Room No. 10 (19 page)

Winter gave a discreet cough.

“Your husband doesn’t want to talk about his past,” he said.

She looked at him.

“Surely that doesn’t have any . . . anything to do with this?”

“We don’t know,” Winter said. “Think about it. We don’t know. That’s why we’re asking.”

We’ve tumbled right into this family’s life. A week ago, I didn’t even know that there was anyone named Ney in this city. Now I want to know everything.

“But I don’t have any answers,” Ney said.

“Was Paula upset about something?” Ringmar asked.

“You’ve already asked about that.”

“Something that happened recently?”

“I’ve tried to answer that. No. I don’t know. Good God, I don’t
know.
”

Winter saw the tears in her eyes.

Winter sat down on the chair in front of her. Until now, he had been standing at the window.

“Why didn’t Paula want you or your husband to meet her boyfriend?”

“Pardon me?”

“According to a friend, she had a boyfriend. But Paula never introduced him to you.”

“We didn’t know that,” said Ney. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“No,” Ringmar said gently. “But why didn’t you know?”

“Who is it?” she asked, looking at him. “Who is he?”

Ringmar looked at Winter.

“We don’t know,” Winter said.

Ney shifted her gaze.

“Don’t know? What do you mean?”

“We don’t know who it is.”

“Then how can you be so sure that Paula actually had a boyfriend?”

“Her friend thought she did.”

“And you believe her?”

“She seems pretty certain of it. But we can’t know for sure.”

“Where is he, then? Why hasn’t he gotten in touch?” Her eyes moved between Winter and Ringmar. “What kind of boyfriend doesn’t get in touch?”

They didn’t answer.

Suddenly she understood.

Her hand went to her mouth, as though she was going to bite it. Winter could see all the awful feelings reflected in her eyes. He heard a laugh from down in the courtyard. It was the girl. They shouldn’t be able to hear her laughter in here. The window ought to be thick enough.

“I thought that you . . . maybe . . . that she’d said something about him,” he said, “or that you suspected something.”

“But Paula didn’t live here. Other than now, the last few days. If she . . .”

She broke off there. She put her hand to her mouth again.

“Oh God, I said last few days. I meant past. You say things wrong sometimes. I usually point it out when people say ‘last’ when they mean ‘past.’ ”

Winter nodded. Ney looked at him with eyes that suddenly looked blind.

“I’m a teacher. I’ve taught Swedish and history in the upper levels.
I’ve always told my students that it’s important to use proper language. Without language, you get nowhere.”

“Elisabeth . . .”

“And then I sit here myself and say ‘last.’ ” She looked from Winter to Ringmar and back again. Her eyes had still been blind, but now it broke. “Last! And I was right! It was her last few days!”

“Mrs. Ney . . . Elisabeth . . .”

“It’s almost funny!” Her eyes had a sheen again. They flashed in a peculiar way. “I ha—”

“Elisabeth!”

She gave a jump on her chair, really jumped, as though a breeze, rather than Winter’s words, had lifted her up, had defied the law of gravity.

“Elisabeth? Would you like us to help you get somewhere? Would you like to see someone? Elisabeth?”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were unfocused as she suddenly stood up and walked through the kitchen like a blind woman, her arms out in front of her.

She stood in front of the window. Winter and Ringmar stood up. Winter could see every furrow in Ringmar’s face. It looked like a black-and-white photograph. It had to be the dusk.

“I can’t hear the little girl any longer,” said Ney. “Wasn’t she the one who was laughing before?”

T
he door opened out into the hall. Winter heard a cough. The door closed. Winter could hear the echo from the stairwell. Elisabeth Ney didn’t seem to hear anything. They were sitting in the living room now; Winter and Ringmar were sitting. Ney was standing at the window, with her back to them.

There was no voice from the hall, no “I’m home” or “Hi” or anything like that. Just steps.

“What the hell?!”

Ney didn’t say anything. She didn’t turn her head. Maybe she was still listening for the little girl.

“Good evening, Mario.”

That was Ringmar. He had stood up. From where Winter was sitting, Ringmar mostly looked like a shadow. Dusk had begun to fall while they were sitting there, and none of them had turned on a light. There was an old phrase for that: sitting twilight. Winter had heard it from his grandmother. It was an expression associated with comfort and calmness. Awaiting the darkness in a state of peace.

“What are you doing here?!”

Winter couldn’t really see Mario Ney’s face.

“Elisabeth? What are they doing here?”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were still somewhere else, maybe out in the courtyard, maybe nowhere.

“Elisabeth!”

She turned around slowly. Winter considered getting up and turning on a light, but he remained sitting. He could see Elisabeth Ney’s face clearly when she turned around; it was illuminated by the last of
the daylight before the sun sank behind the building on the other side of the courtyard.

It’s like a mask, he thought. Like something that’s been hung on her to patch up what would otherwise be a hole. No. A different face?

Then it was as though her eyes could see again.

She saw her husband. She gave a start, as he had done when he came into the room just now.

Winter saw a sudden fear in her face.

He looked at Mario Ney. The man was still standing there, a meter from the doorway. His heavy face was more clear now. It had the same strength as the first time Winter had seen it. When he came with the news of their daughter’s death. That strength had remained in his face, under his grief.

“What are they doing here, Elisabeth?” Ney waved toward Winter. “I didn’t know that they were going to come back.”

“Your wife didn’t know either,” Winter said, standing up. “We’re only here for a short visit.”

“Why?”

“Couldn’t you sit down for a bit?”

“Why hasn’t anyone turned on the lights in here?” Ney asked.

“We forgot to,” Ringmar said.

“The twilight comes quickly,” Winter said.

“Twi—what kind of crap is this?” He took a few quick steps into the room. “Elisabeth? What have you all been talking about here?”

Winter noticed that she gave a start again. During the second when it happened, he tried to figure out whether it was because of her shock, her despair, her fear of everything. Or whether it was because of her husband.

It was hard to tell. But she is afraid. Bertil sees it, too, but barely, he thought. We should probably turn on the lights in here before we run into each other.

“You have no right to force your way in here!”

“Your wife agreed to let us in,” Winter said.

“What does that mean?”

“That she agreed.”

“I’m going to fucking check on that.”

“We are also able to summon for interrogation,” Winter said. “To bring a person in for questioning. Judicial Procedure Code twenty-three, paragraph seven.”

“We know what we’re doing,” Ringmar said. “We don’t break in.”

Mario Ney didn’t say anything now.

“Could you turn on a light, Mario?” Winter asked, as gently as he could.

Ney turned his gaze in Winter’s direction. His eyes looked hard.

“Are you planning to stay for long? Should I start dinner?” He gave a laugh. “Should we start making the beds? Did you bring your sheets?”

“They’re here for Paula,” Elisabeth said.

It was like a foreign voice in there. Suddenly she sounded strong, clear.

She had left the window, had taken a few steps forward. The dusk had become red. At the moment, no one needed to turn on a light in the room. The light was everywhere.

Mario remained standing. He suddenly seemed to be at a loss.

“They’re trying to figure out what happened to Paula, Mario. They’re doing their job.” She looked at Winter and back at her husband again. “If this helps . . . coming here . . . then they can do it whenever they like.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He seemed to shrink, become a few centimeters shorter. “Whenever they like. In the middle of the night.”

“They wanted to know about Paula’s boyfriend,” Elisabeth said.

“What? What?”

He had given a start again. Winter couldn’t tell if it was from surprise. The red light was gone again, as quickly as it had come. Now it was truly dark inside.

“Apparently she had a boyfriend,” Elisabeth said.

Winter quickly walked around the sofa and turned on a floor
lamp with a large shade. The room lit up like a stage. He had thought of that a few times, that he was on a stage, when he was standing in a room asking questions of strangers and at the same time trying to study their faces, as though he would be able to learn everything about them in a few seconds. As though someone were observing them all, an audience. As though he would soon recite a line.

“We don’t know,” he said. “That’s why we’re asking.”

“But didn’t you have to get the idea from somewhere?” Mario asked.

His face was sharp and dark from the electric light.

“Should we sit down?” Winter said.

Mario looked at the furniture as though he were seeing it for the first time, and as though he were going to learn to sit for the first time.

He took a step and sank deep down into an easy chair and immediately sat up again.

“What is this . . . about Paula dating? When was this?”

“Had she been dating during those last few weeks?” Ringmar asked.

Oh God. Winter looked at Elisabeth, but she didn’t seem to react to what Ringmar had just said. The strength had left her again. She was sitting on the very edge of the sofa, as though she was going to stand up at any time.

“No,” Mario said.

“When was the last time Paula had a boyfriend?” Winter asked.

Mario didn’t answer. His wife didn’t hear. Winter heard sirens outside, an ambulance on its way here or there. A little while ago, he had considered calling one himself, when Elisabeth seemed to disappear far into herself, away from herself. He looked at her. She looked like she was on her way off again. Her husband looked at her. He didn’t answer Winter’s question.

Winter repeated it.

“I don’t know.”

“Try to think.”

“There’s no point.”

“Why not?”

“She didn’t date anyone.”

“Sorry?”

Mario looked at his wife. She didn’t hear, didn’t see.

“I never met any boyfriend,” Mario said. He seemed to have trouble pronouncing the word. “Never.”

“Never?”

“Aren’t you listening to me?” He looked straight at Winter. “Do I have to repeat it a thousand times?”

“Paula hasn’t ever introduced a boyfriend to you?” Winter asked.

Mario shook his head.

“Mario?”

“How many times do I have to say it?”

Winter looked at Ringmar, who raised an eyebrow. Elisabeth didn’t move on the edge of the sofa. The siren came back out there in the growing darkness, howling from the other direction this time. Winter again felt as though he were sitting on a stage. But he had no script. No one had written down what he should say. And what he said was important, perhaps crucial. What he asked. In that way, he wrote his own script, based on experience and emotion. Maybe it was sympathy.

“Did you talk about it?” Winter asked.

“I really don’t understand,” said Mario. “What do you mean by that?”

Winter looked at Elisabeth. He meant whether the parents had talked about it between themselves. He didn’t want to say it. He wanted them to say it.

“Did Paula want to talk about it?”

“No,” said Mario.

“Did you want to talk about it? You and your wife?”

“With whom? With her?”

“Yes.”

“No . . . we didn’t.”

“Why not?”

Mario looked at his wife. She didn’t seem to be listening. She couldn’t help him.

“She didn’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“Why, why, why . . . that was a lot of damn whys.”

“Paula was twenty-nine years old,” Winter said. “According to you she’d never dated anyone. She never wanted to talk about it. You never asked her about it. You never talked about it. Is that right?”

Mario nodded.

“But you and Elisabeth must have talked about it?”

“Yes . . . I guess we did.”

“Did you believe Paula? Did you believe her?”

“Why would she lie about it?”

Winter didn’t say anything.

“That’s not really something you lie about, is it? Isn’t it more the opposite?”

“What do you mean?” Winter asked.

“Don’t you get it? Why would she keep quiet if she had a boyfriend?” Mario looked at his wife. “We wouldn’t protest, would we? What do you say, Elisabeth? We wouldn’t have anything against it, would we?”

Elisabeth burst into tears. Winter couldn’t tell whether it was because of what her husband was saying or whether it was something that had been coming anyway. On the other hand, he could tell that she needed help now, professional help. He took a cell phone from the inner pocket of his jacket and called.

•   •   •

A siren howled from down on Vasaplatsen, a police car. Winter had come in, hung up his jacket, sat down in the dark and had time to sit twilight for one minute before he heard the siren, and then the phone ringing.

He couldn’t see the display in the dark. It could be anyone.

“Yes?”

“Hi, you.”

“Hi, Angela.”

The sound of the siren became louder, climbed up the buildings, came into the room.

“What is that noise in the background? Is there a fire?”

“An ambulance,” he answered.

“What are you doing?”

“Right now? I just got home. I hung up my jacket and was about to grab the bottle of whiskey.”

“You have to eat first,” Angela said.

“I bought a little rack of lamb at Saluhallen.”