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Ringmar.
'After the Guldheden incident. We're probably going to
get a few more officers so that we can knock on a few
more doors.'
    Halders could see the superintendent in his mind's
eye. As scraggy as the vegetation in the far north where
he grew up, chain-smoking after yet another failed
attempt to quit.
    'What about the triangle?' asked Halders. 'The
triangle theory? Add the third line and you've got a
right-angled triangle.' He ran his finger over the map
from Doktor Fries Torg to Linnéplatsen.
    'No. You're the first to come up with that fascinating
link.'
    'Cut out the irony, Bertil. You're too nice a chap for
that kind of thing.' Halders grinned. 'But Birgersson has
a soft spot when it comes to maths, I know that, especially
geometrical shapes.'
    Halders grinned again. Maybe it was Sture Birgersson
wot done it. Nobody could fathom the man. Once every
year he would disappear without trace. Winter might
know, but then again he might not. Maybe Sture was
wandering round the streets in a black cloak, wielding
the mechanical cloudberry-picker he'd had as a kid and
using it to draw crosses on students' heads. Halders
could picture his silhouette in the light from the street
lamp: Dr Sture. Afterwards, Mr Birgersson. One might
well ask which of them was worse.
    'So you reckon we'd get officers because we can see
a geometrical shape here?' wondered Ringmar.
    'Of course.'
    'And the more it changes, the more men we'd get?'
    'Obviously. If the triangle turns into a square, it means
that the Hulk has struck again.'
    'I'll stick with the triangle,' said Ringmar.
    Halders went back to the desk.
    'If they give us a few more detectives we might be
able to do a proper check on what buses run during
the night,' he said. 'Talk to the drivers. There can't be
all that many of them.'
    'Taxis,' said Ringmar.
    'What? Our dark-skinned friends are all operating
without a licence. When did we last get a useful tip
from a cabbie?'
    'I can't remember,' said Ringmar.
    The sun made everything look even more naked. Yes,
that was how it was. You could see what it was really
like. Nothing existed any more, just the trunks and
branches of trees, and the ground.
    The sun isn't serving any useful purpose here, he
thought. It belongs somewhere else now. Clear off.
    The children had spilled off the tram at Linnéplatsen.
It was always the same, day after day. They always
walked in a long line over the dead grass of the football
pitch in the middle of the square.
    Sometimes he followed them.
    He'd parked his car on the other side, where the children
were headed.
    It was the first time he'd driven there.
    He'd talked to the boy in his car. It had actually
happened.
    He wanted to do it again. No. No. No! he'd shouted
out loud during the night. No!
    Yes. Here he was. Just because he wanted to, well,
see, get close. No big deal.
    The long procession in front of him was loosening
up, and the children were spreading out in all directions.
One little girl disappeared into some bushes,
emerged on the other side, then turned back again and
disappeared behind the shrubbery. He looked at the two
women in charge and could see that they hadn't noticed
her.
    Just think if some stranger had been standing behind
the bushes when the little girl emerged on the other
side?
    There she was again, round the bushes once more,
and then back to the other children.
    He carried her in his arms, she was as light as a feather.
Nobody noticed him; the trees were leafless, but they
were densely packed. The surprise when he lifted her
up and carried her off. Is this really me doing this? His
hand placed so gently over her mouth. It all went so
quickly. There's the car. You can drive in and park here,
but nobody ever thinks of doing that. Probably think
it is not possible, or not allowed.
    This is just something I draped over here. Let's lift it
up and go into the tent. Yes, this is a tent. Let's pretend!
    We've got a radio. Now there's some mister or other
saying something. Did you hear