HE HAD FOUND A ROOM AT THE NEW DOME HOTEL ON CAMBER well. Church Street for twenty-five pounds a night, and the best part was that it was within walking distance of Brixton Station if you followed Coldharbour Lane. He had already made the trek, shoulder bag in tow, from the station to the hotel.

He knew that a bus ran down Coldharbour Lane but preferred to walk. The sun was out, and with Sugar Minott jamming on his headphones, he felt like he was experiencing life for the first time. Maybe he’d run across some good weed. He would take it easy if he did. He was here for the music.

As he approached the station, he saw a sign on the right: COOLTAN ARTS CENTRE. LIVE MUSIC FRIDAY NIGHTS. That was only a few more days. He would still be in London.

The scene around the station was mesmerizing-the narrow streets, the market wagons that came rolling through, not a white face in sight. Reggae blared from the stores. Some posters lying on the sidewalk displayed the names of various groups. He had found the right place.

He walked into Blacker Dread Music Store and saw everything he could imagine asking for. I’m in heaven, he thought, or at least reggae heaven. Or maybe I’m in Jamaica.

He browsed through the CDs. A number of the customers could have been Swedes or Danes or Germans, but he didn’t want to talk to anybody or even try to figure out what language they were speaking.

He found Natty Dread Rise Again by the Congos and their double album Heart of the Congos. And “Scalp Dem” by Super Cat. The box set Acid Jazz Roots Selection. Beenie Man, Lady Saw, Wayne Wonder, Tanya Stephens, Spragga Benz.

There was the new Bounty Killer-My Xperience. It would be three years before the album made it to Gothenburg, and then only by special order. He checked out the titles: “Fed Up.” “Living Dangerously.” “War Face (Ask Fi War)” remix. “The Lord Is My Light and Salvation.”

He saw Guns Out by Beenie Man Vs. Bounty Killer.

He was drawn to the lyrics, the swagger-especially the Bounty Killer titles: “Kill or Be Killed,” “Deadly Medley,” “Mobster,” “Nuh Have No Heart,” “Off the Air Bad Boy.” No compromise.

And here was Sugar Minott. International on RAS Records, produced by Hopeton “Scientist” Brown.

I could easily spend five hundred pounds here, he thought.

He leafed through the booklet that came with History of Trojan Records, Vol. 2. He would buy it.

Finally a pair of the store’s headphones was available and he handed his stack to the guy behind the counter, who had dreadlocks with blue ribbons dangling from the ends.

He began listening: Shaggy, African Revolution by Trinity, Chaka Demus & Pliers; and a classic by Culture that he hadn’t heard since some asshole borrowed it and never returned it-The Dread Flimstone Sound, an old Gregory Isaacs hit.

He listened to “ Sodom and Gomorrow” by the Congos.

The best album was Somma I (Hooked Light Rays), and he knew he wanted it as soon as he heard the vocals. Nothing but voices, like a black Gregorian chant, or African slaves down in the hold of a ship bound for America.

He decided to be choosy the first day so he could look forward to coming back. If he bought all the albums now, he’d be forever switching back and forth between them. Plus somebody could rob him on the street. He’d never be able to relax and concentrate on the music.

He bought Somma I and his hands trembled as he put it in his Discman. His earphones were back on before he’d even left the store. He walked down Atlantic Road toward the station and Brixton Market. The voices rose and fell, then snapped into a frenzy of sounds, as if a mad-man were loose among pots and pans. The music pierced his ears. It was alive, like someone in a long corridor with the instruments in front of him and the choir behind.

He stood outside the underground station. The viaduct on his right was green and burgundy. Red Records was directly across Brixton Road. Take it easy, he told himself. You can come back another day.

He saw a newspaper stand with black customers and black magazines: Ebony, Pride, Essence, Blues & Soul.

He was surrounded by unfamiliar smells. People came by with cuts of meat that he had never seen before, strange fruits and vegetables. Suddenly he was hungrier than he’d been his entire life. On Coldharbour Lane, there had been a place that looked outstanding. Auntie something. Auntie’s something Cuisine maybe. He went back and turned onto Electric Avenue. It was the best street name he’d ever heard of.

EARLY THE NEXT MORNlNG, WlNTER WALKED THROUGH THE underground garage and up the narrow staircase to the investigation room. He passed two heavily armed men wearing bulletproof vests. The walls in the stairwell were colorless, as if the everyday world had receded behind him when he came in from Parchmore Road. He heard the drone of a fan and telephones ringing nonstop.

Stepping into the corridor, he saw women and men moving in and out of a maze of rooms. The chart covering the wall to the left of the stairs was more suggestive of a sci-fi space laboratory than a regional criminal investigation center. Spokes of a big wheel shot out in a thousand different directions, like a diagram of the solar system with the earth in the middle instead of the sun.

Macdonald had explained the chart the day before. Each line represented a call from the murder victim’s phone in the center. This was for a big drug case that led to the West Indies. The calls had been traced all across London, Britain and the entire Western Hemisphere.

The offices of the detective inspectors lined the corridor. The other investigators worked in two rooms, as well as the open space farthest from the stairs. Desks had been moved together to enlarge the work surfaces.

Everywhere Winter turned, he saw computers, typewriters, file cabinets, phones, stacks of paper, witness reports, handwritten notes that had been retyped. Photographs stuck out of the piles like awnings against the white and yellow paper. Old-fashioned efficiency. Computers aside, this was how Swedish police headquarters had looked back when he had started.

They have a more intuitive way of working, Winter thought. There’s a feeling here of anarchy and freedom and participation in decision making that we don’t have in Sweden. We don’t sit close enough to each other at our fortress on Skånegatan Street.

Macdonald’s office was no exception: a hundred square yards, stacks of papers, phones. Heavy protective gear was crammed behind the door, impossible to reach in an emergency. His service pistol lay in a worn-out leather holster on the desk. A very English sun filtered through the venetian blinds and drew stripes across his face. “Tea?” he offered by way of greeting.

“Please.”

Out in the corridor, Macdonald said something Winter didn’t catch to someone he couldn’t see. Macdonald came back, sat down and motioned to the visitor’s chair, which was wobbly but had held out for the few minutes Winter had sat there the day before.

“Tea’s on its way,” Macdonald said.

“We have to make it ourselves in Gothenburg.”

“ England is still a class society. The weak make tea for the strong.”

“We’re on our way back to that time. The world-renowned Swedish model is out of date.”

“You don’t give the impression of being a working-class hero, exactly.”

A young woman dressed like a waitress in a white blouse and tight black skirt slipped in with a tray. On it were perched china teacups, a white pot, a sugar bowl and a carton of milk. Macdonald thanked her, pushed a pile of forms out of the way and asked her to put the tray on his desk. She did as he said, smiled at Winter and left the room.