Winter had driven westward in the light of morning. Bengt and Lisen had had coffee waiting for him, which he'd drunk in the kitchen. There was a smell of freshly baked buns, and he accepted one from a tray, still warm. "When Beatrice… left us, I spent hours baking," said Lisen Wägner. "Baked and baked away like a madwoman. Fruitcake in the middle of the night, croissants, bread rolls. I threw it away: while it was still hot, I threw it all away," she said, looking at the baking tray.

Winter chewed the bun.

How the hell was he going to put this?

Was Beatrice a stripper in her spare time, as far as you know? Was that the in thing among high school girls five years ago?

He'd seen the looks on their faces, and it was obvious that they didn't know, hadn't known.

Had he and his colleagues checked thoroughly enough with the other relatives? They hadn't made house calls on everybody associated with Beatrice and her family. At that time they hadn't had the photograph of Beatrice sitting in the same place as Angelika five years later.

He'd finished chewing, swallowed, and took out the photograph again.

"We can't find this place," he said. "We've searched all of Gothenburg."

"Then it can't be here," Bengt Wägner said.

"I think it is," Winter replied. He mentioned Angelika's name again and produced the photograph of her as well.

"Hmm. I suppose that makes it more likely," Wägner said.

"It might be in a private house," said Winter.

"Whose?" asked Lisen Wägner.

"I don't suppose it could be somebody you know?"

"Eh? Who on earth would that be?" she wondered.

"For God's sake," her husband exclaimed. "What kind of an answer is that?"

She had turned away to look at the table with the tray of buns cooling down. He had looked at Winter.

"If we'd recognized it we'd have said so right away, of course. It doesn't matter whether it's in somebody's house, or where it is."

"No."

"Can I keep this photograph?"

"Of course."

"You never know."

Winter handed over the copy. He'd intended to do that anyway.

He'd been to see Lars-Olof and Ann Hansson late last night. That conversation had been a replica of this one.

Sara Helander was sitting at the big table in the conference room. She was tanned, browner than he was.

"And then along came the ferry, just in time," she said. "I ran to catch it and it took off, and I had them in view the entire journey."

"Well done, Sara."

"Their boat was moored ten meters from the ferry stop, and when I got off I saw them leaving their boat."

Winter waited. Halders waited, Ringmar and Bergenhem waited, Aneta Djanali, Mollerstrom, everybody.

Helander had told them about the woman; the pictures from Angelika's graduation party had done the rounds again. It's her all right, Helander had said. It's her.

"And so I followed them," she said. "It wasn't very far. There were quite a lot of people going to and from the jetty and the ferry stop, so it was no problem."

"There should never be any problem," said Halders.

"Then it became a bit more difficult,… but naturally no problem then, either," said Helander, glancing toward Halders. "And then… well, they went into a house on the other side of the road and I kept on walking past it." She looked around. "A pretty big house, built of wood."

"Did they both go in?"

"Yes."

"Could Samic be the Southern European-looking man in the party picture here?"

"Could be," said Ringmar. "With a good toupee, it could be him. But we haven't been able to check all that thoroughly."

"Our toupee experts have said that it isn't a toupee," said Halders with a sort of smile.

I wonder what Fredrik would look like in a toupee, Djanali thought briefly. God awful. A man in a toupee's nothing to go for. Neither is a man with a comb-over either.

Samic hadn't been wearing a toupee on the boat or in the restaurant. Why should he be wearing one at that party, she wondered, assuming it was him? And if he had been there-why?

"We'd better take a look at that mansion," Winter said.

"I'll go," said Halders. He looked at the others.

"He'll be suspicious if he sees you, won't he?" said Bergenhem.

"He won't see me."

"Oh, no?"

"That's where my new toupee comes in handy."

Somebody chortled, but soon stopped.

"Shouldn't there be several of us?" Helander asked.

Winter thought about it. Caution. Yes. Either they marched in and brought Samic to the station for questioning-six hours minimum, because that is what the investigation needed-or they waited. They were looking for an unknown address, and they had an unknown name, and there might be a connection. Possibly. That's the way they worked. It was no coincidence that Helander had seen Samic and followed him. If the ferry hadn't shown up they would've found the house anyway, but it would have taken them longer.

Samic was lying, but lots of other people were too.

He wanted to know what was inside the house before they reacted.

"You and Fredrik," he told Sara Helander.

"When?"

"Tonight."

"What should we d-"

"That's enough now, Sara," said Halders getting to his feet. "Let's do some thinking for ourselves, OK?"

Yngvesson called as Winter was on his way to his office. The ring tone echoed around the empty corridor.

"I might have something for you," the technician said.

Winter was there within five minutes.

"Listen to this," said Yngvesson.

He started the tape. Winter listened: there was less to listen to now. Yngvesson had filtered the sound image, taken away as much as he could of what he called "the porridge." Winter was reminded of the noise on the beach the previous evening, fragments of other voices.

He looked at the tape. Where he had heard a park before, he now seemed to be hearing a room, a barren room.

He heard the girl, Anne. "Oh, oh, oh, no… no, no, no nooooo, nooooooo," a scream, something from inside her throat, choking noises when… something was squeezed around her neck.

A mumbling now, like a prayer, like a devilish prayer, a sort of mantra loud, louder than when there had been other noises there, noises that came from that park and the traffic around it. These sounds were different, they didn't belong, sounds that ought to be eradicated, Winter thought, nobody should be forced to listen to this.

But he was here. The girl was there. He couldn't turn anything off.

"Here it comes," said Yngvesson.

Winter listened. At first to what he'd heard before, but clearer, the same… cries, but as if they'd been trumpeted through a horn and down a long tunnel, straight at him, "nnaaaaeieieierr, naaieieieierrayy… NAEEEIEIEE… NEEEER… neewaaiyggee… never… neveragi!! nevaragi!!!

Yngvesson turned it off.

"Neveragi?" said Winter.

"Never again."

"Yes."

"I don't think I can get any closer than that."

"Never again," Winter said.

Yngvesson turned back to his computer. It was humming away merrily, totally unaware of how smart it was. It must be pretty good, being a computer at times, Winter thought. Efficient, and always merry and carefree.

"It can't be her, I suppose?" Winter said.

"What do you mean?"

"She can't be the one speaking?"

"No."

"Never again," said Winter. "Our murderer says 'Never again.'"

"That was the last murder. For the time being, at least."

"That's not what it's about."

"I don't dare speculate."

"He's not saying it to himself," said Winter. "He's… showing her that it will never happen again."