Christ.

He’d seen it the second time, or was it the first? But he hadn’t thought, hadn’t realized.

“Excuse me,” he said, and went back into the hall; the ceiling light with no shade cast faint light onto the upper part of the cupboard in the far corner where there was a little collection of photographs in old-fashioned frames gleaming vaguely gold or silver. That’s what Winter had seen, only a passing glimpse of something you find in every home, and he’d seen the face, the second from the left, and it was a young woman with blond hair and blue eyes and the reason why he remembered, why he had re-created this photo in his mind’s eye, was her features that he had recognized later, yesterday, or whenever the hell it was, on Christmas Eve, in his office. Her face had stuck in his memory, her eyes, they were transfixing him now, that remarkable piercing quality that almost made him want to turn around to see what she was looking at straight through his head.

He went closer. The woman’s face had a cautious smile that ought to have vanished by the time the photograph was taken. The similarity to Mats Jerner was astonishing, frightening.

He had seen that face previously as a framed portrait on a desk on the other side of the table in Georg Smedsberg’s kitchen. He could see that in his mind’s eye as well. The woman in that portrait was middle-aged, and smiling a cautious black-and-white smile. It’s my wife, Smedsberg had said. Gustav’s mom. She left us.

He heard a shuffling sound, Carlström’s slippers.

“Yes,” said Carlström.

Winter turned around. Bertil was standing behind Carlström.

“It was many years ago,” said Carlström.

“What happened?” was all Winter could say. Open questions.

“She was very young,” said Carlström. He sank down onto the nearest chair, the only one in the hall. He looked at Winter’s face, which was a question mark.

“No, no, I’m not Mats’s father. She was very young, like I said. Nobody knows who he was. She never said.”

Carlström made a sort of gesture.

“Her parents were old, and they couldn’t cope. I don’t know if it killed them, but it all happened quickly. First one then the other.”

“Did you look after her?” Winter asked.

“Yes. But that was after.”

“After what?”

“After the boy. After she’d had him.”

Winter nodded and waited.

“She came back without him. It was best, she said.” Carlström squirmed on the chair, as if in pain. Winter felt wide awake, as if he’d been resurrected. “I guess they had some kind of contact, but…”

“What happened next?”

“Then, well, you know what happened. Then she met h… She met him.”

“Georg Smedsberg?”

Carlström didn’t answer, as if he didn’t want to utter the man’s name.

“He did it,” said Carlström, and now he looked up. Winter could see tears in his eyes. “It was him. It is him. He ruined the boy.” He looked at Winter, then at Ringmar. “The boy was damaged before, but he ruined him altogether.”

“What… How much did Gerd know?” asked Winter.

Carlström didn’t answer.

“What did she know?” said Winter again.

“They’d already had the other boy by then,” said Carlström, as if he hadn’t heard the question.

“The other boy? Do you mean Gustav?”

“She was already getting on in years by then,” said Carlström. “One came early, the other one late.” He squirmed on the chair again, and it creaked. “And then… and then… she vanished.”

“What happened?”

“There’s a lake in the next parish,” said Carlström. “She knew. She knew. She wasn’t… wasn’t healthy. Not before either.”

Carlström bowed his head, as if in prayer, Our father… thy kingdom come, on earth as it is in heaven; Carlström’s head dipped farther. “I had to look after him, Mats. When she couldn’t cope. He came here.” Carlström stood up slowly. “You know about that.”

How much did the social services know? Winter thought. It was unusual for a single man to be allowed to take charge of a child. He’d wondered about that before. But Carlström had been regarded as safe. Had he been safe?

“I’d tell you where Mats was if only I knew,” said Carlström.

“There’s one other place,” said Ringmar.

They didn’t speak as they drove through the fields. The distance seemed shorter this time. Smedsberg’s house was hidden by the barn as they approached from this direction. The mixture of dusk and snowfall made it difficult to see. The road was a part of the field that stretched as far as the horizon that couldn’t be seen. There were no tracks on the road in front of them. There were no tracks outside the house when Winter turned in and parked some twenty meters away. If there had been any tracks, they’d been covered up by the snow.

There was a light in one of the upstairs windows.

Ringmar opened one of the barn doors and examined the floor that was covered in bark and sawdust.

“A car was parked here not long ago,” he said, and he wasn’t referring to Smedsberg’s Toyota that was standing to the right.

Winter picked the lock on the front door of the farmhouse. The light from the floor above lit up the stairs at the far end of the hall.

“Did the Skövde boys forget to turn a light off?” wondered Ringmar.

“I don’t think so,” said Winter.

There was a packet of butter on the drain board, and a glass that seemed to have contained milk.

“Only one glass,” said Ringmar.

“Let’s hope it was the boy who used it,” said Winter.

“They’ve been here today,” said Ringmar.

Winter said nothing.

“He managed to get out of Gothenburg,” said Ringmar. “We didn’t have time to seal the place off. How could we have?”

“There was nothing for him here,” said Winter. “This was just a temporary refuge.”

“Why not Carlström’s place?”

“He knew we’d go there.” Winter looked around the kitchen that smelled cold and damp. “He assumed this house would be boarded up and forgotten about.”

“How could he be sure of that?” said Ringmar, and stiffened, just as Winter had stiffened as he spoke.

“Fucking hell!” exclaimed Winter, whipping out his mobile and barking Gustav Smedsberg’s address to a colleague at Police Operations Center: Chalmers student dorm, room number, “but stay outside, unmarked cars only, he might be there already or he could turn up at any time, he might be on his way there right now. Don’t scare him off. OK?

Don’t scare him off. We’re on our way.”

“I was blind, blind,” said Ringmar as Winter drove quickly south. Darkness was falling fast. “I was distracted by my own problems. When I was out here last night.”

“Old man Smedsberg attacked those boys,” said Winter.

“My God, Erik. I gave Gustav a lift back home! I presented Jerner with somewhere to hide. Two places, in fact! Gustav must have told him that the old man was in jail and the house was empty.” Ringmar shook his head. “I gave him time. That’s time he has taken from us.”

“We don’t know if he’s been at Gustav’s place,” said Winter.

“He’s been there alright,” said Ringmar. “He’s his brother.”

The information had hit home like a punch to the solar plexus when Natanael Carlström told them. The truth. Winter was convinced that he’d been told the truth. Gustav Smedsberg and Mats Jerner were brothers, or half brothers. They hadn’t grown up together, but they had the same mother and the same man had destroyed their lives. One of their lives, at least.

Why hadn’t Carlström reported Georg Smedsberg to the police long ago? How long had he known? Had Mats told him recently? As recently as Christmas Eve night? Was that why Carlström had telephoned Winter? Was he incapable of saying that over the telephone? He was that sort of man, an odd man.