It was as quiet as it gets in an apartment building when all the tenants are away. He heard a car swish by and the streets fall silent again.

Is he thinking about something, or is he staring down at the bed? If those shoes come much closer, I’ll throw caution to the wind and roll out on the other side.

He got ready, his body taut.

The shoes retreated toward the hall, then through the doorway. The light went out and the door closed.

He lay there for twenty minutes soaked in sweat.

He won’t actually look under the bed when he vacuums, or is that just wishful thinking? What difference would it make if he realized that someone has been here? What do you do now? Besides never coming here again. What if he’s still out there in the hall? How long can you lie here? Wait a little longer. Okay.

Covered with dust like a thin layer of dirty snow, he tumbled out and scrambled to his feet. He tiptoed out of the room, picking up the clumps of dust that fell to the floor as he moved. Leaving the apartment, he listened for any signs of life, took a deep breath and soundlessly made his way down the stairs.

There was a draft from the balcony door. Winter stood up from his desk to close it, but then opened it all the way instead and stepped outside. He shivered, catching a whiff of the city below. A patch of fog from beyond the channel drifted through the park and across Nya Allén Street. When the clammy air reached him, he went back inside and shut the door.

He had been poring over the terse memo from the London police. There was an eerie similarity between the two murders. He couldn’t remember anything like it. Not only that, but there was something peculiar about the way the murders had been committed. The British investigators had found little marks in the dried blood that might turn out to match those in the dorm room here in Gothenburg.

He had come home from the office and immediately begun searching the Internet for similar cases, finding what seemed at first like clear patterns, but they were mostly in the realm of the imagination, an illusion. He saw photos that were evocative of his own case, yet they could just as well have been in a dream. He looked for clues in the depths of the electronic night and browsed through several American databases. A surprising number of these kinds of offenders came from Texas or California. Too much sun and sand drives people mad, he thought.

The cell phone on the desk began to ring. He extended the antenna and put the phone to his ear.

“Erik!” crackled a voice at the other end.

“Hi, Mom. You were just on my mind.”

“I’ll bet I was.”

“I was thinking about the sun and sand and what they do to people.”

“Marvelous, isn’t it?” She mumbled something, and he saw in his mind’s eye how she turned around in the little open-plan kitchen and fixed her fourth martini of the evening while glancing at her profile in the mirror. Dear old Mom.

“How was golf today?” he asked.

“We never made it to the course.”

“That’s too bad.”

“It’s been raining all day, but now-”

“Didn’t you move there to escape all that?”

Her sigh echoed in the receiver. “The grass is always greener.” She laughed and it reminded him of unoiled brakes.

“Erik?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“I was planning on calling Karin and Lasse.”

“Now?”

“It’s not that late, is it?”

It’s four dry martinis and half a white Rioja too late, he thought. Maybe mañana. “They’re going through an awful lot right now,” he said. “Wait until morning.”

“You’re probably right. I always said you had a good head on your shoulders.”

“For a cop, you mean.”

“That’s what you had your heart set on.” He heard her turn on a mixer with her free hand. “You’re the youngest chief inspector in Sweden.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a little work to do, Mom.” He clicked past a report from Costa del Sol.

“We’ll call again soon.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Say hi to Dad.”

“One more thing,” she said, but he was already putting down the phone.

Winter got up and walked into the kitchen. He poured some water in the coffeepot, plugged it in and pushed the button. As the hissing sound grew louder, he filled a tea ball and dropped it in a china cup. He poured in a little milk and finally the water. When the brew was dark enough, he removed the tea ball, tossed it in the sink and took the cup into the living room. He put on a Coltrane CD and sipped his tea, watching the evening outside darken to night. A floor lamp by one of the bookcases bathed the room in a soft glow. He stood by the window to look out over the city but saw only his own reflection.

IT WAS SATURDAY. KAREN AND WINSTON HILLIER LIVED SOUTH of the river. Macdonald kept a respectable distance from the cars in front of him as he drove west on A236. The rest of the world was in a hurry, and the driver in the Vauxhall behind him gave Macdonald the finger even before they’d left North Croydon.

Make my day, Macdonald mumbled to himself, waiting. Go ahead and pass me, pal, so I can call in your license plate number. They were approaching a junction-he would have to take the left fork and watch his tormentor zoom by, honking his horn and screaming obscenities with his finger in the air.

We’re a nation of hooligans, Macdonald thought. That asshole was no doubt on his way to Griffin Park -the place to be on a brisk day in early February, spending a few carefree hours with your buddies.

When he reached the Tulse Hill district, he parked outside a house on Palace Road. It looked to be newly painted. The people in the neighborhood were from the old middle class and had remained there as the battle lines were drawn all around them. Getting out of the car, he heard what sounded like gunfire coming from Brockwell Park.

The windows were dark, but he knew that the Hilliers were waiting for him inside. Thank God you’re not breaking the news, he thought, although your belated arrival might prove to be a disadvantage if the shock has worn off.

Karen opened the door as soon as he knocked. Had she been standing there all morning long? She might have been mentally preparing herself, Macdonald thought, but she looks like you just broke into her house.

“Mrs. Hillier?”

“Yes. Inspector Macdonald, I assume?”

He nodded and pulled out his badge. She ignored it and motioned toward the living room. “Come in.”

I’m like one of those prowlers who stalk people’s nightmares, he thought.

They walked through the hallway. Illuminated as if by a spotlight, Winston sat in a wide couch at the far end of the living room. Macdonald heard a distant squeaking. Looking out the window, he watched a British Rail train go by, a hundred yards below a bare hilltop.

“We never take the train,” Winston said.

Macdonald introduced himself, but Winston didn’t seem to hear. “The railroad and tracks have spoiled this part of London,” he said. “It’s even worse than highway construction.”

Macdonald saw some bottles to Winston’s right and a glass in front of them. Winston picked it up and raised it unsteadily to his lips. He looked at Macdonald, who took a step closer. Macdonald couldn’t tell whether the pale inscrutability of his eyes was the result of blindness or booze.

“I’m not blind,” Winston said, noticing Macdonald’s bafflement. “Just drunk. Since eleven o’clock this morning, to be exact.”

“May I sit down?”

“Welcome to our happy little home.” Winston’s laugh turned to a hiss. “I told Geoff the program was a good idea.” He got up to take a clean glass from the shelf behind him, then looked out the window. “It sounded exciting.” His eyes were on a second train making its way below the hillside, which had become grayer in the light of dusk. “A fresh start for a young man with a bright future ahead of him. A chance for an education in this brave new world of ours.” He gulped his gin and tonic.