There was snow in the air again, a light snow shower. Some people out in the streets had their umbrellas open. Winter drove slowly.

“People shouldn’t use umbrellas when it’s snowing,” said Ringmar. “It doesn’t seem appropriate.”

“It was old man Smedsberg who told us that Carlström had a foster son,” said Winter.

“Do you think that I haven’t thought of that?” said Ringmar.

“If he hadn’t said anything, we probably would have never spoken to Carlström.”

‘No.”

“And still wouldn’t have gotten Jerner’s identity.”

“No.”

“So the question is why?” said Winter, turning to look at Ringmar. “Why?”

“Yes.”

“Come on, give me an answer. You’ve spoken to old man Smedsberg.”

“Not about that.”

“But you must have an idea?”

“Everything will be revealed by forensic psychology,” said Ringmar.

“I think we’ve uncovered quite a lot already,” said Winter.

“That’s true.”

“The father did exactly the same thing as the son did,” said Winter. “He gave us clues.”

“Yes.”

“It all has to do with guilt,” said Winter.

“Gustav’s guilt? What guilt?”

“Don’t you think the son feels guilty?” Winter looked at Ringmar again. “Don’t you think he’s been feeling guilty for ages?”

“Yes.”

“Just like the other boys. Their silence is due to the fact that they were afraid their friend would be beaten again by his father, or even worse. Fear makes you keep quiet.” Winter changed gear. “And shame also makes you keep quiet. The boys were ashamed of having been attacked. Ashamed, and shocked. That’s the way it is with rape victims.”

“Yes,” said Ringmar again.

“Gustav led us to his father,” said Winter.

“And maybe the father intentionally put us onto Carlström and hoped we would change direction and understand who it was really all about. Who the guilty one really was.”

Winter nodded.

“Guilty of everything,” said Ringmar, thinking of Mats Jerner and Micke Johansson.

“Do you think Gustav knew?” Winter asked. “Did he know about Mats? Mats and the children?”

“No,” said Ringmar. “We’ll find out eventually, but I don’t think so. As far as Gustav was concerned, it was all about his father. The old man.”

“And for old man Smedsberg it was all about himself,” said Winter. “He turned himself in indirectly the moment he told us about Natanael Carlström and the foster son.”

His mobile rang.

“We’ve found Magnus Heydrich,” said Halders.

“Eh? Come again?”

“Bergort. We’ve got him.”

“Where is he?”

“Safe and sound, locked up in a cell.”

“Has he said anything?”

“No. But who cares? He’s guilty. There’s no doubt about that, is there?”

“No,” said Winter.

“Chicken shit,” said Halders.

“What did you say, Fredrik?”

“The bastard didn’t even have the guts to drive into a tree.”

The square in the center of the Nordstan shopping mall was illuminated by every kind of light you could think of. The area around the square was silent and glittering. The display windows of the shops and department stores cast shadows onto the stone floor.

Nordstan was a training area for all rookies joining the Gothenburg police force. Winter had patroled there. A fair number of those he’d kept an eye on in those days were still around, sometimes inside the mall, sometimes outside in Brunnsparken; they had also been rookies in their own way, alcoholics and junkies who had once been young just like him.

He stood in the middle of the square, with his back to the travel agency. From there the lights from KappAhl and Åhléns and H &M and the Academy Book Shop looked warm and inviting. He couldn’t see any security guards or police officers just now. He could have been the only person in the world. Ulf Silén’s sculptures from 1992 were hanging down above his head-the work of art known as

Two Dimensions comprised figures diving and jumping into the water, flying through the air, changing under the surface of the water from white to sea green, and turning into other shapes that became a part of the water. He had never really looked at the hanging sculptures in this way before, never given them a thought, just as none of the other passersby ever did, no doubt, thousands of them every day, going to and from the shops, to and from Central Station via the pedestrian subway. The work of art became a part of the square, and that was doubtless the intention.

He heard Ringmar’s voice behind him:

“Twenty officers have been through all the basement areas.”

“OK.”

“Have you finished here?” Ringmar asked.

“What time is it?”

“Past eleven.”

“I’ll stop in on Bengt Johansson,” said Winter.

“I’m going home,” said Ringmar.

Winter nodded. It was time for Ringmar to go home.

“But I might come by later tonight,” said Ringmar. “If I can’t sleep.”

“You mean you’ve thought of sleeping?”

Bengt Johansson was calmer than before.

“It helped to talk to Carolin,” he said. “I think it helped her too.” He was pacing up and down. “You’re not going to get me to watch those films.” He held up his hands in Winter’s direction. “Carolin said she had to because it was her fault, as she put it. But I’m not going to watch that shit. Never.”

“You don’t need to see Micke,” said Winter. “But the man doing the filming. You might see something that strikes a chord.”

But what would that be? The only help they could get from Bengt Johansson would be if he recognized Jerner from some particular place.

“I don’t want to,” said Johansson.

Winter noticed the photographs of Micke on the wall and on the desk. There were more now than there had been when he was here last.

“I’d like to tell you about Micke,” said Johansson. “About all the new words he’s learned recently. Would you like to hear?”

Winter was poring over a map of Gothenburg and maps showing the streetcar routes. It was past two when he got home from Bengt Johansson’s. His car was parked in the street outside, in a space reserved for the disabled because that’s how he felt.

In the morning they would cast the net farther afield, concentrating in the first place on the number 3 streetcar route. It was an enormous task. He fell asleep halfway through a stroke of the pen. He dreamed about a child’s voice shouting “Daddy,” and then again, “Daddy,” but farther away now, faint, and toneless. He woke up in the armchair, staggered into the bedroom, and collapsed into bed.

He was woken up by a noise. He sat up with a force that startled even himself. He checked the clock on the bedside table: nine-thirty. He’d slept for five hours.

Nobody had woken him up, nobody had called. He knew they were aware at headquarters that he was working around the clock, and maybe they were simply trying to prevent him from burning himself out. He almost smiled. But his mobile? Where was it? He looked for it in the bedroom. It felt as if he were still asleep. He looked for it in the other rooms, in the kitchen. He called the number from his landline telephone in the kitchen. No ringing. He eventually found the mobile on the washbasin in the bathroom, turned off. He had no recollection of taking it there, or of switching it off. Why had he turned it off? But if there had been any developments, he would have been called by Halders, who was back on duty now. So nothing had happened. He checked the answering machine. Then took a cold shower.

As he was drinking coffee he thought again about Nordstan. Jerner had kept visiting Nordstan. There were usually so many people there that they merged into one another. He looked at the clock. The shopping mall would be open now.