“There we are. Yes, I’ve got a whole bag full, how about that? So, let’s open the door. Can you climb in all by yourself? You are smart.”

The back of the student’s head had been struck in such a way that the wound looked like a cross, or something very similar. His hair had been shaved off, making the wound all the more visible. It was horrific, but he was still alive. Only just; but he had a chance.

As they left the hospital Bertil Ringmar’s face looked blue in the lights of the front entrance.

“I thought you should see this,” said Ringmar.

Winter nodded.

“What kind of weapon would make a wound like that?” wondered Ringmar.

“Some sort of pick-ax. Maybe a farm tool. A kitchen utensil. A gardening tool. I don’t know, Bertil.”

“There’s something about it, I don’t know. It reminds me of something.”

Winter zapped the doors of his Mercedes. The parking lot was deserted. The car lights flashed like a warning.

“We’d better have a word with Old MacDonald,” said Winter as they drove down the hill.

“Don’t joke about it.”

“Joke about it? What is there to joke about?”

Ringmar made no reply. Linnéplatsen was just as deserted as the parking lot had been.

“This is the third one,” said Ringmar.

Winter nodded, loosened his tie, and unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt.

“Three kids more or less beaten to death with something, but we can’t figure out what,” said Ringmar. “Three students.” He turned to look at Winter. “Is there a pattern?”

“You mean the fact that they’re all students? Or that we think the wounds look like a cross?”

“That they’re all students,” said Ringmar.

“Students are a big group,” said Winter, continuing west. “There must be thirty-five thousand of them in this city.”

“Mmm.”