Never. He could see Elsa’s face in Jerner’s recording.

There were some fir trees on the top of the hill, and there was a little playground a bit farther on, and a little boy in a wool hat walking away from it hand-in-hand with a man in a thick jacket and a cap. Winter could see only the man’s back, and he started sliding down the slope and scraped his thigh on the frozen ground under the thin layer of snow, and he shouted and the boy turned around and the man turned around, and they stopped:

“It’s only us,” said the man. The boy looked at Winter, then up at his father.

Ringmar was making a Basque omelette in the kitchen, Winter had explained how to do it before sitting down in the living room and calling Angela.

He wouldn’t say anything about the video. Not now.

“My God,” she said. “How will you find him?”

She meant the boy.

It was a difficult question. They knew who the abductor was, but not where he was. Winter was very familiar with the opposite situation: the body of a victim but no identity for the killer. Sometimes they didn’t know the identity of either.

Children disappeared and never came home again. Nobody knew, would never know.

“We’re trying to think of every possibility,” said Winter.

“When did you last get some sleep?”

“I don’t know.”

“Forty-eight hours ago?”

“Something like that.”

“Then you’re not functioning now, Erik.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

“I’m being serious. You can’t keep going for another day on nothing but cigars and coffee.”

“Cigarillos.”

“You have to eat. For God’s sake. I sound like a mother.”

“Bertil’s making a Basque omelette at this very moment. I can smell paprika burned black.”

“It’s supposed to be burned black,” she said. “But Erik. You have to get some rest. An hour at least. You have colleagues.”

“Yes. But right now I have all the details in my head, everything, that’s how it feels. So does Bertil.”

“How is he?”

“He’s spoken to his wife. He doesn’t want to tell me what they said. But he’s, shall we say, calmer now.”

“Where’s Martin?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if Bertil knows. I haven’t asked yet. He’ll talk when he wants to talk.”

“Say hello for me.”

“I will.”

Winter heard Ringmar shout from the kitchen, which was a long way away.

“Lie down for a few hours,” she said.

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do then?”

“I don’t have a clue, Angela. I have to think about it over the food. We’re looking everywhere.”

“Have you canceled the ticket?”

“What ticket? Tomorrow’s flight?”

His ticket for the late afternoon flight to Málaga, return two weeks later. It was lying on the hall table, as a sort of reminder.

“Of course that’s what I mean,” she said.

“No,” he said. “I’m not going to cancel it.”

“Where the hell are they?” asked Ringmar over the kitchen table, but mostly muttering to himself.

They were trying to contact any friends of Jerner’s, colleagues, nonexistent relatives. He didn’t seem to know anybody.

Jerner had been off sick for the last few days. When he came to see Winter it wasn’t after work. He drove straight back there, Winter thought when he heard.

And then possibly left immediately for somewhere else. Where?

Winter looked up from his plate. He’d felt slightly dizzy when he sat down, but that was gone now.

“Let’s drive out to the old man,” he said.

“Carlström? Why? The Skövde boys have already been there.”

“It’s not that. There’s something… there’s something to do with Carlström that’s linked with this business.”

Ringmar said nothing.

“Something else,” said Winter. “Something different.” He pushed his plate to one side. “Are you with me? Something that can help us.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” said Ringmar.

“It’s something he said. Or didn’t say. But there’s also something in that house of his. It was something I saw. I think.”

“OK,” said Ringmar. “There’s nothing more we can do in town at the moment. Why not?”

“I’ll drive,” said Winter.

“Are you up to it?”

“After this restorative meal? Are you kidding?”

“We can always get someone to drive us,” said Ringmar.

“No. We need every single officer for the door-to-door.”

The telephone rang.

“Press conference in an hour,” said Birgersson.

“You’ll have to take it yourself, Sture,” said Winter.

Winter smoked before they set off. The nicotine bucked him up. He didn’t look at the headlines outside the newsstand.

The city streets seemed to be deserted. Normal for Christmas Day, perhaps. Now that was drawing to a close as well. Where was it going? Dusk was lying in wait over Pellerin’s Margarine Factory.

“I checked with Skövde again,” said Ringmar. “No sign of anything at Carlström’s place, no tire tracks, and they’d have seen those in the newly fallen snow if there’s been any.” Ringmar adjusted the two-way radio. “And old man Smedsberg is saying nothing in his cell.”

“Hmm.”

“And now it’s starting to snow,” said Ringmar, looking skyward through the windshield.

“It’s been looking dull for ages,” said Winter.

“The tracks will disappear again,” said Ringmar.

They’d discovered a new, faster way of getting to Carlström’s farm. It meant that they didn’t need to pass Smedsberg’s house.

It seemed to have been snowing quite heavily on the plain.

Winter hadn’t announced their visit in advance, but Carlström seemed to take it for granted.

“Sorry to disturb you again,” said Winter.

“Save it,” growled Carlström. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Carlström went to the wood-burning stove, which seemed to be on all day long. It was warmer in the little kitchen than anywhere else Winter could imagine. Hell perhaps, but Winter thought that was a cold place.

The heat in this kitchen could induce him to fall asleep in midsentence.

“It’s a terrible situation,” said Carlström.

“Where could Mats be now?” Winter asked.

“I don’t know. He’s not here.”

“No, I’ve gathered that. But where could he have gone?”

Carlström tipped coffee into the saucepan straight out of the tin, which was covered in rust.

“He liked the sea,” he said eventually.

“The sea?”

“He didn’t like the flats,” said Carlström. “It looks like a sea, but it isn’t a sea.” Carlström turned around to face them. Winter noticed a warmth in his eyes that could have been there all the time, but he hadn’t detected it. “He could go and fantasize about the sky up there, the stars and all that, and the sealike plain.”

“The sea,” said Winter, and looked at Ringmar. “Do you know any of the places he used to go?”

“No, no.”

Carlström came with the coffee. There were small cups on the table that looked out of place, elegant. Winter looked at them. They told him something.

It was linked to what had inspired him to come here.

Ringmar told Carlström about Georg Smedsberg.

Carlström muttered something they couldn’t hear.

“What did you say?” asked Winter.

“It’s him,” said Carlström.

“Yes,” said Ringmar.

“Just a minute,” said Winter. “What do you mean by ‘it’s him’?”

“It’s his fault,” said Carlström, staring down at the little cup hidden inside his big hand. His hand was twitching. “It’s him. It wouldn’t have happened but for him…”

Winter saw. It was coming to him now, he knew why they’d had to come out here again. He remembered. He stood up. Jesus