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streets?”
    “Sort of, but all the bad stuff was still there, though in a different way.”
    Östergaard thought back. She remembered a couple of twenty-five-year-old officers, only ten years younger than she, though they could just as well have been gnarled old men. The first ones to arrive after a neighbor’s call on New Year’s Eve, they had broken down the door and stopped short at the body of a ten-year-old girl. On the other side of the living room lay her mother, who was to live another three hours, and her husband, who had tried to slit his own throat afterward. “Chicken-shit bastard,” one of the officers had said. Then they had come to her.
    “Are there certain lines that can’t be crossed?” Winter asked after half a minute of silence.
    “Lines?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s hard to say. I’ve always had trouble drawing lines between things—between some of them, anyway.”
    “Do you know what the hardest part of being an investigator is? It’s trying to establish habits and routines as quickly as possible, and then doing everything you can to keep those habits and routines at bay. To approach every case like it’s never happened before.”
    “That makes sense.”
    “As if the blood was dripping for the first time. Remembering that it could be yours or mine. Or, like this time, imagining the corpse before it went limp, before the soul left the body.”
    “So what do you do now?”
    “I go to my office and read Möllerström’s printouts.”

    The burglar went back. For a moment he hoped that the apartment, or the whole building, wouldn’t be there, that he had simply suffered a temporary blackout due to all the suspense, which gets out of control once in a while on your way to becoming a pro.
    As usual, he kept track of the time and watched people leave the building—women, men and a handful of children, none of whom saw him. He didn’t go in, though he knew that lurking about outside could get him in trouble.
    He returned the next morning and saw the man leave the building at ten o’clock. Following behind, he watched him cross the road to his parking space and start an Opel that looked fairly new. Then the car disappeared into the distance. And now? Had he thought this far?
    He was cold after standing outside for an hour and a half. He walked into the building, put his foot on the first step, and before he knew it he had his ear to the door of the apartment. Quickly entering, he went straight to the bedroom, his blood pounding in his ears. The floor was bare. No black garbage bags, no bloody clothing, nothing new to steal.
    He heard someone in the hallway and realized that curiosity, or indecisiveness, or whatever had brought him here, had a breaking point.
    It’s the fault of the damn newspapers, he thought. If they hadn’t written about the murder, you wouldn’t be here trembling in your boots as the front door opens.
    He fell to his knees and slid under the king-size bed. This is the punishment for all your sins, he told himself.
    There was dust under the bed, and he had to hold back a sneeze as he wedged himself in. He put one hand over his mouth and the other around his neck to stifle the urge. You’ve always known you would end up in this predicament sooner or later, he thought.
    The hall light went on and he saw a pair of shoes come into the bedroom. He was so scared that the tickling sensation in his nose let up and he held his breath. The glow of a lamp, apparently from the nightstand, spread beneath the bed. He slowly turned his head to see whether he was casting a shadow on the floor.
    You can’t just crawl out and lunge at him, he thought. He’ll wring your neck before you’re halfway out.
    He heard a rattling sound and a series of cell phone beeps.
    “I’m running late.”
    I can’t bear this much longer, he thought.
    “Right . . . Absolutely . . . No way . . . That’s why I came back . . . Okay . . . Ten minutes . . . No . . . I had a little chat with him . . .