“It wears me out to go back and forth between all the different styles.” He pointed to the empty desk as if it were overflowing with stacks of paper. “William Faulkner one minute, Mickey Spillane the next.”

“Which do you prefer?” Winter asked, lighting a cigarillo.

“Faulkner, of course. He was a small-town boy too.”

“But you don’t feel like you’re seeing any results.”

“No.”

“I don’t look at it that way. We’re reading the witness statements, we’re going through the files on our favorite jailbirds, not to mention some of the more obscure ones. I’m not the only one who’s online from morning to night. And we’ve got all our sources working for us, and I mean all.”

“Hmm, have you talked to Skogome?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s too early, Sture. I don’t want a profile by a forensic psychologist until we’ve got more to go on.”

“That’s exactly what I was talking about.”

“What?”

“Not enough results.”

“What you’re talking about,” Winter said, “is longer reports and more bullshit to feed the press and evidence so strong that it will reach out and grab the police bigwigs.”

“Speaking of the press, I hope you’re ready for them.”

“Absolutely.”

“A fresh planeload of British reporters has just landed,” Birgersson said, “and they’re not taking any prisoners this time.”

“Not taking any prisoners? You’ve been watching too many Holly-wood action movies.”

“This afternoon I want you by my side, partner.”

“So you’re going to be there too?”

“Orders from the top.”

“I see.”

Birgersson put out his cigarette.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Winter said.

“Remember that your trip is unofficial.”

“Of course.”

“Police force to police force.”

Winter took a puff of his cigarillo and scanned the room for evidence that it had ever seen a piece of paper. Nothing.

“I have no idea what to expect from London,” Birgersson said. “But their DSI seems to be on top of things. Their detective superintendent.”

“I know what it means.”

“He has nothing but praise for your contact, that chief inspector.”

Birgersson looks like a dwarf birch, Winter thought. One that’s made a heroic effort to straighten up and climb down from the mountain. Funny I never noticed it before. “Macdonald,” he said.

“On his way up just like you.”

“Right, on an eleven o’clock flight tomorrow morning.” Winter put his half-smoked cigarillo in an ashtray that Birgersson had taken out of a desk drawer.

“Who knows, maybe you’ll have the whole thing solved by the time you get back. Meanwhile, we’ll do our best to hold down the fort.”

“Now that’s reassuring.” Winter smiled.

“I suggest you go to your office and get yourself into the right frame of mind for the press conference.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to take an extra beta-blocker?”

Birgersson broke into a hoarse laugh that could have been lifted from one of the action videos he guffawed his way through one night a week.

The press conference started off badly, staged a recovery in the middle and ended in chaos. Birgersson was exasperated before fifteen minutes had passed. Winter answered the questions that swarmed at them both.

The Swedish tabloid reporters were more restrained, taking the opportunity to pick up a few tricks of the trade from their aggressive British colleagues.

“Is this your first case?” This from the ugliest person Winter had ever seen. His face resembled five pounds of meat loaf molded by an arthritic potter. He acted drunk but was sober as a judge. Like the other Englishmen, he was wearing a threadbare suit, having landed in Scandinavia without a coat.

“Is the murderer Swedish?” somebody else asked.

“How many similar cases have you had?”

“Describe the murder weapon.”

“What were the victims doing in Sweden anyway?”

“What kind of sex crime was involved?”

“Excuse me?” Winter balked, examining the reporter. She had blue eye shadow, blond hair with black roots, a narrow face and a spiteful mouth.

“What kind of sex crime?” she repeated.

“Who said that it was a sex crime?” Winter asked.

“Isn’t it rather obvious?”

Winter looked the other way, hoping that someone would rescue him with a question about the weather in Sweden, what soccer team he rooted for…

“Answer the question,” somebody shouted.

“We don’t have anything that points to a sex crime,” Winter said.

“Like what?” someone else asked.

“What did you say?”

“What is it that you don’t have?”

“How about sperm?” Winter asked.

The room fell silent for a few seconds.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” a reporter asked in Swedish.

“We didn’t find any traces of sperm,” Winter said, “which means we can’t be a hundred percent sure that it was a sex crime.”

“But it might be?” the reporter persisted.

“Certainly.”

“Speak English,” a British reporter shouted.

“What did he say about sperm?” somebody else asked.

“They found a shitload of sperm,” the reporter with the pockmarked face explained.

“Whose sperm?”

“What did the lab tests show?”

“Was there sperm on only one of the victims, or both?”

“Was it on his body or his clothes?”

Winter could tell Birgersson was longing for the cool emptiness of his office. After he had straightened out some misunderstandings and asked the reporters to publish a few facts that would help the investigation, he fielded a couple more questions. The television cameras, both British and Swedish, whirred away.

“Have you checked out everybody who’s come here from England recently?” a Swedish reporter asked.

“We’re working on it.”

“How about people heading the other direction?”

“We’re working on it,” Winter lied.

ANGELA CAME OVER TO HELP HIM PACK, BUT HE TRAVELED light and insisted on saving space for some books he planned to buy in London.

“If you ever get out of here,” she said.

“The sky is clearing.”

“Call the airport first thing in the morning.”

“Excellent idea.”

“What do you expect to accomplish-arrest this serial killer or something?” Angela ran her fingers over the collar of a white shirt on top of the pile by the suitcase.

“He’s no serial killer.”

“What?”

“He’s no serial killer,” Winter repeated, folding two pairs of socks and putting them in the suitcase.

“Is that so?”

“It doesn’t look that way.”

“Uh-huh?”

“It’s even worse.” He turned to her. “Could you hand me those pants, please?”

“Take them yourself.”

“Okay.”

“Come and get them,” she said, her eyes wide and misty as if she had been walking through rain.

Winter lunged across the bed, grabbed the pants from her, smoothed out the wrinkles and put them on the chair. He took her hands and folded them behind her back as she leaned forward toward the bed.

“Now you’ve got me where you want me.”

He doubled her long skirt halfway up her back, let his hand glide over her right hip and worked his finger under her panties. As she parted her legs, he moved his hand downward and felt how wet she was. His forehead was pounding and she gasped, raising her chin. He carefully squeezed his fingers further in, unbuckled his belt with his left hand and pulled down his zipper. All my blood is there and nowhere else, he thought, leaning against her thigh for a second. When she started to moan louder, he gradually entered her, stopping only for a moment when he couldn’t go any farther.

After a few seconds they were in sync. He held her firmly by the hips, as though she were treading water above the bed.