Death Angels (8 page)

“We’ve got witnesses from the Brunnsparken area,” Möllerström said.

“Have you finished going around the neighborhood a second time?” Bergenhem asked.

“Almost,” Ringmar answered.

“I want a report of everything the neighbors have to say by tomorrow morning,” Winter ordered. “Something doesn’t jibe here.”

“I have something I want to show you,” the man had said offhandedly, taking the items out of his duffel bag as they stood in front of Jamie’s building. Then he had continued along Drottninggatan Street, and Jamie had gone to work.

Now he rang the doorbell just as Jamie was stepping out of the shower.

The anticipation was almost too much to bear. A thrill of expectation rippled down Jamie’s back as the warmth slowly filled his groin. It was a pleasant feeling. This could be for real.

He’s big, Jamie thought. He’s putting the equipment together now. He sees the bottle of wine on the table. Now he’s coming over and taking the glass from me. I don’t understand what he’s saying. What’s this creepy mask he’s putting on? He’s going back and turning on the camera. Isn’t it supposed to make more noise than this? There’s the whir.

Jamie was spun around to face the black lens, and he opened his eyes in confused horror. A rag was twisted into his mouth and his arms were tied behind his back. He tried to say something but the words stuck in his throat.

The man brought him a chair from the kitchen. The whir grew louder and Jamie’s eyes were glued to the lens. This is one sick motherfucker, he thought. I don’t mind trying something a little different, but it’s freaky that he’s not saying anything. Some games are just too weird. I don’t want to sit here anymore. He’s standing there and staring at me. Get up and turn your back to show him that you want him to untie your arms. Here he comes.

Jamie felt a jolt behind his back and something that burned in the pit of his stomach. When he jerked his head down to see what it was, a pain throbbed under his belly button and it felt like his back was being slit open. The ache was so intense that he was afraid to lift his head back up, and he saw a pool form at his feet. The bastard is pouring wine all over the floor, he thought.

Now he was spinning around. There was the mask again, or maybe it was a new one. And when he saw what the son of a bitch was holding in his hand, he realized that he had let things go much too far. The fear sapped all the strength from his legs and he fell forward toward the object that glimmered in the light from the table lamp and the camera flashes. He tried to scream but nothing came out and he could no longer breathe.

He stood up again. He knew what was happening to him now. He tried to make his way toward the south wall of the room, but the gesture was mostly in his mind. He slipped and struck his hip as he fell. He slid along the floor.

He heard a voice. There’s a voice inside me and it’s calling to me, and the voice is me. I know what’s happening to me. Now I’ll go over to the wall, and if I stay calm, it’s going to be all right.

Mom! Mom!

He heard a whir like when time freezes and the world stops before your eyes. He couldn’t escape it.

Get away from me.

Go away.

It went on for a long time. He grew tired and was lifted up. He didn’t think so much now. The wires and cables in his head had been clipped in two and his thoughts spilled out and careened around his brain. He was lifted up again.

WlNTER FELT TRANSPARENT. THE LlGHT WAS POURlNG lN FROM
the left. He took his sunglasses off the dashboard and put them on, and the city rearranged itself before his eyes. He stopped to let three men stagger across the road on their way from Vasaparken Park to Victoriagatan Street. Their long hair flapped in the northwest wind.

The adrenaline coursed through his veins. He couldn’t have been more ready. It would never be more real than during the next few hours, never more horrible or clear. He was drawn irresistibly to the scene of the crime, and he knew from experience that he would feel ashamed or frightened or both when it was all over. Maybe that came with the territory, getting so involved in a case that he couldn’t imagine spending his time on anything else.

Officers were keeping the sidewalk clear of onlookers, but a horde of people stood just across the street on the other side of the cordon. I would have been one of them in another life, Winter thought. How many of them are there, thirty maybe?

“Call Birgersson and ask him to send five officers right away,” Winter said to Bergenhem.

“Now?”

“This instant.”

Bergenhem dialed the number as they walked up the last flight of stairs. He repeated Winter’s request when the division chief answered. “He wants to talk to you,” he said to Winter.

Winter took the phone. “Sture? . . . Yes, we’re almost there . . . Three more steps . . . He told you, right? . . . Actually, I thought they would be here already.”

Bergenhem could hear Sture Birgersson’s voice but was unable to make out the words.

“I want everyone on the other side of the street questioned. Call it an encirclement if you like . . . Yes, now . . . Thank you. Bye.”

Winter had seen a crowd of faces but no expressions as he walked toward the front door. It must be cold standing out there. Who knows, one of them might be more than just a curious bystander. Someone who knew what Winter would discover in the apartment. Something that brought him back no matter how hard he fought it.

“Who was here first?” Winter asked as he stood outside the apartment looking around at a blur of uniforms.

“It was me.” The officer was in his midtwenties. A faraway look shrouded his pale face.

“Did you arrive alone?”

“My partner was with me. Here he comes.” He pointed toward the stairs.

The alarm had gone out from Skånegatan Street and reached Winter about the same time as the closest squad car. The officers had entered the apartment, turned pale and cordoned off the area.

Jamie hadn’t shown up for his morning shift to do the dishes, mop the kitchen floor and tidy up after the gig the night before—a new band with obscure ties to the west coast of Ireland that hadn’t packed it in until two o’clock.

Douglas was supposed to have the day off, and Jamie hadn’t answered his phone. Annoyed, Douglas had gone to Jamie’s apartment, rung his bell for what seemed like an eternity and pounded on the door until a neighbor stuck his head out and scowled.

He’d finally found the janitor. Jamie? The British kid? Yes, the one in the apartment with the makeshift nameplate on the door, Douglas answered, and he thought that something might be wrong with him.

The janitor, who had a hundred tools in pockets down the legs of his pants and around his waist, unlocked the door, and the rest was a dazed nightmare.

His ears buzzing and his eyes open wide, Winter was the first person to get a good look at the apartment. He stepped around a couple of footprints that pointed toward the door. No traces of violence on the walls. He heard the forensic team gathering by the stairs, and that’s where they would stay until he gave them the go-ahead.

He knew he would be back at least once after the body had been removed, and what he looked for then would depend on what he found now.

The hallway was bright enough for him to see. The light was on in the bathroom. Had the officers turned it on when they came in? Surely no policeman was that dumb.

He stood in the doorway and looked down at the bathtub. There were streaks of blood on the tile, but fewer than he would have expected. He took his time, Winter thought.

Same story in the washbasin, plus three stains on the plastic mat by the tub.

Winter turned around and found himself at a twenty-degree angle from the kitchen door, which was partly open on the other side of the hallway. When he peered inside, he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary except that the little table was missing a chair.

But when he turned his eyes to the middle of the main room, Jamie was sitting on the chair with his back to the door.

He was wearing socks and a pair of pants but no shoes or belt. A red and blue tattoo gleamed on his left shoulder. As Winter made his way between the stains on the floor to get a better look, he saw it was a car but couldn’t tell what kind.

Jamie’s upper arms were blue. His pants were bulging, about to burst. That’s what’s holding him together, Winter thought. His face is uninjured. So strangely aloof, it looks like it’s floating above the chair.

On the table next to him was a bottle of red wine and two glasses, one half full and one empty. Winter leaned over and sniffed. There hadn’t been any time for a toast.

The room was furnished simply, as for a transient guest: a couch for two; no armchair, bookcase or flowers; plain curtains that muted the sunlight between the half-open blinds; a CD player on a little white-wood bench; a hanging rack with twenty or twenty-five albums. Winter edged along the wall to the other side of the couch and read some of the titles at the top: Pigeonhed, Oasis, Blur, Daft Punk, Morrissey. No jazz. The player was open and he glimpsed a disc inside. Carefully, so as not to graze the wallpaper, he leaned forward to see the name of the artist.

The oval of blood around the chair resembled the pattern in Geoff’s room. His eyes followed it toward the door and out into the hallway.

How many steps were there?

For about six feet inside the door, there were no patterns and hardly any stains. Winter inhaled the room’s odors. A bark sounded through the west wall. If it could be heard here, he could be heard there.

It occurred to Winter that he never heard his neighbors, except when they struggled to open the squeaky elevator door and rattled the cage.

Fifteen minutes in this apartment was enough. He went out and motioned to the forensic team, then walked down the stairs and into the sunlight to question the onlookers across the street.