"I'm driving out to Påvelund tomorrow morning," he said. "To the Wagners'." She didn't react, and adjusted something next to Elsa's face. Several more teenage girls walked by.

By ten o'clock the next morning he was with Bengt and Lisen Wägner. It was Saturday.

"I apologize." "For God's sake, don't do that," said Bengt Wägner. "You can come and live here if that's what it takes to find out what happened to Beatrice."

"Who," said Lisen Wägner. "Who happened to Beatrice." "Yes," said the man, looking at his wife. "Who did it." They ushered him into her room. The morning sun was filtering through the Venetian blinds. There was no need to turn on the light.

"I want to look at all the photos you have of Beatrice," Winter said. He saw Lisen Wägner give a start, a slight but nevertheless obvious reaction. "I'm sorry, I didn't put that very well. I mean the ones taken during that last year." Oh, God. The woman looked even more worried. How should he word it, in order not to put his foot in his mouth? Whatever he said turned out to be wrong.

"Why?" Bengt Wägner asked.

"I don't really know." He turned to look at the man. "I'm looking for something. So that I can compare. A particular place."

"You looked at everything when… when it happened," said Lisen Wägner. "You took nearly everything away and went through it. All the photos, too."

"I know."

"Why didn't you find anything then?"

Winter stretched out his arms.

"If you didn't know what it was then… why do you think you know now?"

Winter told them as much as he could.

"An exposed brick wall?" Bengt Wägner said. "I can't think where that might be, but that doesn't mean Beatrice never went there, of course."

"I didn't see all the photographs," said Winter. "And I don't remember anything like that either. But things can take on a greater significance in the light of new events."

"Here's a box full anyway," said Lisen Wägner, who'd gotten the photos from the dressing room at the other end of the Beatrice's bedroom.

Winter sorted through the photos in the same way he'd done in Angelika Hansson's room. Spring, summer, autumn, winter. Outside, inside.

Lisen Wägner came in with coffee and a warm Danish pastry smelling of vanilla. Winter adjusted the blinds as the sun moved, and it grew darker in the room. He could see Bengt Wägner through the window.

Eventually he'd picked out five pictures in which Beatrice was sitting in something that could have been a restaurant or a pub, whether outside or inside. There was no sign of an exposed brick wall, nothing that resembled the backdrop in Angelika's pictures. One of her parents was in three of the photos, and both of them in one of the others.

He looked out of the window and saw Bengt Wägner still hovering around the flower beds with his pruning shears. Winter went out and showed Wägner the photographs. He recognized the location immediately. She often went there.

"Are there any more photos?" Winter asked.

"I have no idea."

"Is it possible that she might have kept any photos somewhere else?"

Wägner seemed to be thinking that over. He put his shears down on the lawn. Lisen came out to join them, and Winter asked her the same question.

"As a bookmark," she said.

"Yes, of course," said her husband.

"She sometimes used a photograph as a bookmark," said Lisen Wägner. "That was something she'd done ever since she was a little girl."

What books? Winter thought. There were about four or five meters of books on the shelves in her room, and possibly fifty meters more in the living room.

Winter went back to Beatrice's room and started going through the books one by one. After half an hour Bengt Wägner came and asked if Winter would like to stay for lunch. He said he would.

He had a meter of books to go when he got back to work. He opened every one, but found nothing.

"There are some in the attic as well," said Bengt Wägner. "Children's books. A box full of them."

"Could you get them, please?"

Wägner disappeared, then came back with an oblong-shaped box. Winter looked through the books; stories about young boys and girls. There was also a series of books with green covers for young adults. In the third book from the top there was an envelope glued to the inside of the front cover. He looked at Bengt Wägner, who shook his head.

"Never seen it before."

"When did this box go up into the attic?"

"I don't know."

"Who took it up?"

"Beatrice."

"When?"

"A long time ago, Erik." Wägner looked out of the window at the shadows under the trees. "It's a long time since she died." He turned back to look at Winter. "It might have been that same… summer. After she finished school." He looked back at the shadows outside. "As if something had come to an end. She'd kept lots of stuff from the time when she was… growing up. And then that was all… in the past." The sun was shining in from the left and reflected in Wägner's eyes, full of tears. "Time for something new," he said, still gazing out of the window.

Winter carefully cut open the envelope. Without touching it with his fingers, he tipped the contents into the plastic bag he'd put on the desk.

There were two photographs.

Winter recognized the location immediately. Beatrice was sitting at a table with plates and glasses in front of an exposed brick wall. There was a shadow up to the left. It was the same place, the same camera angle. A different young woman, though.

"Don't show this to Lisen," Bengt Wägner said.

"Have you ever seen this photo before?"

"No. And promise you won't show it to Lisen," he said again.

"I might have to."

"OK. But wait a little while."

"Do you recognize where this might have been taken?"

"No."

"Not even somewhere that could be a little bit similar? Vaguely familiar?"

"That wall is pretty distinctive. I'd have remembered if I'd ever been there. Wherever it is."

"Angelika Hansson, the most recent victim, had been there as well."

"Really?"

"I have a photograph. Same camera angle. Same lighting. Same wall."

"Let me see."

Winter produced the photographs of Angelika. There was no doubt. No doubt at all.

"Good Lord," said Wägner. "What does this mean?"

"I don't know yet."

"You'll have to find this place."

"Yes."

"I hope it's here in Gothenburg." Wägner looked at Winter. "I mean, she did go on a few trips with friends."

"I know."

"Maybe the other girl did as well. Angelika."

"Yes."

"So it might be there," said Wägner. " Cyprus, or Rhodes."

"We'll see."

"Why had she hidden the envelope?"

"Is that how you see it? That it was hidden?"

"That's what it looks like, yes."

"But she hadn't thrown the pictures away."

"Why should she want to do that?" Wägner said.

"I don't know either."

"Can there really be a link between this and… the girls, I mean… With… their deaths?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out," said Winter. "Or trying to exclude."

"So you'll be looking for this place?" said Wägner.

"And the photographer," said Winter.

"I don't think they knew each other," said Wägner. "Beatrice and… Angela."

"Angelika."

"I don't think they knew each other. Beatrice would have mentioned her." He looked at the photograph of Angelika sitting in front of the brick wall. "I would have recognized her if I'd seen her before. There aren't that many black girls in Påvelund." He looked again at the picture of Beatrice. "It seems to be a nice place. She looks like she's having fun, at least."