Room No. 10

by Ake Edwardson

Winter nodded.

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  Winter didn’t answer. He closed his eyes and saw a photograph before him.

  “You’ve never let go of the Ellen Börge case,” Halders said. “And you were right not to.”

  “I had let it go,” said Winter.

  “In that case, it never let you go,” said Halders. “Or us.”

  “I let it go too early,” said Winter.

  “Erik . . .”

  “I didn’t see clearly enough.” He turned to Halders. “I didn’t listen to what people said.”

  “Come on, Eri—”

  “You said it yourself, Fredrik,” Winter interrupted him. “Here is something we can’t see, but it’s there.” He lifted his eyes from Ellen’s face. “Or was there.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Winter looked at the clock. It wasn’t yet midnight.

  “I’m going to Börge’s house,” he said.

  “Now?”

  Winter didn’t answer.

  “Aren’t you going to call first?”

  “It doesn’t matter to him, does it? Won’t he want to know what happened to Ellen?”

  Halders turned his eyes to Ellen’s face again.

  “He might know.”

  Winter nodded.

  “Is that why you’re going?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Winter started to walk away from the damned steel table. He had stood at it before. It was the most god-awful part of the job. It was worse than photographs.

  “What’ll we do with Mario?” Halders asked.

  “Where is he now?”

  “At home.” Halders took a step away from the table. “We haven’t knocked at his door, but Frölunda is keeping a discreet eye on him.” Halders walked across the room. “There are lights on in his apartment. They can see him walking around in there. I talked to them ten minutes ago.”

  “Let’s wait and see,” said Winter. “I’ll go to Börge’s house first.”

  “Do you want company?”

  “Aren’t you going home to your family?” Winter asked.

  “What about you?”

  “It’s walking distance from Börge’s flat to my place,” said Winter.

  “Well, that changes everything.”

  Winter couldn’t help smiling.

  “You’re welcome to come along, Fredrik.”

  “I wouldn’t go alone,” Halders said.

  They stood out in the corridor. The cold light was the same out here as it was in there, as though you weren’t allowed to let go of the sight of death too soon.

  “It’s all coming together,” Halders added. “We have to be careful.”

  • • •

  Winter got a call before they left.

  “Hi, Pia here.”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s considerable damage to her ankles and wrists,” said Fröberg.

  “What does that mean?”

  “She was bound for a long time. Tied up, somehow.”

  “Oh God.”

  “A relatively thin rope.”

  Winter didn’t say anything.

  “And she was horribly emaciated,” said Fröberg.

  • • •

  They drove through the darkness. The night outside was empty and swept in fog. The streetlights were powerless. It was as though the sea had taken over the city. The few cars that were out on the street drove in and out of the fog like ships. Winter stopped at a red light and let three men of early middle age cross the street. They were nicely dressed; their coats were open, but one of the men seemed a bit disheveled. They stopped suddenly in the middle of the crosswalk and made obscene gestures at Winter and Halders. The men laughed as the light changed. They didn’t move.

  “Might be different if we had a marked car,” said Halders.

  Winter crawled slowly toward the men. His Mercedes was the only car on all of Allén.

  “Hell, run them over,” said Halders. “I promise to shut my eyes. I haven’t seen a thing.”

  “Another time,” Winter said, heaving the car onto the sidewalk and passing the men and the crosswalk on two wheels.

  Halders turned around.

  “That scared the shit out of them,” he said, laughing. “Hopefully they’ll be robbed by a gang of kids before the night is over.”

  Winter took a left.

  They passed Vasaplatsen.

  “I see there’s light in your windows,” Halders said, peering at an angle up at the building facade.

  “Lilly’s learned how to walk,” Winter said.

  “Just now?” said Halders.

  “She can’t stop,” said Winter, turning onto Vasagatan. “I suppose it’s the most fun thing that’s happened to her so far.”

  Winter parked next to the sidewalk outside of Börge’s building.

  His cell phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, Winter. Östensson here.”

  “What is it, Lars?”

  “We kept digging in that pit.”

  “Yes?”

  “There was the skeleton of a dog half a meter down.”

  Winter didn’t answer.

  “Are you still there, Winter?”

  “Yes.”

  “A small dog. It’s been there for decades, I’d guess.”

  “I think I know its name,” said Winter.

  “How could you know that?”

  “We’ll worry about it later, Lars,” said Winter, hanging up.

  “What was that?” Halders asked.

  Winter just shook his head in answer.

  Halders looked up at the facade of the building.

  “Which floor does Börge live on?”

  “The third,” Winter said, switching off the engine and opening the door.

  “There’s light in a couple of windows on the third floor. Right above the door.”

  “That’s Börge’s place,” Winter said, climbing out of the car.

  Halders climbed out on the other side.

  “Maybe he’s expecting us,” Winter said.

  Halders looked up at the facade again. It was rough with stucco and decorations.

  “There’s someone in the window,” said Halders.

  31

  The shadows moved back and forth in the stairwell. The weak light in there came from a source that was impossible to see, like a distant sun. They walked up the worn stone stairs. They were like the ones in Winter’s building. A hundred years of feet in the stairwell.

  “I’ll go in alone,” said Winter.

  Halders nodded.

  “I’ll wait one floor down.”

  Winter rang at the door. Maybe he recognized it. It was built of solid wood, with stylized door panels. The sound of the doorbell echoed inside, muffled by the door. It was an old bell, a hundred years old. Winter waited. He rang the doorbell again. As the sound subsided in there, he heard steps. He looked at his watch. It was past midnight now.

  “Who is it?”

  The voice sounded weak, as though it had lost its strength by coming through the door. Winter didn’t recognize the voice.

  “Erik Winter,” he answered. “Chief Inspector Erik Winter. We’ve met before.”

  “What do you want?”

  The voice sounded more clear now, as though it had come closer. Winter heard Halders in the stairwell behind him. He looked down, saw Halders’s raised eyebrow, turned back to the door:

  “Can you please open up, Christer?”

  He heard the bolt move slowly and then click. There was a rustling at eye level as the door opened slightly. Winter could see the chain lock. He didn’t remember it being there when he was here last. That was fifteen years ago. The face inside was mostly a shadow. It was impossible to recognize anything in that face.

  “Winter . . . is that you?”

  “Sorry it’s so late. May I come in?”

  “What’s going on? What do you want?”

  “May I come in?” Winter rep
eated.

  The door swung open with such force that Winter had to take a quick step back. The weak light in the stairwell shone on the figure in the doorway, and now Winter could recognize Börge. It was the same face, fifteen years later. He had only seen his profile in Domkyrkan, but it was the same face. He wasn’t sure that he would have recognized him on the street, in another context. But now he knew. Would he have recognized Ellen? In life? He didn’t have to think about it. It was one of the few things he didn’t need to think about.

  “Well, come in,” said Börge.

  Winter stepped into the hall. He heard music, a classical piece at a very low volume. He didn’t remember Börge playing music any other time.

  Winter began to take off his shoes.

  “Don’t bother with that,” said Börge, who was waiting farther away in the hall. It was long, like a room whose walls had ended up too close to each other.

  There were no shoes on Börge’s shoe rack.

  Winter suddenly remembered the three pairs he’d seen there when he was here the last time. They had been identical, hadn’t they? At least two of them. Oh, God. He turned his head and saw Börge’s back. The man was on his way into the living room. The shoes. He had seen the shoes standing here fifteen years ago. The shoes. That brand. Take it easy now, Erik. But now there was nothing here. Did Börge walk around barefoot on the November streets? Were his shoes in a closet? Could I be wrong? Yes. No. Yes. Ecco Free was a common brand. But where are Börge’s shoes now?

  Börge suddenly turned around, as though Winter had spoken to him. Winter noticed that he was in stocking feet. That was an old phrase, stocking feet. In only his socks.

  “You’ve found her, haven’t you?”

  • • •

  Winter sat on Börge’s sofa. It was the same sofa. The air felt very thick, as though it, too, were left over from before. The thoughts in Winter’s head moved quickly. Börge hadn’t sat down. He stood behind an easy chair, as if poised to go. No. That was just one of Winter’s thoughts.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Börge.

  Winter didn’t say anything. He had said what he’d come to say. But he hadn’t told the whole story. It wasn’t possible to, after all; there was no end, not yet.

  “After all these years,” said Börge. “It’s impossible.”

  “I drove straight here,” said Winter.

  “It’s impossible,” Börge repeated.

  He stretched, pulled up his shoulders, and then sank down again. Winter could see the damp night air through the window behind Börge. It was as though a wall had come up out there, right through the street. A stone wall.

  “Why is it impossible?” Winter asked.

  “What? What?”

  Börge looked straight through him, as though it were the first time he realized that Winter was there. That he had brought his message tonight.

  “You said that it’s impossible, Christer.”

  “It’s impossible,” Börge said, for the third time.

  “What is impossible?”

  “How could you have . . . seen someone who has disappeared?” Börge answered. “It doesn’t . . . fit.”

  Winter stood up.

  “Do you think I was lying?” Börge said.

  Winter didn’t answer.

  “Do you think I . . .” Börge said, taking a step away from the easy chair, and another step, toward Winter.

  “What do you think I think?” Winter said.

  Börge didn’t answer. His eyes roved back and forth between Winter and the bookcase, still standing where Winter remembered it had stood last time, too. There was a photograph there, one of three, Winter recalled. I remember that Ellen was smiling in the photo, along with her sister. They were about fifteen, I remember that, too. I asked Börge who the other girl was and he answered that it was Ellen’s sister. What was her name? I don’t remember. It was something with E. They hadn’t looked very much alike, the girls. They were half sisters. Börge said that he’d never seen her again after Ellen disappeared. Why can’t I remember her name? Börge said that she liked to use different names, I remember that. Eva. Her name was Eva. Is Eva. Börge had found that photo a month or so earlier, he said. He had gone through a few things and there it was, he said. I remember that, word for word. But I don’t remember the shoes.

  Winter looked over at the bookcase. The three photographs were still there, presumably on the same shelf. They would presumably be the same photographs if he went over there and checked.

  He took the few steps across the room to the bookcase. Börge followed his steps but said nothing.

  The photograph he was looking for was still there. It was the same picture. The girls appeared to be standing in an arbor; the bushes were close around them. They had their arms around each other, four arms, four hands. It was summer; their clothes were thin. At the edge of the picture, Winter could see something shimmery. It might be a piece of sky or water, a lake, the sea.

  Winter kept his eyes on the girls’ faces.

  There was a resemblance. A resemblance between then and now.

  Jesus!

  He hadn’t seen it then. How could he have seen it? He hadn’t known back then. But now. He saw something that he knew meant something.

  Meant everything.

  The girl beside Ellen was Elisabeth Ney.

  They were sisters.

  • • •

  “My God,” said Ringmar. “Sisters.”

  “That’s Börge’s word,” said Winter.

  “But you said you recognized her.”

  “I recognize Elisabeth,” said Winter. “That’s her. She didn’t change that much. Or however the fuck I should put it.”

  The phone on the desk rang. Winter lifted the receiver, answered, listened, hung up.

  “That was Möllerström. He got hold of an aunt down in Halland. Ellen’s sister’s name was Elisabeth. Among other things.”

  “Among other things?”

  “She called herself Eva, too. That was the name Börge mentioned.”

  “Was there anyone who ever talked to her?” Ringmar asked. “Back then, when Ellen disappeared.”

  “I’m not sure,” said Winter.

  “We concentrated on Christer Börge,” said Ringmar. “Although maybe not as much as we should have.”

  “Maybe we expected that someone would get in touch if her missing sister turned up again,” said Winter. “That’s what would happen in a normal world.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I still didn’t know that nothing is normal in this world.”

  “Which world is that?”

  “The one you and I live in, Bertil.”

  “Then I didn’t know, either,” said Ringmar.

  Winter thought back. What had he done in the days, the weeks, after Ellen disappeared? He had call—

  “Oh shit, we talked to her!” Winter sprung up from the desk. “We knew that there was a sister. One of our colleagues talked to her. That has to be somewhere in the records.”

  “She probably just confirmed that Ellen hadn’t been seen,” said Ringmar.

  Winter didn’t answer.

  “Surely it couldn’t have been anything sensational.”

  “But that sister was Elisabeth Ney,” said Winter. “Elisabeth Ney!”

  Ringmar nodded.

  “Help me out here,” said Winter.

  “How should I help you, Erik?”

  “What’s the connection? Is there a connection?”

  “Of all of us, you’re probably the one who’s thought the most about it,” said Ringmar.

  “Just give me the connection,” Winter repeated.

  “Ellen and Elisabeth are sisters. Were sisters. Paula is Elisabeth’s daughter. Was Elisabeth’s daughter.”

  “Keep going,” said Winter.

  “Ellen disappeared eighteen years ago. No one has seen her since, as far as we know. A few months ago, she carries a bag into Central Station and puts it in a storage locker. We’re not sur
e that it was her, but we think it was.” Ringmar looked up. “And then she isn’t missing anymore. We find her body.”

  Winter nodded.

  “Before that, we found Elisabeth’s body.” Ringmar paused. “And before that we found Paula’s body.”

  “Three bodies,” said Winter.

  “Three murders.”

  “And three men,” said Winter.

  Ringmar didn’t answer. He knew the names of the men Winter was talking about: Mario Ney. Christer Börge. Jonas Sandler.

  “Let’s have a little talk with Jonas,” said Winter. “And his mom.” He stood up. “We’re going to show them something.”

  • • •

  Anne Sandler stood up from the bed when Winter and Ringmar stepped into the room. Jonas was lying with his head toward the wall. He hadn’t moved when they came in. Anne Sandler took a step toward them.

  “How is he doing?” Winter asked.

  “I think he’s sleeping,” she said. “He seems completely exhausted.”

  Winter looked at the back of Jonas’s head. It was half-hidden behind the blanket. The young man didn’t move.

  “Was it really necessary to bring him here?” she said.

  Her words could have been accusatory, but Winter didn’t hear any accusation in her tone.

  “We have him under observation,” he said.

  “What kind of observation is that?”

  “Medical, of course.”

  “Then couldn’t you have taken him to a hospital instead of here?” she said.

  “I’d like to ask you to come with me to a different room,” said Winter. “Bertil will stay here with Jonas.”

  She followed him out into the corridor without a word. Once outside, she turned to him.

  “You don’t really think that Jonas had anything to do with that . . . that awful thing, do you?” she said.

  Winter didn’t answer. He gestured toward the far end of the corridor. His office was down there.

  Once there, she asked her question again. She looked like someone who had suddenly stepped into a world where everything is unfamiliar and who was starting to realize that it wasn’t a dream.

  “Please have a seat,” said Winter, gesturing at the chair in front of his desk.

  “Jonas can’t have done anything . . . bad,” she said, and she sat down abruptly.

  “What was he actually doing out there?” Winter asked. “He hasn’t been able to explain. Been able to talk about it.”