We can’t even confirm his identity with his teeth, Macdonald thought. They’re not in the British records.
The victim had scrawled his name and hometown in the guest book when he’d checked into this shabby bed-and-breakfast on the south side of the former capital of the world. His name was Per Malmström. He was from Gothenburg. That’s all they had to go on.
That’s somewhere on the west coast of Sweden, Macdonald thought. Per was blond, like so many of his compatriots. What have they got that makes them all towheads? We’re also exposed to the same merciless winds and sky.
The Gothenburg police must know about it by now, assuming INTERPOL is on the case.
He closed his eyes again, listened to the walls roar, the floors shriek.
3
A BOY IN HIS LATE TEENS HAD BEEN SPOTTED WITH A MAN IN downtown Gothenburg. Nobody could recall exactly where-maybe the Brunnsparken area. They hadn’t been seen together before that.
Three people might have caught sight of them after they left Brunnsparken, and that was a hell of a lot to go on. Who knows, maybe there were more than three.
They were obviously together, but they didn’t look like father and son.
According to a couple of witnesses, the kid had dark, badly cut hair, and since Winter knew how unreliable such testimony could be, he made a quick mental note and let it go at that.
There’s always a trail to follow, he thought as he walked by a sports complex. It might feel like you’re not getting anywhere, but it’s just a question of patience.
The icy soccer fields below him were in hibernation, dreaming of last year’s glory. In three months, players would be kicking the shit out of each other, the gravel soft and redolent of sweat and menthol.
Soccer isn’t a sport, Winter thought. It’s a million little injuries, the feeling of loose bone chips rattling around your knees. I could have been something, but I wasn’t injured often enough.