“Once when I was new, you said that this is a battle we can’t win, but that we have to fight to the end,” Winter said.
Birgersson drank, set down the glass, and made a little face.
“Did I say that? Have I said that?”
Winter nodded.
“That must have been when the heaviest drugs started. When heroin came in.”
“No, it was earlier.”
“Oh . . . well . . . what did you think about that?”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly encouraging,” Winter said.
Birgersson didn’t say anything; there was nothing encouraging about the expression on his face, and it was an expression Winter recognized.
“And at the same time it was. Encouraging.”
“Maybe I was having a bad day when I said it,” Birgersson said. “Maybe there was some little twelve-year-old girl who had just been beaten to death.”
“I don’t remember anything about that day other than what you said.”
“Apparently I was serious, anyway.”
“I’m not accustomed to you joking about things like that, Sture.”
“Have to fight to the end, huh? Yes, I suppose that’s how it is.”
“That implies that you’ll get tired of all the shit,” Winter said. “Because it is shit. Lots of it.”
“A big pile,” Birgersson said, raising his beer glass. “All the way up to the sky. Cheers to all the shithouses that make room for all the shit. That take care of it. All the shitheads.”
Winter raised his glass in a toast, without really understanding what Birgersson meant.
“The reason I’m still tolerating a little shithead like you is that you’re trying to avoid becoming a cynic,” Birgersson said.
Winter didn’t know what he should say in response to Birgersson’s words. He had sometimes been worried that he wouldn’t be able to become anything other than a cynic. That anyone who lived and worked in this segment of the world and humanity became a cynic. A cynic or an idiot. Or both.
“A cynic stops thinking,” Birgersson said, as though he had read Winter’s thoughts. “Your brain becomes automatic.”
“A person might wish it would, sometimes,” Winter said.
“Oh, no, kid. That’s not for you.”
“Not for you either, Sture.”
Birgersson laughed his laugh again, a hiss that caused the two younger men at the table next to theirs to interrupt their low-voiced conversation and quickly cast a glance at the furrowed man in the white shirt with an open collar and rolled-up sleeves.
“No,” Birgersson said after thirty seconds, “who would even think of calling me a cynic?”
• • •
Who would even think of calling Fredrik Halders a cynic? Quite a few people, to be frank. Everyone he had ever come in contact with, to be honest.
He considered himself to have reasons for his outlook on life, and not just the reasons he had come to through his work. But people undergo spiritual changes in their lives; some do, at least, and Halders had the good fortune of being one of them. He saw it as good fortune. He knew what was going on, and he didn’t want to turn to stone before his children even grew up.
He was standing in Paula Ney’s apartment again. What am I looking for here? Is it still the photograph? No. He was listening for something. It wasn’t the wind outside the window, or the patter of rain against the pane, and it wasn’t the cars in the roundabout down there, outside of Doktor Fries Torg. Not all the sounds of the city and nature. He didn’t need to listen for them; they were logged into his brain after all these years on the streets, in cars, in houses, in parks, everywhere it was possible to set foot. He looked down at his feet; one was standing in front of the other, as though he were about to throw himself out through the window. The skies were gray out there; you had to fly high to reach the blue sky. Had she flown up there? And down again? Halders looked around for an answer. The shrouds were still there in the apartment. The silence was still there. He listened again but didn’t hear anything. He knew that there were answers in there, maybe several. Necessary answers, tragic answers. In the answers he collected there was nothing that made the world a better place, more loving. It was just a battle.
• • •
The morning was brighter, as though the naked sky had one last need to expose everything. Winter pushed his bike into the rack, locked it, and walked toward the entrance. A bird of prey was circling high above the police station. The bird was sharply outlined against the blue. Suddenly it dove and disappeared behind the building.
Winter took the elevator past his own floor.
Torsten Öberg was waiting in his office. Winter had heard cameras flashing as he passed some of the rooms in the forensics unit. He had smelled a sharp scent. A woman had passed him with a plastic bag. It looked heavy.
“It will take another couple of days to get an answer from SKL,” Öberg said before Winter had had time to sit down.
Winter nodded. He saw the rope in his mind. The knot. The fleck of blood that could have come from anywhere. If it was blood.
“You said you didn’t want the VIP treatment.”
“We wouldn’t have gotten it anyway,” Winter said.
He could see the city through the window behind Öberg. It was higher up; it was possible to see very far. He could glimpse the sea far off in the haze of heat, behind the Älvsborg bridge, which looked like the skeleton of a prehistoric animal from here. I should switch offices, he thought, upgrade a floor. The bird was back; might be a hawk. The perspective made it look like it was circling right above the bridge, a giant creature on prehistoric wings.
“We have a clue,” Öberg said. “A shoe.”
Winter leaned forward. He felt something across his scalp, like a sudden wind from outside.
“Someone had spilled soda pop in front of that storage locker,” Öberg continued. “They had cleaned there, but not well enough. Which was good for us. Soda pop is good for a forensic investigator. There’s a lot that gets caught in Pommac.”
“Was it Pommac?” Winter asked.
Öberg smiled.
“We haven’t finished analyzing it yet.”
“A shoe print,” Winter said.
“For what it’s worth,” Öberg said.
“There’s a lot to suggest that our man made it,” Winter said. “Depending on how old it is.”
“It’s fresh.”
“How fresh?”
“One day. Two.”
“It’s our man.” Winter thought about what he said. “If it’s a man. Is it a man? A man’s shoe?”
“Yes . . . this is the only print we have.” Öberg opened the folder that lay on the table between them. “From what I understand, it’s mostly men who wear shoes like this. Or wore them, maybe.” He took out a few photographs and held one of them up in front of Winter. “Do you recognize this pattern?”
Winter took the photograph in his hand. At first the image looked like an uneven surface, maybe a deserted landscape. After a few seconds, he saw some kind of pattern. He saw stripes. At the edge there was something that might be part of a letter.
He looked up.
“Do you recognize it?” Öberg repeated.
“It looks familiar. I don’t really know what it is.”
“Not your brand?”
“No.”
“But it was once on the foot of every man,” said Öberg. “Well, besides yours.”
“What is it?”
“Ecco.”
“Ecco?”
“Ecco. Sound familiar?”
“Of course.”
“Ecco Free. A very common brand of shoe. At least it was twenty years ago or so. But now apparently it’s had some kind of revival.”
Winter shook his head.
“Not what we were hoping for, is it?” Öberg said.
Winter looked down at the photo again without answering. The landscape looked less deserted now. The picture was more like a map that might be possible
to make out.
“But the sole isn’t new,” Öberg said. “If we find the shoe, we can compare them.”
“A twenty-year-old sole?”
“No. Not even Eccos last that long.” Öberg nodded at the photograph in Winter’s hand. “I used to wear them myself.”
“Do people really still wear this kind of shoe?” Winter said, but it was mostly to himself. “I haven’t seen ones like these for a long time.”
“Maybe that’s to your advantage, then,” Öberg said. “Maybe there are only a few people who still buy Eccos in this city’s shoe stores after all.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“But I think there were some knockoffs of that brand, from what I remember. Don’t know if they’re still around.” He looked up. “I guess you’ll have to find out.”
“You didn’t find anything else in front of the locker?” Winter asked, putting down the picture.
“Maybe this will do for a while.”
“You never know,” Winter said, getting up.
“I can’t figure out that plaster hand,” Öberg said.
“You’re not alone,” Winter said.
“The work was actually pretty clumsily done.”
Winter nodded.
“Some kind of mold was used,” Öberg said. “I don’t know where you get hold of something like that.”
“It can hardly be common.”
“But plaster . . . normally I think there’s some sort of plastic substance that you cast in forms like that. Like for mannequins and things.”
“Mannequins,” Winter repeated.
He closed his eyes and saw an empty face in front of him, and naked limbs in a color that wasn’t found in people. There was nothing human about mannequins.
“There was no trace of plaster on her hand,” Öberg said. “Only paint.”
Winter opened his eyes.
“And nothing new about that, I understand.”
“No, the most common semigloss enamel paint in the world.” Öberg leaned back in his chair. “Can be bought even in the most poorly stocked paint stores.” The haze of heat beyond the bridge had lifted. Winter could see the opening to the sea. “Tack-free after five hours.” Öberg looked at Winter. “But it went faster than that on her body.”
“Call me as soon as you hear from SKL,” Winter said, getting up. “Give them a call and ask nicely if they can give us a slightly faster answer.”
“I’m always nice,” Öberg said.
11
Winter heard words, but that was all. He didn’t understand what was being said. It was like one sound among others.
“Erik? Are you listening?”
It was Ringmar’s voice.
Winter tore himself away from his daydream. He had been somewhere for a few seconds, but now he couldn’t remember where.
“I’m listening.”
“What did I just say?”
“Repeat,” Winter answered.
“That’s the kind of thing you can only get away with in the army,” Halders said.
“Isn’t this the army?” Djanali said.
“There you wear a uniform,” Bergenhem said.
“Aren’t there soldiers who wear plainclothes?” Djanali said.
“Yes, then you’re in the CIA,” Halders said.
“Or the KGB,” said Bergenhem.
“The KGB no longer exists,” said Halders.
“What’s it called now, then?”
“The national murder squad.”
“Just like we have in Sweden?”
“Yes. Same name, different meaning. There, the squad commits murder on the national level; here, ours tries to solve them.”
“Perhaps we should try to solve our own murder,” Ringmar said.
“Have we committed a murder of our own?” Halders said.
No one answered. It sounded as though Bergenhem sighed, or maybe it was just an exhalation.
“There’s something in her apartment that we haven’t noticed,” Halders said.
“What do you mean?” Ringmar asked.
“I don’t know if I mean anything,” Halders answered, “It’s mostly a thought, or a hunch, or whatever it’s called.”
“In your case it’s probably a hunch,” Bergenhem said.
“What?”
“Are you thinking of a postcard, Fredrik?”
That was Winter. He thought he understood what Halders meant. It was the same thought, or hunch, he’d had himself when it came to Ellen Börge. Something he hadn’t seen.
“Not exactly a postcard,” Halders answered. “It’s just something I feel when I’m standing in that lonely fucking apartment.” He looked around. “You should all stand there, too.”
“Not all at once, though,” Bergenhem said.
“I’m going to get sick of you soon, Lars,” said Halders.
“I have stood there,” Winter said. “I understand what Fredrik’s saying.”
“Finally,” Halders said.
“Should we turn the place upside down one more time?” Djanali said.
“That’s not what it’s about,” Halders said.
“Is there something that’s there and not there at the same time?” Djanali said.
No one answered.
“I think we’ll see it,” Halders said after a little while. “And then we’ll understand.”
• • •
Ringmar followed Winter into his office. Winter was having a harder and harder time being in his office. It was starting to become difficult to think there, to give his imagination a chance. He had been there for many hours; the walls were like the ones up in the jail. They didn’t let anything out; they gave no peace. He thought of Öberg’s office. There was space up there. You could see the sea.
Ringmar stood by the window. He was starting to become like Birgersson.
“I called Paula’s parents,” Ringmar said. “The mom answered. Elisabeth.”
Winter nodded.
“The question is whether she’s getting over the shock.”
Winter didn’t comment on that. The injured and the shocked belonged together; they often came from the same family. Violence often ran in the family. In any case, it affected them forever. There were no exceptions. A simple break-in affected a person for a long time. Everything had an effect.
“Why did you call?” Winter asked.
“I want to see them again,” Ringmar said. “Soon.”
Winter nodded again.
“It’s like what Fredrik was saying,” Ringmar said. “There’s something about them that we’re not seeing. When we see it, we’ll understand. Something they’re keeping to themselves.”
“It isn’t necessarily something that will be useful to us,” Winter said.
“What is useful to us, then?” Ringmar said.
“Everything,” Winter said, smiling.
Ringmar looked out the window. Winter saw the drops of rain on the glass. It was a light rain; he couldn’t hear it. It would be heavier in October, thud-thud-thud-thud against his windowpane.
“There was something breathless about her when she answered,” Ringmar said, still looking out, his profile toward Winter. It was lit up by the gray light. Winter could see Ringmar’s soft chin, or maybe it was the beginning of a double chin. He hadn’t noticed it before. It wasn’t visible from the front. Ringmar’s face was starting to collapse, but only like a shadow, and only in a certain light.
It’s worse with Birgersson. And then it’s my turn.
“And it wasn’t like she’d been running up the cellar stairs or anything,” Ringmar said.
“She didn’t expect it to be you,” Winter said.
“Exactly. She didn’t think she’d hear from us again so soon.” Ringmar turned to Winter and his chin became taut, almost narrow. “She was expecting someone else entirely.”
“Was her husband home?” Winter asked.
“I asked to have a word with him; I made something up. And yes, he was there.”
“They hav
e relatives, friends. Could be anyone who was supposed to call.”
“I don’t know,” Ringmar said. “I don’t know.”
Winter got up from the chair. He didn’t want to sit there, never wanted to sit there again. He closed his eyes suddenly so he wouldn’t have to see the door, the walls, the desk. He felt his pulse. He wasn’t feeling very well. Is it a life crisis? he thought. I didn’t have a forty-year crisis that I noticed. I’m forty-five now; that’s right in the middle; I’m having my forty- and fifty-year crises at the same time.
“Let’s go to their house,” he said.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
• • •
The sun was shining through the clouds as they drove down Allén; a yellow glow through the leaves, which were starting to change color. Winter still felt ill at ease, like a premonition of being sick. Ringmar was driving. Winter rolled down the window, let the air come in. It felt good on his face. It smelled like autumn, a wet smell. He felt a ray of sun in his eye, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. He closed his eyes again.
When had he and Ringmar been out on their first job together? Winter couldn’t remember.
He remembered the second job they were out on together.
She had called in herself. Winter had taken the call in the car. It had been transferred from the county communications center; they had been in the vicinity of her home. She had had a breathless voice. Very frightened. They had heard her screams inside as they stood outside. The sound of the family. The screams of a woman. It wasn’t the girl. It was the mother; they realized this later. The girl didn’t want to do as her dad said. She had been out late a few nights. Now she wanted to go out again. Her dad reprimanded her with a kitchen utensil. Winter saw her face as he blinked his way through Allén. Why the hell did I start thinking about her? Mariana? What was her name? Maria? Bertil knows; he’s good at names, better than I am. But I won’t ask him. We thought we had her. She was alive in the ambulance. They came so quickly; I was surprised. The dad was gone, in another world now. The knife ended up in the courtyard. The window was open; it was the second floor. It had all happened in the kitchen. I noticed the color of the tablecloth; I would still be able to draw the pattern. Their dinner was still on the table; they had hardly started. He was the one who had asked. Where are you going? Where are you going now? If only he hadn’t asked, the mom said afterward. If only he’d let it go and hadn’t asked again. Shock, she was in shock, and why should she come out of it? She would never come out of it, of course. Elisabeth Ney wouldn’t either.
Room No. 10 Page 14
