Ringmar. 'We
didn't know we should be looking for newspapers.'
'Have we found any fingerprints?' asked Halders.
He rubbed at the back of his head, which was feeling
stiff again. Stiffer than usual, if you could call this bloody
stiffness usual. He'd been cold out in the square the
previous day.
'Beier's team are looking into it now,' said Ringmar.
'They're also trying to see if they can make out the date
on the newspapers. It ought to be possible.'
The forensic officers had looked doubtful when they
were handed the rotting bundle.
'Pointless,' said Halders. 'Just as pointless as trying
to find specific bicycle tyre marks at the places where
the victims were clubbed down.'
'Bicycle tyre marks?' said Bergenhem.
'It's my own theory,' said Halders, sounding as if he
were preparing for a DCI examination. 'The attacker
zoomed in on them on a bike. Silent. Fast. Unexpected.'
'Why not?' said Winter. He didn't say that the same
thought had occurred to him as well.
'It sounds like such a feasible alternative that all of
us must have thought about it,' said Bergenhem.
'Go on, rob me of my idea,' said Halders.
'A newspaper boy on a bike,' said Aneta Djanali.
'There doesn't need to be that connection,' said
Halders.
'Speaking of newspaper boys . . .' said Ringmar.
'Yes, go on,' said Djanali.
'It's a bit odd, in fact. The newspaper delivery person
for the buildings around Doktor Fries Torg also phoned
in sick the morning Stillman was attacked,' said Ringmar.
'Just as when Smedsberg was, well, very nearly clubbed
down on Mossen.'
'But Stillman didn't say a thing about seeing anybody
carrying newspapers,' said Halders.
'Nevertheless.'
'Nevertheless what?' said Halders.
'Let's leave that for the moment,' said Winter, starting
to write on the whiteboard. He turned to face the group.
'We've been discussing another theory.'
The evening had moved on quite a bit when Larissa
Serimov sat down at the duty officer's desk. Moving on
quite a bit was an expression her father liked to use
about most things. He had moved on quite a bit himself,
from the Urals to Scandinavia after the war, and managed
to have a child at an age when others were having grandchildren.
We'll go back there one of these days, Larissa, he
always used to say, as if she had moved there with him.
And so they did when it finally became possible, and
when they got there she had realised, genuinely realised ,
that they had in fact moved together all those years ago.
His return had been her return as well.
He had stayed there, Andrey Ilyanovich Serimov.
There were people still living there who remembered
him, and whom he remembered. I'll stay on for a few
months, he'd said when she left for Sweden, and she'd
been at home for three and a half days when she received
word that he'd fallen off a chair outside Cousin Olga's
house, and his heart had probably stopped beating even
before he hit the rough decking that surrounded the big
lopsided house like a moat.
The telephone rang.
'Frölunda Police, Serimov.'
'Is that the police?'
'This is the police in Frölunda,' she repeated.
'My name is Kristina Bergort. I'd like to report that
my daughter Maja disappeared.'
Serimov had written 'Kristina Bergort' on the sheet
of paper in front of her, but hesitated.
'I beg your pardon? You said your daughter disappeared ?'
'I realise that this might sound a bit odd, but I think
she was, well, abducted by somebody, and then returned.'
'You'd better start again at the beginning,' said
Serimov.
She listened to what the mother had to say.
'Are there any marks on Maja? Injuries? Bruises?'
'Not as far as I can see. We – my husband and I –
have only just heard about this from her. I rang right
away. We are borrowing a car from a neighbour – our
own car's being repaired – and we're going straight to
Frölunda hospital to let them examine her.'
'I see.'
'Perhaps you think that's a bit, er, hasty?'
'No, no,' said Serimov.
'We're going anyway. I believe what Maja has
didn't know we should be looking for newspapers.'
'Have we found any fingerprints?' asked Halders.
He rubbed at the back of his head, which was feeling
stiff again. Stiffer than usual, if you could call this bloody
stiffness usual. He'd been cold out in the square the
previous day.
'Beier's team are looking into it now,' said Ringmar.
'They're also trying to see if they can make out the date
on the newspapers. It ought to be possible.'
The forensic officers had looked doubtful when they
were handed the rotting bundle.
'Pointless,' said Halders. 'Just as pointless as trying
to find specific bicycle tyre marks at the places where
the victims were clubbed down.'
'Bicycle tyre marks?' said Bergenhem.
'It's my own theory,' said Halders, sounding as if he
were preparing for a DCI examination. 'The attacker
zoomed in on them on a bike. Silent. Fast. Unexpected.'
'Why not?' said Winter. He didn't say that the same
thought had occurred to him as well.
'It sounds like such a feasible alternative that all of
us must have thought about it,' said Bergenhem.
'Go on, rob me of my idea,' said Halders.
'A newspaper boy on a bike,' said Aneta Djanali.
'There doesn't need to be that connection,' said
Halders.
'Speaking of newspaper boys . . .' said Ringmar.
'Yes, go on,' said Djanali.
'It's a bit odd, in fact. The newspaper delivery person
for the buildings around Doktor Fries Torg also phoned
in sick the morning Stillman was attacked,' said Ringmar.
'Just as when Smedsberg was, well, very nearly clubbed
down on Mossen.'
'But Stillman didn't say a thing about seeing anybody
carrying newspapers,' said Halders.
'Nevertheless.'
'Nevertheless what?' said Halders.
'Let's leave that for the moment,' said Winter, starting
to write on the whiteboard. He turned to face the group.
'We've been discussing another theory.'
The evening had moved on quite a bit when Larissa
Serimov sat down at the duty officer's desk. Moving on
quite a bit was an expression her father liked to use
about most things. He had moved on quite a bit himself,
from the Urals to Scandinavia after the war, and managed
to have a child at an age when others were having grandchildren.
We'll go back there one of these days, Larissa, he
always used to say, as if she had moved there with him.
And so they did when it finally became possible, and
when they got there she had realised, genuinely realised ,
that they had in fact moved together all those years ago.
His return had been her return as well.
He had stayed there, Andrey Ilyanovich Serimov.
There were people still living there who remembered
him, and whom he remembered. I'll stay on for a few
months, he'd said when she left for Sweden, and she'd
been at home for three and a half days when she received
word that he'd fallen off a chair outside Cousin Olga's
house, and his heart had probably stopped beating even
before he hit the rough decking that surrounded the big
lopsided house like a moat.
The telephone rang.
'Frölunda Police, Serimov.'
'Is that the police?'
'This is the police in Frölunda,' she repeated.
'My name is Kristina Bergort. I'd like to report that
my daughter Maja disappeared.'
Serimov had written 'Kristina Bergort' on the sheet
of paper in front of her, but hesitated.
'I beg your pardon? You said your daughter disappeared ?'
'I realise that this might sound a bit odd, but I think
she was, well, abducted by somebody, and then returned.'
'You'd better start again at the beginning,' said
Serimov.
She listened to what the mother had to say.
'Are there any marks on Maja? Injuries? Bruises?'
'Not as far as I can see. We – my husband and I –
have only just heard about this from her. I rang right
away. We are borrowing a car from a neighbour – our
own car's being repaired – and we're going straight to
Frölunda hospital to let them examine her.'
'I see.'
'Perhaps you think that's a bit, er, hasty?'
'No, no,' said Serimov.
'We're going anyway. I believe what Maja has
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