“So you didn’t know where Jakob was that night?”

“No.”

“Who does he know out there?”

“Where?”

“In Guldheden. Around Doktor Fries Square, Guldheden school, that district.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea.”

“Do you know anybody around there?”

“Who lives there, you mean? I don’t think so. No.”

“But that’s where he was, and that’s where he was attacked,” said Ringmar.

“You’ll have to ask him,” she said.

“I’ll do that, as soon as it’s possible.”

Winter had taken Elsa to the nursery school. He sat there for a while with a cup of coffee while she arranged her day’s work on her little desk: a red telephone, paper, pencils, crayons, newspapers, tape, string. He would get to see the result that afternoon. It would be something unique, no doubt about that.

She barely noticed when he gave her a hug and left. He lit a Corps in the grounds outside. He couldn’t smoke anything else after all those years. He’d tried, but it was no use. Corps were no longer sold in Sweden, but a colleague made regular visits to Brussels and always brought some back for him.

It was a pleasant morning. The air smelled of winter but it felt like early autumn. He took another puff, then unbuttoned his overcoat and watched children hard at work: building projects involving digging and stacking, molding shapes; every kind of game you could think of. Games. Not much sign of games in the sports grown-ups indulge in nowadays, he thought, and noticed a little boy running down the slope toward a gap in the bushes. Winter looked around and saw the two staff members were fully occupied with children who wanted something or were crying or laughing or running around in all directions, and so he strode swiftly down the hill and into the bushes where the boy was busy hitting the railings with his plastic shovel. He turned around as Winter approached and gave him a sheepish grin, like a prisoner who’d been caught trying to escape.