He walked over to the table and poured another glass of Cava. It tasted like carbonated vinegar. I won’t be able to live with myself if we don’t solve this, he thought, shoving the glass aside. He turned off the television and dialed Ringmar’s home number.

“Hello.”

“It’s Erik.”

“Möllerström’s computer crashed yesterday.”

“What happened then?”

“What happened then was that he had the chance to show us how far he’s gotten and how clever he was to back everything up all over the place.”

“His big day, in other words.”

“But it was a warning sign. Our computers are literally bursting with extraneous information.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.”

“We’re under enormous pressure now, especially when you’re not around to talk to the British reporters who keep descending on Gothenburg.”

“I’ve managed to avoid them so far over here, but Macdonald says my luck is about to run out.”

“What’s he like?”

“Smart.”

“Are you getting anywhere?”

“I think so. I’m going to question a few witnesses tomorrow.”

“We’ve got some new witnesses ourselves.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Nothing we’ve had the chance to confirm,” Ringmar said, “but one of them seems worth following up on.”

The cigar went out in Winter’s hand and he placed it in an ashtray. The window scraped shut of its own accord.

“The underworld is rising to the occasion,” Ringmar said.

“We never stop working with them, do we?”

“We got a letter today from a professional burglar who claims that he broke into an apartment and found some bloody clothes.”

“That’s a new one for you.”

“Hmm.”

“How many apartments in Gothenburg have had bloody clothes in them the past few weeks?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“A lot.”

“This guy doesn’t seem to be a nutcase.”

“Is that all he had?”

“He says that it was shortly after the murder.”

“Which one?”

“Geoff.”

“Did he mention the address of the apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing about who lives there?”

“Only that it’s a man.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Why are we wasting our time talking about this, then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because there’s something about the tone of the letter. Or just because it’s from a burglar. He seems to have a sixth sense about what he saw.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll put this aside for now, but I’m keeping it in the back of my mind.”

“You can discreetly check out the apartment and tenant when you get around to it.”

“I sent Halders out there.”

“I said discreetly.”

Ringmar chuckled.

“How’s Bergenhem doing?”

“What?”

“Lars. Has he found anything?”

“I don’t know, to tell you the truth. He seems determined to learn everything he can about the porn industry.”

“Have a little chat with him.”

“I doubt that he’d be into it. As far as I can tell, he thinks you’ve dispatched him on a special mission from God or something.”

“Tell him that I want him to report to you from now on.”

“Okay.”

“Bye.”

Winter hung up and headed for the shower. Afterward he toweled off and dressed, letting his tie hang loose. He slipped into a pair of casual shoes and walked a block to Crystal Palace. The food was delicious, as always. He brooded some more about memory.

HE RAN lNTO THE OWNER’S SON ON THE STAlRWAY ALMOST every time he left his room or returned to the hotel. The guy was mentally disabled, no doubt about it. Hour after hour, he climbed the winding stairs all the way to the seventh floor, turned around and walked down again, continuing through the lobby and out to the sidewalk.

The guy gave a peculiar smile, his face breaking up and his eyes turning inward. He always walked by him as fast as he could.

If he listened from his room, he could hear the guy’s steps like clockwork.

He had never seen the owner except when he first checked in. The lobby was always empty and nobody was ever behind the front desk. You could ring the bell for the clerk, but he had everything he needed.

He had already scouted out the two Greek restaurants across from the hotel, so he decided to walk south on a new street. He had never seen such awesome houses, at least a hundred years old with ivy growing up the sides. He passed a few people washing their cars. The street was long, and it took him a while to get to Grove House Tavern, where he sat down at one of the three tables on the sidewalk. The sun made its way over the rooftops on the other side of the street and shone in his face. He bought a glass of beer in the pub and went back outside.

The other tables were empty. Three men, all white, sat inside. This was a typical white street. You could tell by the houses.

Which was sort of odd, because the street he was staying on and the main thoroughfare that led to downtown Brixton got blacker and blacker the farther you went. It was like coming home, he thought. Things were different here. He sat all alone, surrounded by white people.

A black guy at a white pub.

How strange it had been to feel white among all the black people and yet blend in with the crowd. It was never like that in Sweden. Christian Jaegerberg was a white name but that’s not what he looked like.

The trees along the street shrouded him in silence. He patted the CDs in his jacket pocket.

There had been a white customer at Red Records when Christian was there. The guy had heard him talking to the clerk. He was tall, maybe thirty-five or forty years old.

“Are you Swedish?” the guy asked, walking out at the same time as Christian.

“Does my accent give me away?”

“You sure surprised the clerk.”

“I guess I don’t look like a typical Swede.”

“No doubt he’s seen stranger things.” The guy laughed.

Christian nodded as if he’d seen stranger things too.

They stood on Brixton Road across from the underground station.

“Did you find anything good in there?” the guy asked.

“Too much.”

“Somma I?”

Christian looked at him. “How did you know that?”

He threw out his arms and Christian got the impression he was flexing his muscles-a bodybuilder on his day off. “You looked like you kept up with the music scene.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Christian said.

“I figured as much.”

Christian started walking toward the pedestrian crossing on the left.

“I come to London every once in a while to stock up on music,” the guy said.

“Stock up?”

“I have a distributorship in Scandinavia.”

“For reggae?”

“If it’s black music, we carry it.”

“So here you are.”

“This is the place.”

“What did you buy this time?” Christian wondered if he knew his stuff.

The distributor rattled off the best there was.

“Do you buy a lot of music?” Christian asked.

“Yep, but I hardly take anything back home.”

“Gothenburg?”

“It’s a hard dialect to disguise, isn’t it?”

“But you don’t have a store or anything?”

“Just what I distribute in Scandinavia, and a little bit in northern Europe. I have a few samples I could show you, or even give you just to see what you think of them, but there’s not enough time.”

“Too bad.”

“I’m supposed to be at a meeting in half an hour.”

“I understand.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you. Good luck with your musical adventures.”

“Thanks.”

“And your Swedish accent.”

Christian’s face felt colder, as if the sun had gone behind the clouds, and he opened his eyes. Somebody was standing directly in front of him. He waited until his pupils readjusted to the light and saw that it was the distributor.