“He’s got a stubborn streak, and that’s fine with me as long as he makes some progress. I can’t worry about the sensitivities of customers at a strip joint.”

“It seems that Bergenhem has gotten a little too interested.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He’s been following one of the women around.”

“Women?”

“One of the strippers.”

“Who says that? The customers or whatever you call them? Or your old contact, whoever the hell he is?”

“I’m just repeating what I’ve heard.”

“Why are you telling me all this, Johan?”

“Dammit, Erik, you know me. I’m the one who put him onto this trail. Of course I’m going to be nervous.”

“Bergenhem knows what he’s doing. If he’s hanging out with one of the women, there’s a reason for it.”

“There usually is.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I think the kid has lost his bearings.”

“He knows what he’s doing.”

“He may be wandering into dangerous territory.”

“Wasn’t it a legal, well-run business we were talking about here?”

“Yes, but…”

“Then he’s in safe territory, right?”

“You know what I’m getting at. If there’s any truth to your suspicions, it’s plenty dangerous.”

Danger is the name of the game, Winter thought. Bergenhem’s job is to get as close to danger as he can and then pull back. That’s exactly what he’s going to do, and it will make him a top-notch inspector. “I appreciate your keeping an eye on all this,” he said.

“That’s an overstatement. I’m just telling you what’s come my way.”

“Let me know if you hear anything more.”

“You do realize this is serious business?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“So what’s on the docket for tonight?”

Winter looked at the diagram. Would it be his night out? Or would he spend it dozing in front of the TV? He hadn’t turned it on once. He checked his watch. The news was starting just about now.

“Aren’t the London police wining and dining you?” Bolger asked.

“I needed to be alone tonight.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’ll go out and grab a bite to eat in a little while.”

“An Indian restaurant?”

“Something nearby. Chinese, I think. There’s an old place I like on one of the side streets.”

Winter watched the news. The picture quality was just as impersonal as in Sweden, flat and depthless as if the color had been added as an afterthought.

The local news featured the same garrulous reporters, a windblown face at the scene of a crime or an accident or a conference. An outdoor market had been robbed; a car was upside down in the river; MPs were shouting at each other again; Princess Diana was on her way out of Kensington Palace, not far from where Winter sat with his feet on the table in a hotel suite lit up by a television screen.

The skies would be clear for the rest of the week. The weather girl’s face shone as brightly as the sun on the chart behind her.

Nothing about a murder. What did you expect? Winter asked himself. A big photo of Per? A tattered notice like the one on the pillar that holds up the ceiling at Victoria Station?

His cell phone rang again. He was about to let the caller leave a message but remembered Macdonald. “Winter.”

“With a simple tulip on your special day…”

“Thanks for the musical greeting, Mom.”

“Happy birthday!”

“Nice of you to call.”

“What kind of mother wouldn’t call her son on his birthday?”

“I appreciate it.”

“Dad sends his best.”

“Tell him I’m thinking of him too.”

“What’s the weather like in that horrid city?”

“Sunny.”

“That’s a lie. You can’t fool your old mother.”

A new program had started. Two people were poking fun at each other on a stage. It was hard to hear what they were saying because the audience was laughing so loudly. Winter picked up the remote and turned down the volume.

“It was a beautiful day here,” she said.

“Naturally.”

“Have you solved the case yet?”

“Almost.”

Winter heard another voice close to the phone.

“Dad wants to know if you bought any cigars.”

“Yep.”

“Your sister is dying to hear from you.”

“I know.”

“I talked to her the other day, Erik. She’s having a rough time.”

“I realize that.”

“So how are you celebrating your big day?”

“I’m drinking tea and making some notes on my laptop here in the hotel.”

“That must be dreadfully boring.”

“It’s the life I chose for myself.”

“Are you staying at the same place?”

“Yes, the same old place.”

“Then you have a suite, at least.”

“Absolutely.”

“The traffic is horrible on that street.”

“I’m expecting a call from the London investigator, Mom.”

“On your birthday?”

“That’s what I’m here for-to work.”

“You need to relax once in a while too, Erik.”

He heard water gushing through the pipes behind the wall. Someone in the suite above him had flushed the toilet. It’s like they’ve been eavesdropping on the phone call and they’re trying to hint that I’ve talked long enough, he mused. “Thanks for calling, Mom.”

“Have some fun tonight, dear.”

“Bye.” Winter hung up.

He picked up the remote again and turned up the sound. The stage show was still on. There were more people now-two couples competing to put soccer uniforms on their partners while keeping a ball inside their own jerseys. The contestants were laughing like lunatics. Nor were the audience and host to be outdone. The longer Winter watched, the louder he laughed too, as if he’d been waiting forever for this chance. Tears ran down his cheeks and his gut ached. Your face muscles are out of shape, he thought.

He went over to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of Cava that he had bought at the Oddbins liquor store on Marloes Road, just a few blocks away. The bottle popped when he opened it. He poured a little of the sparkling wine into a regular drinking glass.

It’s pretty seedy but it’s the life you chose for yourself, he thought, the bubbles rolling down his tongue.

He carried the glass back toward the couch, but the computer screen glared at him like a stern reminder of the world’s evil. He walked by the couch and opened the window. The night was yellow and grimy from the light behind the buildings. He heard the echo of traffic on Cromwell Road, then a siren that howled to the north and stopped abruptly.

The city’s own riff, he thought. The sky was a long stretch of indigo when he looked up. A night for jazz. He lit a Cocinero Liga Especial cigar and savored it-the leather, the dried tropical fruit-and then exhaled through the open window into the night air. The smoke swirled upward.

Just before it vanished, he saw the face of a murderer. The features were indistinct but their cold-bloodedness was plain.

You’ve got to get that idea out of your head, Winter told himself. Murderers may have learned to shut themselves off, to push away what they can’t handle, but there’s always a wellspring of feeling deep down. That’s where we’ve got to look. All we do is reinforce our own preconceptions when we chase the evidence that mounts afterward, rather than diving down and exploring the murderer’s first intent.

Murder is traumatic for everyone involved. It’s got to be that way. Otherwise we’re doomed, he thought, taking another puff on the cigar.

A face appeared before him again, clearer than before, but it dissipated with the wisps of smoke. Memories, he thought. There’s a memory somewhere that can help you with this case. What is it? Something in your own past? Lost memories? What had Macdonald said? Worn-out pictures are like worn-out memories. Someone else told you something too. Memory, he thought, clutching his forehead. You have an answer, but that’s not good enough. You’re not even capable of asking a real question.