It was Aneta Djanali who picked up Hannes and Magda from school. Margareta's mother was in town to help Halders look after the children, but now they were parentless for the time being. Djanali thought about that word: parentless.

"How long do you think it will take?" Grandma had asked when they got in touch, with traces of hope in her voice.

How should she reply to that?

Djanali felt dizzy as the children came toward her, as if everything was happening somewhere else, as if she were seeing everything through a filter. As if a train were moving through the landscape, and she was sitting in it, looking out.

"Where's Daddy?" asked Hannes.

How should she reply to that?

"He's… on a mission," she said.

"When's he coming back, then?"

"We're not sure. That's why I'm here to get you and Magda."

The boy and his sister seemed satisfied with that. They all clambered into the patrol car. I don't want to drive them myself, Djanali had told Winter.

They got out when the car pulled up outside Halders's house. She went in with the children and checked the time. Their grandma would arrive in two hours.

"Are you hungry?" she asked them.

She took some hamburgers and rolls from the freezer, and Magda showed her where the ketchup was kept, pointing with a tiny index finger. On the next shelf down was an onion and a head of lettuce starting to turn brown at the edges.

She fried the gray meat until it turned brown, and prepared the hamburgers. No onion for Magda.

"Are you from Africat?" asked Hannes, speaking with his mouth full.

"Africa," said his sister, looking somewhat embarrassed. "It's called Africa."

"My mom and dad come from a country in Africa called Burkina Faso," Djanali said. "It used to be called Upper Volta."

"It's on top of Lower Volta!" said Magda, giggling.

Her brother gave her a nudge. Djanali felt the nudge herself. Fredrik, Fredrik, please come in through that door and say something idiotic about Ougadougou. Anything at all, at any time. We'll get married a second later. Buy a house in a mixed-race area. Live here. Move to Upper Volta. Commute to Ougadougou. Come in through that door. Call me on your mobile, you big darling idiot.

"What's it like?" Hannes asked.

"In Burkina Faso? There's a lot of sand." She looked at her untouched hamburger that was starting to go dry on her plate. "I've only been there once, ten years ago."

"Why not more often?"

"Well… I was born here. Here in Gothenburg. I'm Swedish."

"Are there any lions?" asked Magda.

"Not that many. There are more camels than lions."

"Is it a desert?"

"A lot of it is desert."

"Have you heard about the airplane that crashed in the desert?" Hannes asked.

"It's a joke," said Magda.

"No," said Djanali, turning to Hannes.

"Well, the captain sent all the passengers out looking for food," said the boy with a grin the width of his face. "They all survived the crash, of course.

He sent them all out, and they came back saying that they had good news and bad news." He looked at her. "Are you with me?"

"I'm with you."

"'OK,' said the captain, let's hear the bad news first.' 'There's nothing to eat but camel shit,' the passengers told him. 'What about the good news, then?' the captain wondered. And the passengers told him: 'There's lots of it!'"

She laughed.

"Dad told us that one," said Magda.

The children went off to do their own thing. She washed up, and the sun was in her eyes, so she pulled down the blinds. In the living room she could hear the faint hum from Hannes's computer, the metallic ghostly voice from some game or other.

She turned to the collection of CDs. Hmm. Fredrik certainly had good taste, she thought, then adjusted that to: has good taste. Has. American singer-songwriters, with a few dashes of alternative country.

She sat down with lots of cases in her hand. Outside, the garden was dormant in the afternoon heat. The birds were asleep in the trees. Maybe the children were mercifully asleep as well? The computer in Hannes's room had gone quiet.

She played Buddy Miller-maybe Fredrik would hear it and come bounding in through the verandah door: Who the hell is playing my record, the bastard?

Winter had dozed on and off for an hour and a half, and dreamed violent dreams that he forgot when he woke up but which pounded away at his brain like a fever.

Fredrik Halders's face was the first thing he saw even before he'd opened his eyes. When he did, the wall in front of him was empty and piss yellow.

He sat up, rubbed his face hard, and checked the time. He reached out for the telephone on the narrow table in the overnight room and called home.

Angela sounded worried.

"What's happening to you, Erik?"

"Don't worry about me. Fredrik's the one in trouble."

"No news?"

"No. Is Elsa there?"

"She's taking her afternoon nap."

"Like me."

"When are you coming home?"

When this is all over, he thought. It could go quickly now.

"We have a witness we need to talk to."

"I have no idea," said Bielke. His face was still austere, carved up by white lines. He hadn't slept. Winter had prevented him from smoking. His lawyer was present, listening and making notes. There would be complaints. Let ' em come. Winter read a few lines on the documents in front of him. "I'm telling you yet again that I haven't seen that police officer," Bielke said.

"He was in the same building as you, at the same time."

"That's impossible, as I was at home in bed then. How could he be?"

"One of our police officers saw you go in through the door of the house in question."

"That's a lie because I've never been there. I don't even know where it is, and I still won't know no matter how long you keep asking me about it."

"Why are you telling lies?" Winter asked.

"Why are you telling lies?" Bielke was calm, but wasn't displaying the prickly arrogance often seen in the likes of him. A polished sociopath, Winter thought.

He suddenly felt very weary, much more weary than when he'd lain down on that far too soft bed. Helander had never seen Bielke before. It could be a mistake. It happens, and it's not good, but we're all human. What's Bielke?

He thought about Molina, the prosecutor. They had to have more evidence if they wanted to keep Bielke in custody. Five hours to go. Custody or freedom, temporary freedom for the man from Längedrag. He wanted Bielke kept inside. That would give them room to maneuver until the court made a decision about detaining him. He wanted Molina to agree that they had adequate grounds for pointing the finger at Bielke. And he wanted the adequate to grow into probable. But precisely what was Bielke suspected of doing? Involvement in the abduction of Fredrik Halders? The murder of three young women? The rape of his own daughter? What Winter had seen of Bielke didn't exclude any of those possibilities. Bielke is a key to something vital. I can't make any mistakes now.

He needed a witness. A piece of evidence. A link. Bielke would deny everything. He had the strength.

Winter thought about Halders again. Halders's head that was as well trimmed and sharply outlined and hard as the rocks at Saltholmen where people were sunbathing at this very moment.

The first thing they'd done was look for Samic, and Samic wasn't there. Not at his dance restaurant, not at home, not with people they knew he was acquainted with. I'm not really surprised, Ringmar had said. He's wherever Halders is, Bergenhem had suggested. Did he mean in the realm of the dead? Winter hadn't responded, merely continued searching in the morning light, gazing out over the glittering streets of Gothenburg.