“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

The back of Winter’s head felt numb.

“Frankie,” Macdonald said again.

“I’m just telling you what I heard, that somebody in London sells movies that contain torture scenes, and they’re the real thing.”

“Any names?”

“Forget it.”

“You could be in danger here. Keep that in mind.”

“I realize that. But that makes it even more important for me to ask questions. You’ve been around the block a few times, Steve. You know I can’t reveal my sources to you and this pretty Swedish boy of yours. They don’t know any more than I do, and they’d never breathe a word to you if they did.”

“But you can’t go back to your sources and ask more questions? Or start poking around somewhere else?”

“If we’re going to do this, it will have to be my way.”

Winter heard sounds all around him again, as if the world could no longer hold its breath.

“Believe me,” Frankie said. “This isn’t anything I want to see in my city or my industry. But people start getting nervous when the police barge in and disturb our peaceful lives, not to mention the lives of our law-abiding customers.”

“And someone can die in the meantime,” Macdonald said.

“That’s less likely to happen if you let me take care of it.”

“I need some cold facts by tomorrow.”

“As soon as I can.”

“Tomorrow.” Macdonald turned to Winter. “Any questions, Erik?”

“These movies you were just talking about-they aren’t shown in Soho theaters, I assume.”

Frankie didn’t answer.

“They’re for private consumption,” Winter said.

“That’s correct.”

“Just be careful.”

“Thank you, O Great White Savior.” Frankie’s teeth sparkled. “Your assistance is humbly appreciated.”

Macdonald saw the embarrassed look on Winter’s face, but Frankie held his smile.

“How about some of that tea you mentioned?” Macdonald said.

“I have the Scottish kind, extract of dried oats.”

“Yummy.”

They separated at Piccadilly. Macdonald walked down to the underground and Winter looped back west past Charing Cross Road and continued half a block to 180 Shaftesbury Avenue, Ray’s Jazz Shop. He’d been coming here since he was a teenager. If there was an album you couldn’t find anywhere else, it would definitely be here.

Winter took in the walls, the old LP covers-dust, ink, brittle paper-a wispy, sweet-and-sour odor from the vinyl inside.

There were more CD racks than the last time he had been here, but the place was identical otherwise. The young black clerk behind the counter in the middle of the room put on an album. It was New York Eye and Ear Control again, sweeping back over him like an erotic memory.

He had also heard it in the walls of the hotel room where Per was killed. Not the kind of music you run across every day, he told the clerk.

“There aren’t many copies left.” The clerk straightened his dark glasses. “We sell them as fast as they come in.”

“I seem to have lost mine.”

“Then you’re in luck.”

“I’m here all the way from Sweden, and this is my reward.”

“As far as I can remember, we’ve had only one other copy the past few weeks, and somebody else from Scandinavia snapped it up.”

“Really?”

“It’s hard to mistake the accent. I actually lived in Stockholm for a while, so I always recognize it straightaway. I had a girlfriend there.” He smiled. “But it doesn’t really show when you talk.”

“That’s because I’m a perfectionist,” Winter said. It’s because you’re such a damn snob, he told himself.

“Sounds like you’ve come to the right place. Scandinavians are all in love with this album.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s what the other guy said, anyway.”

“He did?”

“If a blue-eyed Scandinavian walks in, play it for him and you’ve got yourself a sale, he said.”

“Interesting.”

“Or he’ll just come in and ask for it right off the bat, he said.”

Winter decided to buy the album, plus the Julian Argüelles Quartet’s latest, Django Bates’s Human Chain and some other modern British jazz. The CDs became heavier as he carried them around the store.

WlNTER HAD OPENED HlS POWERBOOK ON THE ROUND TABLE in the kitchenette and was leaning over it. The light was better by the window in the living room, but the table wasn’t high enough. He had tried for fifteen minutes and decided he didn’t want his back to permanently warp into the shape of a bow-a hazard of being tall and thirty-seven, he thought, listening to his tendons and ligaments crack as he stood up.

He summed up the day, his impressions. The city was exhausting, overwhelming in its heaviness. He had to let it die down in his brain before he could think about why he had come to London in the first place.

As he stared at the screen, he saw the faces of the victims. As long as he was able to do that, he could still accomplish something. After that there was nothing but fatigue. He drank his tea. London murmured from beyond the courtyard outside the window, but he had managed to narrow the city down to this suite on Knaresborough Place.

He had created a little diagram consisting of three poles, each of which represented a face. He added a brief account of the final minutes in each victim’s life. He was thinking about Frankie-and his Swedish counterpart, Bolger-when the cell phone on the counter behind him rang.

“Winter.”

“Are you in your hotel room?” It was Bolger.

“I’m in my suite.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Can you find your way around the city these days?”

“Some of my old hangouts are still here.”

“I can’t remember the last time I was there.”

“Didn’t you have an aunt in Manchester?”

“ Bolton. Dad borrowed the first syllable of the name. No doubt you’re on the prowl for rare jazz albums?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know which stores to go to?”

“Ray’s Jazz Shop, and a new little place in Soho.”

“Back when I used to go to London, there was a good store in Brixton called Red Records.”

“Brixton?”

“Yeah, give it a try.”

Winter saved his document. The screen stood out more distinctly as the dusk descended on the back courtyard. Darkness slowly invaded the suite, starting in the far corner where Winter sat.

He heard the clatter of suitcases going up the stairs outside his door.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Bolger said finally, “but I wasn’t sure when you’d be coming back.”

“I don’t really know either. Maybe in a couple of days.”

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Ringmar is running the investigation while I’m gone.”

“I don’t know Ringmar, and you can think of this as a call from an old friend if you prefer it that way.”

Winter reached back and turned on the light over the stove. The splash guard and fluorescent lamp were reflected in the computer screen.

“Erik?”

“I’m still here.”

“Somebody called me and was a little concerned.”

“Uh-huh?”

“It was about that young inspector of yours.”

“Bergenhem?”

“The guy you sent to get some leads from me. Bergenhem, that’s the one.”

“Somebody called you?”

“An old contact. He thought your guy was being too nosy.”

“Too nosy about what?”

“Too nosy about a legal, well-run business.”

“The whole idea is for him to be nosy. That’s his job, for Christ’s sake.”

“Customers have started to ask questions about what’s going on, why the police keep showing up and that kind of thing.”

“This is a murder investigation, not a high school prom.”

“I know.”

“Bergenhem wasn’t in uniform, was he?”

“Not as far as I know.”