Room No. 10 (15 page)

“So people can just disappear?” Börge said. “What the hell kind of society is this that people just disappear?” He didn’t raise his voice. That was strange. Börge was using words that demanded a raised voice, but his tone was the same as if he were asking Winter to please pass the cream. “It’s just like in . . . like in . . .” he continued, but he didn’t seem to come up with what he should say.

Uruguay, Winter thought, Argentina. Chile.

“It’s best if you don’t come here anymore,” Börge said. “I don’t understand why you can’t ask your questions over the phone, if you
have any.” He looked at Winter. “Questions, that is.” He didn’t smile this time, either.

“How was Ellen feeling the day before she disappeared?”

“You’ve asked that before.” Börge pointed toward the notebook that Winter was holding in one hand. He hadn’t written anything in it yet. “Check in there and you’ll see that you’ve asked that before.”

No smile, just like a normal remark. Börge moved around on the sofa the entire time, small movements that resembled tics but were probably general anxiety. Maybe I look the same, Winter thought.

“Sometimes you think of the same thing more than once. We’re working on this together. We just want to know what happened to Ellen.”

“Yes, yes, yeah,” Börge said.

He suddenly got up and walked across the floor and closed the balcony door.

“It’s starting to get cold,” he said, with his face turned out toward the street.

“How did Ellen feel?” Winter asked.

Börge turned around. Winter saw the roofs of buildings in the background, and suddenly the sun slid out from behind a small cloud and Börge’s face became a silhouette as the sun shone straight in from the short distance to the other side of the street. He turned his face, as though toward the sun, and Winter could see his silhouette in profile. He would remember that for a long time afterward.

Börge walked back and sat down. Winter got the sun in his face and shielded his eyes with his hand.

“Should I draw the drapes?” Börge asked.

“No, no. It’s going away now.”

The sun slid behind a cloud again and in a few minutes it would be gone for the day.

“You were asking something,” Börge said.

“Ellen. Was there anything in parti—”

“Oh yes. How she was feeling. I think she felt fine. The days just before? Well, you don’t really feel the same all the time. One day it’s
this and another day it’s that, right? Isn’t that what it’s like for everyone? Isn’t that what it’s like for you? That’s what it’s like for me.”

“Was she uneasy? Restless?”

“No more than . . . usual.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve talked about that, too. The thing about kids. Stuff like that.”

“Has she ever talked about going away?” Winter asked.

Börge didn’t answer.

“Going away for a while. Alone.”

“Not without a suitcase,” Börge said, but he wasn’t smiling this time either.

“And you’ve never been to Hotel Revy?”

“I didn’t even know the place existed,” Börge said.

“But Ellen knew.”

“You’ve got the wrong person.”

“No.”

“Ellen would never have stayed at that place. Never.” He looked at Winter again. The sun was gone for good now. The room had suddenly become dark. This place needed electric lights. Winter could hardly make out the features of Börge’s face. On the other hand, they didn’t change. His face never seemed to change.

“People look like each other,” Börge continued. “Many people look more or less the same. Every country has its distinctive features. Here we’re blond and blue-eyed. To a foreigner, everyone can look alike. In Africa, for example, it’s the same. An African at a hotel in darkest Africa doesn’t see any difference between this European checking in and that one. It’s the same in China.”

“They recognized her at the hotel,” Winter said.

“What does that mean? A desk clerk who was hungover? Or half-asleep? I don’t think much of that. You shouldn’t either.” He leaned forward. Winter could see his expressionless face. There was no agitation in it. “Haven’t you considered that she might never have been there?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then.”

Börge leaned back.

“What do you think, then?” Winter asked.

“About what?”

“About where Ellen is?”

Börge didn’t answer.

“About what might have happened to her?”

Börge didn’t answer now, either. He turned his head again, as though someone had suddenly shouted from down on the street. The sky on the other side of the roofs was very blue. Winter suddenly longed to go out there, out into the blue.

“I love her,” Börge said. He turned back to Winter again. “And she loves me.”

W
e will meet again
. Winter read the words for the hundredth time. We will meet again. He could see the tremors of the hand that had written the words, now that the technicians had said that they were there.

We will meet again.

He saw the hand that lay on the table, a cast of the hand that had written those words from hell. If you chose to see it that way. Maybe there wasn’t much choice. Paula hadn’t had much choice.

“A bird flew past the window a little bit ago and soon I will be like the bird. Think of me when you see a bird, any bird at all. I’m thinking of you, now and forever.”

“It makes you want to cry,” Ringmar said, looking up from the copy of the letter he held in his hand.

“So cry.”

“I’m trying. I’m really trying.”

“Her last words,” Winter said.

“Did she write what she wanted to, herself?” Ringmar said.

Winter didn’t answer. He had just seen a bird fly past the window. It could be any bird at all. He wasn’t good at birds.

“Erik? What do you say? Are those her own words?”

“Who could know that? Besides her, and the murderer?”

“The bird. Is it a symbol?”

“Her parents couldn’t interpret it if it was,” said Winter.

“Can you?”

“Escape,” said Winter. “Escape, freedom.”

“Beyond her reach,” said Ringmar. “What was beyond her reach.”

“Maybe not.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was going to be like the bird, she wrote.” Winter looked up. He had been staring down at nothing on the top of the desk. “It was going to be her escape. And freedom.”

“She wasn’t the one who decided,” Ringmar said.

Winter didn’t answer. He looked out through the window, but no more birds flew by. It was a gray day out there. A light rain was falling, fall had begun, the season was here to stay.

“She hadn’t chosen to sit in this damn room and write about freedom. And love. That wasn’t what she chose.”

“Maybe it became what she chose,” Winter said.

“The rope against her throat? She didn’t have a choice?”

“That’s how it was at first,” Winter said. “Soon enough she was just as certain.”

“Just as certain? Just as certain as the murderer?”

Winter didn’t answer. These were horrifying thoughts. That’s what he dealt with. Horrifying thoughts.

“He convinced her that she had to die? Your time is over, Paula. Write a letter to confirm it.”

Winter still didn’t answer.

“She became as certain as he was?”

“Keep going,” Winter said.

“He managed to convince her that she would feel better dead?”

“Feel better?” Winter said. “Did she feel bad?”

“Let’s assume she did. She wasn’t satisfied with her life. She wanted to get away. She wanted to do something else. She wanted to escape. She wanted another kind of freedom. She wanted to
become
someone else.”

“Say that again,” Winter said.

“Let’s assu—”

“No, the last part,” Winter said.

“She wanted to become someone else,” Ringmar said.

“Yes. That’s what this is about. She was going to become someone else. He would make her into someone else.”

“For God’s sake, Erik.”

“She was going to get to escape, get away. He helped her.”

“Who did she become, then?” Ringmar said. “Who was she going to become?”

“Part of him,” Winter said. He repeated it: “A part of him.”

Ringmar didn’t say anything. He was thinking about Winter’s words. He knew that it was part of their routine; words could mean a lot, or nothing, and he hoped that this last part wouldn’t mean anything at all. That Winter was wrong. If he was at all right, it could mean that they had just begun.

“Who is he?” Ringmar said. “A preacher? A crazy preacher? Some fucking dark angel? A risen angel?” He sneezed suddenly, as though he were allergic to the mere mention of preachers. “Should we go out into the congregations?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean? You’re the one who started this!”

“I haven’t thought that much about him yet,” Winter said. “I’ve been thinking about Paula.”

“But she wasn’t religious,” Ringmar said. “At least not that we know of. Not deeply religious.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his nose. “She went to church a few times with her friend, but that was for the peace.”

“There are other kinds,” Winter said.

“Of religiousness?”

“Yes. It doesn’t necessarily have to do with God,” Winter said.

“Is there anything that has to do with God?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Does God exist?” Ringmar said.

“I think we need a coffee break,” Winter said.

•   •   •

That afternoon, Winter had a meeting with Birgersson. The boss stood at the half-open window, as usual. The light through the window made his office just bright enough to see. Before, Birgersson had always stood there to watch the smoke float out and off toward Ullevi.
When he’d stopped smoking he remained by the window anyway. It was like some sort of phantom position; in his hand was a cigarette that no longer existed. He was a boss who would soon no longer exist. One year, then Winter would take over, but Winter had already taken over. Nothing would change, other than formally. Winter would presumably move into this office. In any case, it would have to be cleaned thoroughly after Birgersson’s cigarette smoke, but the poison would remain in the walls. It wouldn’t be healthy to sit here. Cigarettes were not healthy, unlike cigars.

“You’re welcome to smoke, Erik,” Birgersson said from over by the window. “You know that.”

“It wouldn’t feel right, not in here,” Winter said. “You know that’s how I feel, Sture.”

Birgersson rasped out a laugh. It was like tossing a shovelful of gravel into the room, right across the floor.

Winter could see Birgersson’s silhouette in the pale light. Generally speaking, he had seen it for all of his adult life. He had been in here as a police officer, too. He didn’t remember why that had been. But he had actually been afraid. That was part of his youth. Often being afraid. Sometimes he missed that. He was sometimes afraid because he wasn’t afraid as often these days. It wasn’t healthy.

“How’s it going with our girl?” Birgersson said, turning back toward Ernst Fontells Plats outside. He could see all the traffic down there, to and from the police station, uniforms, marked cars, civilian cars, civilian clothes, women, men, old men with hats. It was as though he were personally responsible for all traffic in and out, had taken it upon himself to monitor it. “Have you checked all the crazies yet?”

“We’re working on it.”

“There are getting to be more and more of them,” Birgersson said. He had turned back in toward Winter again. His face was indistinct in the gray light, as though he had already begun to disappear. “When I started here you could call them up before lunch. All of them.”

“I know, Sture.”

“There were no more than that. I had the whole gang in my Filofax there.” Birgersson nodded toward his desk. “That was before cell phones. Before the Internet. It was a wonderful time.”

“I think the crazies feel the same,” said Winter.

“Yeah, yeah, we might have better electronic capabilities now, but that’s balanced out by the fact that there are ten times more crazies on the streets now. Right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“So who is our particular crazy in this case?”

“I don’t know. Not yet.”

“Is he an old acquaintance?”

“I don’t . . . think so.”

“You’re hesitating a little.”

“Do you remember Ellen Börge?”

“Remind me.”

“She disappeared. There was something fishy about it. We didn’t figure it out. She never came back.”

“Börge?”

“Yes.”

“I recognize the name.”

“Good.”

“I’m old, but I’m not senile yet.”

“It’s the same hotel, the same room.”

“Well, shit.”

“Ellen, if it was really her, checked in there just before she disappeared.”

“And?”

“Well . . . that’s it. And the fact that Ellen was never found. Never came back . . . home.”

“You hesitated about that, too.”

“I don’t think she wanted to come home.”

“Home to her own home? Her apartment?”

“Yes. And to her husband.”

“You remember this case well, Erik. Or have you refreshed your memory recently?”

“I looked through it a bit. It was one of my first cases, you know.”

Birgersson nodded.

“Unsolved,” Winter said.

“And you want to solve it now,” Birgersson said.

“No, no.”

“Don’t try, Erik. I’ve seen it before throughout my years in the unit, with other people. With you, too. You all walk around with something unfinished that gnaws at you, something you think you missed. The case is cold as snow, but you try to blow on the damn coals anyway.” Birgersson grew quiet, as though to ponder his metaphor. “And then comes a new case, and you start looking for similarities with the old one.”

“I haven’t been looking,” Winter said. “I just said that there
are
some similarities.”

“It was twenty years ago,” said Birgersson.

“Eighteen,” said Winter.

“See? You know exactly. Just don’t take it out on Paula Ney.”

“Don’t insult me, Sture.”

“No, no, I’m sorry, Erik. But you understand what I mean.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“A crazy from eighteen years ago. He did something to Ellen Börge and now, again, to Paula Ney? He waited for almost a generation? Well, that would be something new. We’ve never seen that before.”