“You must be lost, kid.”
He turned around. The man was smiling, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. Winter didn’t recognize him. He was dressed in civilian clothes, like Winter. But “civilian” was a definition with a wide scope. Maybe Winter looked like a snob. The other man definitely looked like a thug. Winter recognized most faces at the police station, but not this one. It wasn’t a pleasant face. It could scare people, and not always in the right way. The chin was square and the ears were smaller than they should be. The eyes had a particular shine that Winter suspected was there a little too often. He had a smile that wasn’t calming. That face belonged on the other side of the law, on page one or two or three in the crime registry. It belonged to a new client.
Or a new crime-buster.
“Identification, please,” said the crew-cut thug, extending his hand and smiling his strange smile again.
“Listen here . . .”
“Identification! We don’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry scraping on the door of the CID.”
“I work here,” Winter said, backing up a step as his aggressive colleague took a step closer. He was a colleague. Winter recognized the scent of yesterday’s liquor in the thug’s morning-fresh breath. There were a few small ruptures in his eyes. He wasn’t in a joyful morning mood. Winter wasn’t either. He was starting to become annoyed by this act.
“We haven’t ordered any shoe or window polishing today,” his colleague said, smiling his smile again and shoving Winter in the shoulder. Winter landed one where it hurts most.
“I have never seen the like!”
Winter was staring straight into a different face, more wrinkled than the other one, but with clearer eyes. The face was close. Winter sensed a vague but definite scent of tobacco. It came from the man’s clothes and was blended with a fresh smell from the cigarette he was holding in his hand. The smoke suddenly stung Winter’s eyes. He blinked to avoid tears. That wouldn’t look good.
“What the hell are you two doing?!”
The older man turned toward the younger one, who was sitting beside Winter, the guy with the smile, and pressed his face close to him. There was no smile on the older face. The smile had disappeared from the younger one.
“Do we have to send you out on the street where you belong again, Halders?!”
“He started it.”
“Shut up!” the older man yelled; he kept his face where it was, and Winter could see the man’s spit fall like drizzle across Halders’s face. So his name was Halders. He must be new to the unit; not quite as new as Winter but almost. Winter knew that this yelling and spitting and chain-smoking man was Sture Birgersson, the chief inspector and the boss of the CID. A problem solver with an imagination. That was how he solved problems. But this problem had made him dangerously red in the face. His blood pressure didn’t know where it should go; it looked as though the blood was racing around his body, desperately searching for a way out.
“Are you sitting there blaming someone else, you fucking cowardly shit?!”
He pulled his face away from Halders and threw a hard look at Winter. Winter saw that Birgersson’s eyes were yellow, clear and yellow. This was the first time he was working under him. The first day, first hour, first minutes. A brilliant start.
“And what are we going to do with this mannequin?”
Halders sneered.
“I said shut up!” Birgersson yelled, without looking at Halders. His face came close to Winter’s again. “I guess you misunderstood the job, huh? Have you seen too many American cop movies? Miami Vice, or whatever the hell they’re called? Snobby fags in Armani suits who can beat up anyone they like? Is that what you think this job is all about?”
Winter opened his mouth, but Birgersson yelled “Shut up!” before he had time to say anything.
“I put in my vote for you, kid.”
Birgersson stared into Winter’s eyes. Birgersson’s eyes resembled a lunar landscape. He also seemed about as far away as the moon, even though he was so close that Winter could smell the cigarette stink from his mouth. The smoke from the cigarette in Birgersson’s hand rose and stung in Winter’s eyes again, and he had to strain not to blink. Blinking would be a sign of weakness. If he blinked even once, he would be thrown out of this corridor and this department on his head, and he would never again get to solve a case dressed in an Armani suit. It would be the uniform again for him, night patrols in the red-light district around Pustervik again, presumably in the company of Halders. Death would be preferable.
“Voted for you, you little shit,” Birgersson said, jerking his face back and sitting with a heavy crash in his office chair. It was a miracle that it didn’t break. “I even had to raise my voice,” Birgersson continued, as though this was something unusual for him to do. “There were people who raised objections about you, and I had to bet my honor that you were ready for the job!” He abruptly turned to Halders. “And then this!”
Halders had the sense to keep quiet.
“If Bertil hadn’t come out of the hall at that moment, who the fuck knows how this would have ended!”
“Presumably with the police commissioner,” said the fourth man in the room. He hadn’t said anything earlier. He was Bertil Ringmar and he was a detective in the unit. He was ripe for the title of chief inspector, overripe; but it was hard always to be in Birgersson’s shadow, hard to step out of it. Winter had exchanged a few words with Ringmar now and then during the past year, and he thought that he was a decent guy. He was about ten years older than Winter. Winter had looked forward to working with him, learning from him.
Now he might have ruined that forever.
At the same time, he would do it again. Ruin it again. Bash Halders for the satisfaction of seeing that damn smile smooth out into something else. Maybe he wasn’t ready for this job.
“Not just with the boss,” Birgersson said. “That would be the manageable part. I’m talking about Sahlgrenska Hospital, probably the emergency room, and then the papers of course, and the TV, and court, and the appeal, and the government, and the whole fucking UN!”
• • •
There were giant plants in pots in every corner of the café. It was like a jungle, like a reminder that it was possible to go on a long journey. Winter might get all the time he needed soon. It depended on how mature he was in the near future.
They had left the police station as quickly as they could. No one felt like drinking coffee twenty meters from Birgersson’s office.
Halders made a face as he sat down.
“Does it hurt?” Winter asked.
“What?” said Halders.
“I’m really looking forward to working with you,” said Winter.
“Don’t be so sure,” said Halders. “The old man has changed his mind before.”
Old man Birgersson had run out of voice and cigarettes and thrown them out with a warning. Ringmar had been sent off with the two rascals.
“And I don’t think I have time to babysit at work,” Halders continued.
“I don’t plan to sit,” said Winter.
“What do you plan to do, then?” Halders said, smiling his smile.
This has to end, Winter thought. If it takes years, this has to end for good. He’s got the upper hand. Should I ask him to give me a good punch to the gut so we’re even?
Ringmar cleared his throat.
“What Birgersson was trying to say in his, uh . . . subtle way is that this isn’t a schoolyard or a playpen.”
“What does subtle mean?” Halders said.
“Sensitive,” said Winter.
“I knew that you knew it,” said Halders, smiling.
“Sensitive like you,” said Winter.
Halders’s smile remained.
“Does anyone here actually understand what I just said?” said Ringmar.
August had been greener than usual because it had rained more than usual this summer. It was still raining as Winter stood outside Hotel Revy. It was four o’clock in the aftern
oon and the light had disappeared, sucked up into a sky that was low and gray, a winter sky already, in early September.
He looked up at the third floor, a row of windows out toward the street—three windows, and the one in the middle belonged to room number ten. No one had climbed out of that window in the middle of the night; he knew that much.
Not Ellen Börge. Not anyone else.
The dimness in the lobby was the same as outside. The dimness was intensified by the plants. Winter thought of the café where he and Ringmar and Halders had sat a week or so ago. He thought of southern lands again. There was a strange smell in the lobby. Maybe that was it.
He was alone in there. Music was coming from somewhere, maybe from a radio. The music told him nothing. It sounded like no one was listening. The music stopped and he could hear the rain against the awning over the entrance. There were holes in it; a raindrop had landed on his cheek as he walked up the steps.
The hotel seemed closed, deserted. But a hotel was never closed, especially not this one.
He walked up to the desk and looked around. The music had started again, a low hum. Maybe it was a vacuum cleaner. The sound seemed to come from above. Maybe it was a maid in room ten. Winter had been up there; a technician had been there but there was nothing to investigate. Ellen had stayed there for one night, or almost a night, and had been gone with the first morning light. That was last night. No one had seen her leave Revy, not even the desk clerk. She had paid when she checked in; that was the policy of the establishment. Winter understood why. Most of the guests stayed here for only an hour, half an hour. He wondered why Ellen had chosen a place like this. Maybe that was exactly why. No one said anything, heard anything. Revy was a good choice for a person who wanted to run away. A few hours of contemplation, if that was possible here, maybe rest, hardly sleep, and then away with the morning train, or the bus, south, east, north. To the west there was only sea; in that case it would have to be ships, ferries. They didn’t know which direction she’d gone, if she’d gone. Up to now, no travel agent had sold her any tickets.
The desk clerk showed up behind the reception desk. He stepped out through a doorway that had been in shadow, like everything else in there. There was no door, only a curtain. He yawned, like after a siesta. Maybe it was a difficult job to be a hotel clerk, especially here. He was a clerk who was responsible for room keys, and it was probably difficult to get uninterrupted sleep here at night.
The man yawned again, without trying to hide it. He was about Winter’s age, not yet thirty. He was wearing a jacket, like Winter, but the difference was that this guy also used his as pajamas.
“Hard day?” Winter asked. “Or night.”
“Uh . . . what?”
The clerk scratched his head. His hair was long in back, short over his ears. He could be Elvis. An ice-hockey-playing Elvis.
“I was here yesterday,” Winter said.
“Oh?”
“The missing person. Ellen Börge.” Winter held out his identification. The clerk studied it with eyes that seemed nearsighted.
“You weren’t here yesterday,” Winter said. “Your colleague said that you would be here now. You were the one who checked her in.”
“Who?”
He hadn’t really woken up yet. Maybe he never really woke up.
“Ellen Börge. You checked her in at eleven thirty.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You remember it?”
“I’m not stupid.”
“No one said you were stupid.”
Not yet, Winter thought. But you’re a cocky bastard. This isn’t the first time you’ve run across the police. The police are here all the time. You’re tired of them. Of us.
“Your colleague showed us the guest register. Her name was there. Can you get it out again?”
“I remember her,” the clerk said without moving. “Börge. I checked the name when she’d gone up to her room. It’s like a guy’s name for a girl, isn’t it?”
“Do you usually check people’s names when they check in?”
“Uh . . . no. But . . . she came alone.”
“And she didn’t look like a whore? Is that what you mean?”
The clerk looked down at the desk without answering, as though he was suddenly taking the shame of the hotel upon himself. He looked up. “She didn’t have a bag either, only a purse.” He waved a few fingers toward the desk. “She set it down when she was writing. And when she left I thought of that, how she didn’t have a suitcase.”
“Describe her purse,” Winter said.
“Oh . . . black.”
“Black? Is that all you remember?”
“Yes . . . and small. A strap. The way ladies’ purses look. I can’t tell them apart.”
He looked over toward the stairs, as though he would see Ellen there. “She looked like she was, like, on her way somewhere. I remember thinking that. This place is close to Central Station, you know, and we have lots of customers who take the first room they find before they move on. Travelers. I’m, like, used to recognizing people who are on their way somewhere.”
“And she looked like she was on her way somewhere?”
“I thought so.”
“And she did get away.”
“So I hear.”
“Sometime during the night, or the early morning.”
“That’s what they say.”
“Don’t you believe it?”
“I don’t believe anything. I don’t know anything. I wasn’t here. Got off at twelve.”
“Your colleague didn’t notice anything.”
“I know. I can imagine.”
“What do you mean?”
“He never notices anything. He sleeps.” The clerk smiled. “He hands out keys in his sleep.”
Winter believed him. He had gotten the same impression. This joker was sleepy, but the other one was worse.
“How did she seem?”
“What?”
“Ellen Börge. When she checked in. You were watching her, after all. You noticed her. What was she like? Did she seem nervous? Was she tense? Was she looking around? Anything?”
“She seemed calm, I thought.”
“It was raining. Was she dry?”
“I don’t really get what you mean.”
“It was pouring rain out there. Did she have an umbrella? Was she like a drowned rat? Did it seem like she was seeking shelter from the rain?”
“Well . . . I didn’t see any umbrella. And she was wet, especially her hair.” He passed his hand over his mullet haircut. “Well . . . maybe she was in here to rescue herself from the rain. But it’s a long way from that to checking in here, isn’t it?”
Winter didn’t answer. Ellen had left home in sunshine, hardly a cloud in the sky. Christer Börge couldn’t say exactly what clothes she’d had on when she left, but it was “something light.” No coat; he claimed that everything was still hanging up. The umbrellas, two of them, were still standing in a prim umbrella stand. Yes, Winter had thought, why would she take an umbrella with her when the sun was shining.
Seven and a half hours later, she had checked in here, come in from the rain.
“Describe her clothing,” Winter said.
• • •
“Can you describe her clothing again?” Winter said to Christer Börge.
“Is that really necessary?”
“Please describe her clothing,” Winter repeated.
Börge told him about her clothes.
“I really did try to do my best,” he said when he was finished.
“But you’re not certain?”
Börge shrugged.
“Who can describe his wife’s clothes in detail? Later on? Can you?”
“I’m not married.”
“You get what I mean, right?”
Winter nodded.
“But she probably didn’t have a jacket. It was a warm day, or night. Or afternoon, I don’t know what to call it.”
Winter nodded again, though ther
e wasn’t anything to nod at. Börge was still standing still in front of him, as he had been doing since Winter stepped into the hall. Börge didn’t want him here, and Winter understood.
“Can we sit down for a bit?”
“Why?”
Winter didn’t have to answer this, and he didn’t. He nodded toward the room. It was illuminated by an intense evening light. The sun was going down in red and gold, September colors.
Börge turned around and went into the living room, and Winter followed him. They sat down. There was a sudden scent, as though from the light outside, like spices Winter didn’t know the name of and might never taste. The door to the balcony was wide open. There was no wind. The room, and the balcony, gave an impression of elegance when the light fell in on them from the clear day. But the furniture was as plushy as when he had been here a day and a half or so ago. Maybe it would remain so. He wondered whether Börge would still be living here after a year, half a year. Whether Ellen would come back here. Winter thought that she would live happily ever after somewhere else. She would make contact from there. Christer would continue in unhappiness, or happiness. Maybe he was hiding his anxiety behind a mask of distaste. He was a stranger to Winter, like most people. Winter worked with strangers, some of them alive.
“Hotel Revy,” Winter said.
“Never heard of the place,” Börge said. “I’ve told you that.”
“That’s where she stayed.”
“Stayed? Stayed? It was only a couple of hours. She didn’t have a bag. I don’t call that staying.”
“What would you call it, then?” Winter asked.
Börge didn’t answer.
“Why that particular hotel?” Winter said.
“Why a hotel?” said Börge.
“That’s what I’m asking myself. And you.”
Börge said something that Winter didn’t catch.
Room No. 10 Page 9
