Bergenhem went to Bielke's house with his colleagues Johan Setter and Sara Helander. I'm everywhere, she thought. Maybe it will be better here. She didn't want to sleep, not before they'd found Fredrik.

Bielke's wife said nothing, but stayed in her room.

"We won't go in there right now," Bergenhem said.

"Where do we go, then?" asked Setter.

"Where's the girl?" Helander said.

"Out for a morning swim," said Bergenhem.

"We can start with her room then," said Setter.

"We've already been through there," said Bergenhem. "Pretty thoroughly."

"That was then," said Setter.

"Does she know?" Helander asked.

"Know what?" Bergenhem turned to look at her.

"Exactly why her father was taken in at dawn?"

"Do we?"

The house is smaller than it looked from the outside, she thought. Several windows were partly open, letting in the smell of sea salt and stone, dust that had dried, grass that had burned in the sun. There was dust in the air inside the house, like a mist.

"I'll go out to the garage," said Bergenhem.

Everything in there was hanging in neat rows or packed in boxes. Bielke owned everything the owner of an oldish house needed.

There were two cars in the double garage.

Bielke had gone to the house on foot. Helander hadn't seen a car. It could have been in the garage all the time. They would soon know.

Bergenhem went from box to box. It had to be done. Routine work produced results. The most unlikely things, such as a suspect hiding something compromising in an… ordinary place at home, were often not only likely but true. A revolver replaced in its rack next to the elk's head. A knife hung alongside all the others on their magnetic strip. A dog leash over a chair in the hall, as usual. A lamb chop put back in the freezer. A blunt instrument.

Dog leash. The Bielkes didn't have a dog. It would be excellent if we could find a dog leash or something else that could be used for throttling a victim.

He stood next to the smaller car, a compact station wagon, and tried the front door on the driver's side. It wasn't locked. The keys were in the ignition. Locking the garage door was good enough.

He'd soon have to decide when they should call in the professional vacuum cleaners from Beier's unit.

Bergenhem opened the car door, wearing his white gloves, and quickly searched the glove compartment, the floor, and the seats. Paper, crumbs, dust, a road atlas of Europe. A piece of dried chewing gum in the ashtray. No smell of tobacco.

He took the keys and opened the trunk. A collapsible chair, a blanket that seemed to be scrunched together rather than folded, a wicker basket, a pair of working gloves stained with oil, a few old newspapers that were starting to turn yellow, a beer crate with no bottles, a single slipper split at the toe. Chewed by a dog, Bergenhem thought.

He pushed the objects carefully to one side and opened the compartment in the floor of the luggage space. He could see an unused spare tire, a case with a jack, a case containing several screwdrivers. Nothing else. He shut the lid.

He was about to close the tailgate when he noticed the faint outline of another compartment to the left, not much more than a shadow on the side of the luggage space. It had a little symbol on it. He pulled at it, but it didn't open. He pulled harder, and it came loose with a sighing noise. Inside was a place for the folded warning triangle and for a flat first-aid box. He took both objects out. Nothing else there. He put his hand inside and felt something in the back, to the right, something hard. He took it out and knew what it was even before he saw it.

The camera was dusty but quite new, small and compact and easy to use. What the experts call an idiot camera, he thought.

There was film in it, partially exposed.

A secret place for keeping a camera. Next to the warning triangle. Look out, Lars. There's a warning here.

He heard something behind him.

"What's going on?"

Bergenhem turned around and saw the girl standing there with her bicycle. Shorts, T-shirt, sandals, tanned, pretty, sunglasses pushed up onto her forehead, basket with a bath towel and a bottle of mineral water.

"Are you from the press?" she asked.

Bergenhem glanced at the camera in his hand.

"The police," he said. He'd never met her before. He went up to her and introduced himself: "Lars Bergenhem, CID."

"Why don't you guys move in?" she said.

It's better that your dad moves in with us, he thought. She seems surprisingly calm.

"What are you doing with my father?"

"We have a few questions we want to ask him," he said.

"It's always just a few questions," she said.

"Is this yours?" he asked, holding up the camera.

"No."

"Your dad's?"

"Where was it?"

"In this car. The Opel."

"That's Mom's shopping cart, you might say."

Bergenhem nodded.

"I don't recognize that camera, though," she said. "I have a similar one, but it's in my room. Or was earlier this morning, at least."

It was impossible to get any sense out of Bielke. Questions and counterquestions. Winter had taken a break and tried to get something more out of Andy, Anne Nöjd's friend, who came to the station when they asked him to.

He knew nothing more. Winter was as convinced of that as he could be. Andy had been totally overcome by grief and seemed catatonic.

Then Bergenhem called.

"The family here doesn't recognize it," he said. "The girl still has her own, and there's another one in the kitchen that they say belongs to the family, as it were."

"Take them all and come straight back here," Winter said.

"The wife and daughter?" asked Bergenhem.

"I mean the cameras."

The only camera with film in it was the one Bergenhem had found in the car. Half the film had been exposed. They had the pictures within forty minutes. Winter, Bergenhem, Ringmar, Helander, and Djanali were in the conference room when the photographs were delivered.

Nobody spoke as Winter put the pile on the big table and picked them up one at a time. Bergenhem broke the silence when he saw picture number two.

"For Christ's sake, that's Angelika Hansson."

Her black face shone as brightly as the golden sun that colored everything around her as she stood on the sand close to the water. A lot of sand, Djanali thought. No camels and no camel shit, but a lot of sand.

There were four pictures of Angelika Hansson on that beach, all taken from about the same angle. The usual wasted snaps, Djanali thought. A solitary young man smiled, from the same place that Angelika had been standing.

"That's him," Winter said. "Angelika's boyfriend."

"He's in this one, too, taken at the edge of the trees," said Ringmar.

"It looks familiar," Helander said.

If Fredrik had been here, he'd have said "The west coast," thought Aneta Djanali.

"You can see the soccer field in the background of this picture," said Bergenhem.

"Hovas bathing beach," said Winter. "That was taken at the Hovas beach."

"What's this?" Helander asked.

"Angelika's home," said Winter. Nobody outside the house. The photo was taken in the afternoon, when the shadows were long.

"And this is where the Bielkes live." Bergenhem looked at the next photograph. "And this is another one of their house."

Winter turned over another picture, like a blackjack dealer in a casino. It was good for the concentration to do it like this, good for everybody's concentration. There were only a few photographs left.