Bergenhem was waiting in the parking lot. It wasn't far.

"Who is he?" she asked.

"Give me the glass," said Bergenhem. He put it in a special holder and covered it.

"Where is that pig?"

"The uniforms took him straight in."

"Good Lord, are you sure about this, Lars?"

"Yes. But not of what it is. Hardly vitamins, in any case."

"GHB?"

"Probably. Or Rohypnol… we'll have to see."

"I'm not even fit to go around handing out parking tickets," she said.

"Now that's a dangerous job."

"You know what I'm saying, Lars. I've made an absolute mess of this job. I'm a triple idiot."

"On the contrary," said Bergenhem. "Between us, we've copped one of the dregs of society in the act of spreading his poison. We lured the swine into a trap and caught him red-handed."

She looked at Bergenhem.

"Is that what you're going to put in your report?"

"Of course."

"You're an angel, Lars."

"You can buy me a drink sometime."

"Whenever you like."

"Be careful about accepting drinks yourself, though."

"I'll nev-"

"We'd better be getting on with the job," said Bergenhem, tapping the glass. "I'll have to take this shit in."

"Do you really think I can go back there?"

"Nobody saw anything unusual."

"Are you absolutely sure?" "We're professionals, aren't we?" "Well, you are at least." "I said we. Get yourself back there."

It was the same bartender.

"How was the moonlight?"

"Beautiful."

"Another glass of mineral water?"

"Yes, please."

"Anything to eat?"

"Not at the moment."

Half an hour passed. More and more people arrived. Sara Helander stayed in the crowded bar, turning down drinks offers. A new bartender appeared. He didn't have time to favor his regulars.

She moved a bit to one side and caught sight of Samic again. He was wearing a smart, light-colored summer jacket that he hadn't had on before. He walked through the tables and out into the street. If he took a taxi that would be fine. They weren't planning to follow him by car tonight.

Samic walked northward toward the water, alone. Sara could hardly see him among the crowds of people flocking back and forth between the river and the town center. He crossed over the main road and turned right toward the marina. Lights from the Opera House glistened on the water. The café that formed a semicircle around the building was packed.

Then she saw Samic on the other side of the basin. He was standing still and appeared to be thinking. Behind him was a café closing for the night. It was one-thirty. Suddenly there was a woman in front of Samic, talking to him. Sara couldn't make out her face at this distance. After five minutes they started walking toward the far end of the wharf. Sara walked quickly around the basin, keeping her eye on the pair. It was easier now as places were closing and there were fewer people around.

She saw Samic and the woman turn the corner. They were thirty meters away. She paused and thought. There was nobody between her and the corner. She took a few more paces. The sound of music drifted from one of the cafes. She didn't hear the engine but saw the boat emerge from behind the corner and set off northward along the river. Quite a large motorboat that could be beige or light blue or yellow, but right now looked orange and black in the glow from the streetlights. Samic was at the wheel. He didn't look back. The woman was standing beside him, her hair fluttering in the breeze.

When Lars-Olof and Ann Hansson came home early the next morning, having spent the night with friends in the archipelago, they could see that something was wrong. As they stood in the hall, they noticed that it still smelled of night, a cool scent.

The window of Angelika's room was broken and standing half open. Paper and books and smashed ornaments were scattered over the floor. The desk drawers were wide open. Angelika's clothes were in a mess in the wardrobe, and its door was ajar. Her bed was in disarray. The uncovered mattress was lying sideways.

Ann Hansson fainted. Her husband called Winter.

Winter and Ringmar stood in Angelika's room. Winter noticed that the fresh flowers, formerly in a vase on the bureau, were now spread out in a semicircle.

"Somebody was looking for something," Ringmar said.

"Can you guess what?"

"The photograph."

Winter agreed.

"Didn't bother to clean up afterward."

"He knows what we're looking for," Winter said.

"Could be an ordinary burglar."

"There's a television set here," said Winter, pointing. "And a telephone on the bedside table over there." He gestured toward the bureau. "I'll bet her jewelry is still in the top drawer."

Winter tried to read something in Andy's face. It was a map showing different directions.

"On which side of the river?" Winter asked.

"I don't follow."

"There's a bar there, isn't there? That Anne went to sometimes?"

Andy's face indicated that he thought it was nothing to do with Winter, that it was irrelevant.

"It's very important," Winter said.

"Eh?"

"Can't you get it into your head that this bar is relevant to her death?"

You little shit head.

Ringmar could see what Winter was thinking. His face was a map now, too.

Winter put the photographs on the table. Andy took his time.

"I don't recognize either of them," he said.

"They're both dead," said Winter.

Andy was silent.

"In the same way as Anne."

"I still don't recognize them," Andy said.

"Is there anything else you recognize, then?"

Andy turned to look Winter in the eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"The place. The surroundings."

"No."

"Take as much time as you need."

"I don't recognize it."

Winter didn't speak, just sat. He could hear faint noises of summer. They were in an interrogation room containing nothing of all the things outside. There were no colors in here. Sounds were muffled, filtered through the air-conditioning, flattened to a buzz that could be anything.

Winter felt for the pack of cigarillos in his breast pocket. He could see the sweat on Andy's brow despite the low temperature in the room.

Maybe it would happen now.

"I don't recognize it," Andy repeated.

Then he said it.

"I've never been there."

Winter was holding the pack halfway out of his pocket.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I've never been there."

"Where?"

"There," said Andy, waving his hand at the photographs on the desk.

"Where is it, Andy?"

"Where… where they used to go."

"They?"

"Yes, they. There are several of them, aren't there?"

Winter waited. A car set off on an emergency call, he could hear it. A voice shouted, more loudly than usual. Or maybe it was at normal volume in the thin air.

"You know where it is, Andy."

No response.

"Where is it, Andy?"

He looked at Winter. His face changed, then changed again.

"What does it matter?"

"Have you still not gotten it through your head?"

"I'm just thinking of… of her."

Winter nodded.

"Do you understand?"

"You can help her now."

"It was so… innocent."

"What was innocent, Andy? What?"

"The… the dancing."

"The dancing," Winter repeated, as if he'd been waiting to hear those words all afternoon. As if everything had been leading up to those words: the dancing. A dance for a murderer?