“But not any old way,” said Ringmar.

“Nor any old victim.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“We’ll have to hear what this kid has to say tomorrow,” said Winter.

“Attacked from behind in an unlit street. He saw nothing, heard nothing, said nothing, knows nothing.”

“We’ll see.”

“Pia Fröberg will have to put in some extra effort to help us with the weapon,” said Ringmar.

Winter could see the forensic pathologist’s pale, tense face in his mind’s eye. Once upon a time they’d been an item, or something pretty close to that. All forgotten and in the past now. No hard feelings.

“Always assuming that will help,” Ringmar added, gazing down into his beer glass.

They heard the front door open and shut, and a shout from a female voice.

“We’re in here,” Ringmar informed her.

His daughter came in, still wearing her anorak. As dark as her father, almost as tall, same nose, same eyes, focused on Winter.

“Erik needed some company,” said Ringmar.

She reached out her hand. Winter shook it.

“You still recognize Moa, don’t you?” asked Ringmar.

“Haven’t seen you for ages,” said Winter. “Let’s see, you must be…”

“Twenty-five,” said Moa Ringmar. “Well on the way to being a senior citizen, and still living at home. What do you say to that?”

“You could say that Moa’s in-between apartments at the moment,” Ringmar explained.

“It’s the times we live in,” said Moa. “Fledglings always return to the nest.”

“That’s nice,” said Winter.

“Bullshit,” said Moa.

“OK,” said Winter.

She sat down.

“Any beer left for me?”

Ringmar got her a glass and poured out what was left of the third bottle.

“So there’s been another assault,” she said.

“Where did you hear that?” wondered Ringmar.

“At the department. He’s a student there. His name is Jakob, I’m told.”

“Do you know him?”

“No, not personally.”