“From what?”

“From shattering events involving their nearest and dearest. You don’t have any children, to my knowledge.”

“No. But it looks as though this business is going to have a happy ending.”

“Thanks to us.”

“Maybe. A young kid has too much to drink and throws up. She’d probably have come around after a while and her friends would have helped her to get home. Happens all the time. Hasn’t it happened to you?”

“Me? Not that I remember.”

“That doesn’t mean a thing.”

“Let’s go,” Bartram said.

They drove toward the center of town, past Chalmers and Vasa Hospital. The rain had gotten worse. Streetlights seemed fainter now, as if wrapped up in the night. Bartram stopped at a red light. Two women crossed the street but neither turned to look at the patrol car and smile. Morelius adjusted the radio. They listened in to the spasmodic calls. A bewildered old pensioner who’d been reported missing in Änggården a few hours ago had turned up again. A heated discussion taking place in an apartment in Kortedala had calmed down by the time their colleagues arrived. A drunk leaning against a stationary tram in Brunnsparken had fallen over when it moved off. Could that be classified as a traffic accident? Bartram thought to himself.

Morelius was thinking about Hanne Ostergaard and the conversation he’d had with her a couple of weeks ago. Bartram hadn’t asked any more questions, and he was grateful for that.

Erik Winter turned off the light and left his office. It had stopped raining. He cycled home through Heden, giving way to somebody in Vasagatan who seemed to assume there was nobody else in the road. Water splashed all over his trousers, probably other crap as well. It was too dark to see. He had thought of stopping in at the covered market, but decided to pass. His mobile rang. He stopped and took it out of the inside pocket of his raincoat.