Death Angels (17 page)

BECKMAN HAD SPENT HlS VACATlON DRINKING ON THE TERRACE
of the Altamar Aparthotel, gazing out at the northern horizon. He had been sober on the plane home. End of story.

He wasn’t the first person they’d brought in for questioning. But this was something different, Winter thought as he took the elevator up, briefcase in hand. His luggage would arrive later.

Beckman was suffering minor withdrawal symptoms, far from delirious but with an unsteady gait that made him look like he was listening to funk.

Winter sat across from Beckman: what a homecoming for him, and to think
I
never even got off the ground.

The tape recorder hummed, registering a short, clear laugh that echoed through the corridor outside.

“I don’t remember very much,” Beckman said after they had dealt with the formalities.

“What time did you get home from work the night you saw Jamie Robertson with this man?”

“A minute or two after midnight. But that’s not what actually happened.”

“What didn’t actually happen?”

“It’s like this. I went out, and then I came back and thought I saw the man again.”

“You saw him a second time?”

“I had dropped my scarf somewhere. It might sound weird, but I couldn’t find it and I thought it must have fallen off while I was buttoning up my coat in the doorway, so I went back and saw him from behind as he walked up the stairs.”

“Was he by himself then?”

“Yes, the second time he was by himself.”

“Can you describe what he looked like?”

“That’s not so easy.”

“Try anyway.”

“But there was something else about him too.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know how to put it.”

The laughter returned, a little softer as if it had bounced off the wall at the end of the corridor.

Maybe the laughter will calm him down, Winter thought. Or just confuse him even more. Right this minute we’re ransacking his apartment. He killed Jamie and caught the first available flight. He’s going to confess any minute, and then the other murders too. Maybe he went to London. Maybe tonight we can celebrate and hope for a decent interval before the next case. Everything depends on coincidence, a stroke of luck or a wide net that pulls in just the fish you’re looking for. As long as we stick to our routines, if we’ve got our catch, it’s just a matter of waiting until he stops flailing.

“There was something about him I recognized,” Beckman said. “Now that I’ve had the chance to think about it a little.”

Winter nodded. The central air droned like the murmuring of a heart, suffocating the room in its own odor of perspiration mixed with stale cologne from some other era. The afternoon radiance was waning, the fluorescent lights casting deeper shadows. Winter hadn’t turned on his desk lamp yet. He nodded again to Beckman.

“It was his jacket. That must be what made me think about it now, or what I recognized then.”

“You recognized his jacket?”

“Yes, I don’t know why, but I flashed on something I’d seen on the streetcar.”

“The streetcar?”

“When you sit in a booth like that all day long, you pick up on little things about people. Not as much now as when we had the same route every day, but still.”

Beckman’s hand trembled as he raised a glass of water to his lips, but he managed not to spill it. “You begin to notice regular passengers,” he continued, putting the glass back down.

“So you remembered this guy?” Winter asked.

“I’m pretty sure I had a passenger a few times who wore a jacket like that, but nothing else comes to mind.”

“What was so special about the jacket?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“The color?”

“It was a black leather jacket, but that’s not it.”

“The kind of leather?”

“No,” Beckman said, drawing out the word. “I can’t put my finger on it.”

“The buttons, maybe?”

“The buttons . . . no.”

Jesus, Winter thought. “The writing on the back of the jacket?”

Beckman shook his head. “It’s completely slipped my mind.”

“Was he tall?”

“I think so . . . Yes, he was.”

“Taller than Jamie?”

“It looked like it. But it’s hard to tell when two people are walking up the stairs.”

“About my height?” Winter stood up.

“Yes, probably.”

“How would you describe the way he walked?”

“Just like anybody else.”

“He didn’t limp or anything?”

“No, but walking up a staircase is a kind of limp. He had long, dark hair by the way.”

“How long?”

“Shoulder length, I think.”

“Are you sure?”

“It occurred to me at the time that you don’t see many people with hair like that anymore.”

He’s calmer now, Winter thought, as if he had been given a hangover remedy. Or maybe the sound of his own voice and the scraps of memory have soothed him, the way music puts the mind at ease.

“Fifteen years ago, when you saw pictures from the sixties,” Beckman explained, “it seemed like everyone dressed differently back then, especially with their hair. But now I guess they’re pretty much the same as the photos that appear in the papers today.”

“Soccer teams,” Winter said.

“What?”

“Most photos of soccer players in the sixties could have been taken yesterday, at least when it comes to the hair.”

“That’s true.”

“So this man’s hair was long?”

“Like an Argentinean soccer player. There was something unreal about it, almost like a wig.”

“A wig?”

“I’m not sure.”

“A toupee?”

“He was wearing glasses.”

“Glasses?”

“Heavy, with black frames, I think, but don’t hold me to it.”

“Horn-rimmed?”

“I guess that’s what they’re called.”

“We’re going to put together a composite sketch based on what you’ve told us.”

Beckman looked past Winter as if he were getting ready to describe a face he’d never seen. “He was carrying a bag when he went up the stairs the second time.”

“What did it look like?”

“A duffel bag of some kind.”

“Could you tell if he noticed you?”

“I don’t think so. I was worn out from work and didn’t make much noise.”

“He didn’t look in your direction?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Did you hear him say anything?”

“No.”

Crossing Heden Park, Winter saw that the cold had left a blue sheen on the sky even though it was already dark. He felt displaced the way he always did when he had to cut a trip short. He didn’t want to go home. His suitcase had shown up, finally, and though he’d deliberately left it at the office, he changed his mind and retraced his steps. A patrol car drove him back to his apartment. He rode the elevator up, opened the door, dropped his suitcase by the coatrack and leafed through the mail. None of it needed to be opened tonight.

Hungry and restless, he pulled off his clothes outside the bathroom door, took a shower and changed to a mock turtleneck and a soft gray Ermenegildo Zegna suit. He called his favorite restaurant and reserved a table.

His hair was still too wet for outside. Grabbing a towel, he rubbed his head as hard as he could and combed his hair. The phone rang, and he listened to his sister leave a message while he put on a pair of black socks. It rang again. This time it was Bolger, who apologized and said he had just realized that Winter was in London.

Winter’s scalp, still not dry, tingled in the subfreezing air. He pulled his black knit cap down over his forehead and headed west on Vasagatan Street, through Haga Park and across Linnégatan Street to Le Village Restaurant on Tredje Långgatan.

He made his way through the bistro, hung up his coat in the restaurant and walked over to the host.

“Table for one. I have a reservation. Winter.”

“This way, please.” The maître d’ led him to a table at the far end of the room. “Care for something to drink?” he asked once Winter was seated.

“Mineral water, thanks.”

He ordered blue mussel and basil soup, followed by grilled codfish, lightly salted. He drank half a bottle of Sancerre with the entrée. Afterward he lingered over two cups of coffee, lost in thought.

BOLGER WAS AGHAST. “I THOUGHT YOU’D BE PAlNTlNG THE TOWN
in Soho by now.”

“Another time,” Winter said.

“You obviously weren’t grounded by the weather.”

“Something came up.”

“Have one on the house.”

“Mineral water in a glass, please, with ice and a slice of lime.”

“Sure you don’t want something more daring?”

“Bring me a mineral water and tell me what you think of Bergenhem.”

Bolger fixed Winter’s drink by the rack under the mirror behind the bar.

“He seems a little green.” Bolger put a glass down in front of Winter. “But he’s got a pair of eyes that could serve him well if he learns how to use them in the dark too.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“What I mean is that he needs to get his act together.”

“He’s young, but that’s not always a disadvantage.”

“It usually is.”

“But not always.”

“No.”

It was almost midnight. Three of the seven tables were taken, and the voices of the customers seemed muffled by the smoke.

Two women sat at the far end of the bar with cigarettes between their fingers and expressions on their faces that suggested they had finally discovered the meaning of life and concluded it didn’t make any difference.

One of the women gazed at Winter out of the corner of her eye. The lines on her face tightened. She said a few words to her companion, put out her cigarette and lit a new one. She fingered the package in front of her as if to assure its dwindling contents that she hadn’t forgotten about them.

“I’m not sure Bergenhem wants to get his act together,” Bolger said.

“Depends on who explains it to him.”

“Who else but you?”

Winter felt like lighting up a cigarillo, but a glance at the chain smokers to his right made him think better of the idea. The woman who had eyed Winter earlier motioned to Bolger. He walked over and took her order. After fixing her drink at the bar, he put the glass down in front of her. A look of disappointment passed over her face as she drank.

“She asked for the same thing the gentleman over here was drinking. I’d bet she was expecting a gin and tonic.”

“I could have been living it up in London tonight.”

“You’re married to your job.”

“My theory is that there are things just beneath the surface that we don’t know are there.” Winter broke down and lit a cigarillo.

“Absolutely.”

“Sometimes all you have to do is blow away a little dust and it appears.”

“And that’s Bergenhem’s job. Is that what you’re saying?”

Winter smoked and glanced at the women but turned his head away when they reciprocated. “Maybe more than a little dust,” he said. “I have a feeling you know a few things that you haven’t told us and maybe don’t want to talk about.”

“What kinds of things?”

“About the industry.”

“What industry?”

“Give me a break; I’m a little tired.”

“Okay, okay, the industry.”

Winter took another sip of water. Sinatra’s voice came over the speakers. That song is from the fifties, he thought. I hadn’t even been born.

“The restaurant and porn industries aren’t one and the same,” Bolger insisted. “They’re light-years apart.”

“Of course.”

“I know a little about the porn scene because of the late hours I stay open.”

“It doesn’t sleep during the day, I assume?”

“No, but it thrives under the cover of darkness.”