school in Marconigatan,” he said. “She works there.”

“Eh,” said Ringmar. “Well done. We have to get ahold of her as soon as possible and show her this. She’ll know who the boy is.”

“Ring Peder at the Police Operations Center. He’ll still be there, and he’s good.”

Winter raised his head and saw morning on the other side of the window, a heavy mist. He suddenly heard a million noises in the hall. Everybody had arrived.

44

THE NURSERY-SCHOOL MANAGER FROM MARCONIGATAN WAS AT home; she was switched through from the operations center to Winter, who was still in Jerner’s living room. He couldn’t describe the boy over the telephone. She wasn’t going anywhere, to tell the truth she was barely awake.

Winter drove to her house in Grimmered, following her directions.

“Can I have my car back one of these days?” Ringmar had asked as Winter was on his way out.

“I hope so,” Winter had replied. “Will you call Skövde station?”

“Already done,” Ringmar had said. “They’re on their way to the old man’s house.”

It was a possibility, Winter thought as he drove through the morning. Jerner going back to his old home in the sticks. He could be there already. Natanael Carlström would let him in.

But Carlström couldn’t know.

Winter remembered Carlström’s telephone number. He called from the car. After six rings he hung up, then called again, but there was no reply this time either.

He met three taxis on the highway, but no other traffic at all. A solitary bus stood in Kungsten in a cloud of steam and exhaust fumes, waiting for nonexistent passengers. Nobody crossed the streets. Snow was still lying as a thin layer of powder that would be blown away by the slightest breeze, but at the moment there was no sign of any wind in the city.

He saw three squad cars emerging from the tunnel. He heard a snatch of siren and saw another squad car approaching from Högsbo höjd.

The police radio was rapping out instructions regarding the hunt for Jerner and the boy.

He turned off Grimmeredsvägen and found the house. The Christmas tree in the garden was tastefully lit up. Winter thought of Ringmar’s neighbor. Did Ringmar murder him yesterday?

The sky behind the timber-built house was alternating between bright yellow and wintry blue. It was going to be a beautiful Christmas Day. It was cold. The time was just past nine.

She was dressed when she opened the door. The man beside her had tousled hair, bloodshot eyes, a hangover.

“Come in,” she said. “The tape player is in here.”

He found the sequence with her and the boy. The man smelled of alcohol and looked as if he were going to throw up when he saw the scene.

“It’s Mårten Wallner,” she said without hesitation.

“Where does he live?”

“They live at-just a moment, I have the address list on the fridge. It’s not far from here.”

Winter phoned from the kitchen.

“Mårten’s at the playground,” said his mother. “He’s an early bird.”

“On his own?”

“Yes.” He heard her intake of breath. “What’s going on?” she asked, a new sharpness audible in her voice.

“Go and get him immediately,” said Winter, replacing the receiver and hurrying into the hall.

“I heard,” said Margareta Ingemarsson. “The playground-assuming it’s the one near here-is on the other side of the hill. That’s the quickest way.”

She pointed, and he ran through the undergrowth. You could never be certain.