He could hear the usual sounds of night from outside.

Now what?

He went to the door and listened. No footsteps. A mumbling sound coming from somewhere, music perhaps. He could see there was no light on the other side of the door, so he opened it.

He found himself in a hall, empty. There were a couple more doors. A Chinese box, he thought. Go in through one door, and you find another one. Go in through that, go in through the next one. You always go in, but never out.

There was a light behind the door to the right, at the end of the hall, but a weaker light under the door to the left. As if it were coming from farther away. He walked quickly and quietly to this one and took hold of the handle. He opened the door carefully and saw a staircase leading down to the light.

Helander expected Halders to come back at any moment. The idiot. I was supposed to be playing the heroic part in this drama. I found the house. It should be me creeping around inside.

She knew that she would never do that.

A car approached from behind and passed. She'd heard something but not seen it until it drove past and parked outside the house. It had been moving slowly with no lights on. A shiver ran down her spine. Had they seen her sitting in the car?

Nobody got out. She ducked down but was able to see the silhouette of somebody in the driving seat. Their arm was bent. Whoever it was might be on the phone. Maybe talking about the occupied car not far away.

This is dangerous, she thought. More dangerous than we anticipated. I'll call as soon as I can. More than twenty minutes has passed.

Halders went down the stairs. He crept down. He felt as if he were acting in a film. Normally he never crept. When had he last crept? When he reached the fourth step he suddenly thought about his children. He could see Margareta. My whole life is passing before my eyes. Does that mean I'm dying? Huh. We're all dying. Nobody lives forever. Am I scared? No. I have my Sig Sauer in its holster, and I'm strong. It's definitely stupid of me, coming in here. There's a woman I think I'm in love with.

He was at the bottom. This was the basement. There was another door in the Chinese box, and it wasn't closed. Ten meters to go. He could walk that without casting a shadow. There was music. He could see a shadow himself. The music was some awful disco rubbish from the lunatic seventies. He went closer and the music came closer. He saw that the door led into another hall, or a narrow corridor. Somebody was moving in there. Halders took out his gun, which was cold and comradely in his hand. What am I getting into? he thought. He could hear a voice, a woman's voice, and then a man's voice, shouting, or bellowing, no, something different, sobbing now, Good God, the voice was rising and falling, the awful music bounced down the brick-lined corridor, which felt narrower and narrower the farther he went. He could see the woman gyrating to the music; she was wearing a G-string, nothing else: she was chewing gum, thinking about something else, and Halders was closer, there was a pane of glass between her and the man who was on all fours in front of her and baying to the moon, wearing nothing but a dog leash around his neck. Kurt Bielke was staring at everything and nothing without seeing, it was him, and Halders saw his body starting to twitch, like a religious fanatic in a state of ecstasy at some religious cult meeting, a cult meeting, Halders repeated to himself. I'll shoot that filthy bastard right between the eyes. Bielke swayed backward and forward and Halders had seen all he needed to see for the time being, thank you very much, and took a step backward, then another, and felt the blow, actually felt it, saw it with the eyes in the back of his head, as if it were coming at him in slow motion, as if it were all over before it actually smashed into his skull.

A dog started barking on the other side of the street but stopped abruptly, as if it had been beaten. Winter got out of the car and crossed the street in his shirt and shorts. The shirt felt tight around the collar. He'd spoken to Angela on the phone, and she'd sounded… flat. Tomorrow they'd try to get down to the beach, in the evening. He'd have to get some sleep first, but he didn't know when. "It's too hot in the apartment," she'd said. What she'd actually said was that houses are cooler. Still, before long all this heat would be over, and they wouldn't have another summer like it until the next millennium, and by then they'd all be very, very old in their apartments or houses.

The front door was open, as were all the windows Winter could see. Benny Vennerhag was outside in the back, as always. The pool shone: black water. Vennerhag turned to face him.

"Take a midnight dip."

Why not?

Afterward he dried himself on the bath towel Vennerhag had brought him, and pulled on his shorts without underwear, which he'd wrapped inside his shirt: he didn't intend to wear that again tonight.

"Would you like to borrow a shirt?"

Winter shook his head.

"Enjoy that?"

Winter nodded.

"How about a beer?"

"Yes, please."

Vennerhag stood up with difficulty, swayed unsteadily, and disappeared into the house. He came back with two beers and sat down again, heavily.

"Are you drunk?"

"A little bit." Vennerhag opened the bottles and handed one to Winter. "An intimate little dinner here at home with lots of decent drinks."

"Nothing to eat?"

"Cotriade." Vennerhag saluted with the beer bottle. "What do you say to that, you snobby bastard? You thought I gobbled egg 'n' bacon morning, noon, and night, didn't you, eh?"

"I never said anything like that."

Vennerhag took another drink, yawned, and looked at Winter over the bottle neck.

"Couldn't this have waited until tomorrow?"

A telephone rang inside the house, possibly several, as the sound was so clear. Winter looked at Vennerhag's mobile on the plastic table under the umbrella, but it was turned off. No compromising conversations in front of the chief inspector.

"I have to ask for your help in finding out more about the boy," said Winter. "Do you have any good contacts among the new Swedes?"

"New Swedes? I like that expression."

"What do you prefer, niggers?"

"No, no, I'm just as politically correct as the next man."

"This has nothing to do with that. Politically correct is a negative term used by cowardly types who try to hide their own sloppiness by accusing others of being politically incorrect."

"Of course, of course."

"Can you do this or can't you?"

"The answer's obvious, isn't it?"

The telephone rang again, ring after ring after ring. Vennerhag didn't stand up, looked at the silent mobile but didn't touch it. The ringing continued in the house, making a racket like a car alarm. Vennerhag had renounced answering machines at an early stage, which according to him meant he had a better chance of living longer.

"Aren't you going to answer, Benny?"

"Not at this time of night. Only fools call now."

"The fools seem to want to talk to you."

"I'm also being polite to you as my guest. By not answering."

Winter bowed.

"Are you dry now?"

"That was also considerate. What you really mean is: get out."

"In my own way, yes."

The telephone rang again. Vennerhag looked at Winter, at his mobile. The foolish calls are piling up, Winter thought, getting to his feet.

"I'd better give you an opportunity," he said.

"I won't answer later, either," said Vennerhag.