Room No. 10 (41 page)

“Yes, so what? Paula wanted me to get a few things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Clothes. A skirt, I think. A blouse.”

“Why didn’t she do it herself?”

“I . . . she asked me. I don’t know. I did it.”

“What did you get the second time?”

“The second time?”

“Didn’t you understand the question, Mario?”

“Uh . . . yes. The second time . . . I don’t really remember . . . it was some more clothes, I think . . .”

“But Paula was gone then. What did she need those clothes for?”

“I must have been . . . I don’t know . . . I must have been confused.”

He looked Winter in the eye. His gaze didn’t waver. He looked as though he really was trying to think back.

“No,” he said, after a little while. “That’s not what it was. I just wanted to go back there to see if I . . . could find anything that could help me. Us. Help us find her.”

“What would that have been?”

“I don’t know. Anything. Something that could help us.”

“Did you find anything?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“No.”

“Were you looking for anything in particular?”

“No.”

“What was in your bag?”

“You mean the duffel?”

“Yes.”

“There was nothing in it.”

“Whose was it?”

“It was mine.”

“It wasn’t Paula’s?”

“It was mine, I said.”

“What did you have it for?”

“In case I found anything. If I was going to take anything with me.”

“What did you take with you, Mario?”

“I just said I didn’t take anything with me! I just said it!”

“We asked one of the painters. It looked like there was something in that bag.”

“What does he know? Who? He couldn’t tell. He was standing on a ladder up by the ceiling.”

“Was the bag closed?”

“I don’t even remember. Probably not.”

“Why not?”

“It doesn’t close, not all the way. The zipper is broken.”

“You took a bag with a broken zipper with you?”

“I just took it. I hardly knew what I was doing. What does it matter if the zipper is broken or not? What the hell does it have to do with this?”

“Why didn’t you tell us that you were in Paula’s apartment those times?”

“Why would I? It’s not important, is it?”

•   •   •

“Is it important?” Birgersson asked.

For once he was sitting behind his desk. A toothpick was sticking out of his mouth. That was a bad sign. It would likely be exchanged for a cigarette soon.

“He was keeping it to himself.”

“It might actually be like he says,” said Birgersson.

“I’m inclined to agree,” said Winter.

“Inclined? That’s a funny word. You don’t hear it so often. Do you know what it means, exactly?”

“No, not exactly,” Winter said.

“Then I guess we’ll have to find out,” said Birgersson, getting up.

“Is that necessary?” Winter asked.

“I think better when I’m focused on looking for answers to questions,” Birgersson answered, walking over to the narrow bookcase, on which stood about thirty volumes. He took down one of them.

“Let’s see,” he said, flipping through the pages.

“This is the second time this has happened to me,” Winter said.

Birgersson looked up with a questioning glance.

“Fifteen years ago or so. At Christer Börge’s house.”

“Christer Börge? The missing wife?”

“He looked up a word in the Swedish Academy’s list, too.”

“Well, there you go.”

“Strange,” Winter said.

“Maybe it’s more common than you think,” Birgersson said, and he kept flipping pages.

“Wonder if he’s still alive,” said Winter.

N
o explanation,” Birgersson said. He closed the book, placed it on the bookcase, walked back, sat down in his chair again, and nodded at Winter. “That’s how it goes sometimes.”

“That’s how it went then,” Winter said.

“Sorry?”

“There was no explanation.”

“For what?”

“I don’t remember what word it was,” Winter asked. “Give me a minute.”

“I’m not thinking of the word,” said Birgersson.

“I can’t stop thinking about that case, Sture. Or whatever I should call it. Ellen’s disappearance.”

“You’ll probably have to live with it for the rest of your career,” said Birgersson.

Winter didn’t answer.

“Career,” Birgersson repeated, and he picked up a new toothpick, looked at it, stuck it in his mouth, looked over the table at Winter. “Next fall I’ll be rid of mine.”

“Congratulations are in order,” said Winter.

“Yes, aren’t they?”

Birgersson leaned over the photographs they had placed out on the desk. There were more of them on a bench along the long side of the room.

They depicted mother and daughter.

Birgersson had placed the two faces alongside each other. It was approximately the same angle, lighting, distance. The same silence. In their own way, the same faces.

Birgersson looked at them in silence.

“Who does she look most like, Erik?” he said at last, looking up. “Of her parents?”

“I don’t actually know, Sture.”

“Her mom? Her dad? I don’t really see any resemblance here.”

“Why are you asking?”

“Just hit me that I’ve hardly seen any photos of this family.”

“There are hardly any,” said Winter.

“What does he want with . . . the white trophies?” Birgersson said, looking down at the pictures again, other pictures. “It’s as though he’s collecting something. But he . . . leaves it there.”

“It’s got something to do with ownership,” Winter said.

“He had the right to them? The hand? The finger?”

Winter nodded.

“Is that how you see it?”

“He felt that he had the right to everything that was them,” said Winter. “He could take what he wanted. And leave what he wanted.” Winter nodded toward the photographs. “Do what he wanted.”

“The plaster hand, then?”

“A confirmation,” said Winter.

“Confirmation of what?”

“Of what I just said.”

•   •   •

Nina Lorrinder had called Halders during the early afternoon. Halders looked at the clock as he picked up the receiver: two thirty, and outside the darkness was coming. In two hours he would drive Hannes to bandy practice. The kid had chosen the calmer bandy rather than the more aggressive ice hockey. Halders had played hockey. Hannes took after Margareta, Halders had thought when Hannes told him what he wanted to do this fall. That’s good.

“Homicide unit. Halders.”

“Yes . . . hi. It’s Nina Lorrinder.”

“Hi, Nina.”

“Yes . . . there’s something . . .”

Halders sat up straighter in his chair and reached for a pen.

“Tell me, Nina.”

“I don’t know how to say this . . . but when I walked by the building where Paula lived. Well, you know that I live a little farther away. I was on my way to the streetcar stop. And then I saw someone standing in among . . . the bushes below the building. It’s right across the square. There’s a playground there.”

“I know what it looks like, Nina. Who did you see?”

“I don’t know if it means anything. Maybe it was dumb to call. But it was . . . him. It was starting to get dark but there’s a streetlight right above there and he turned his head as I walked by and I saw that it was him.”

“Him? Who was it?”

“The guy Paula met at Friskis.”

“Are you completely sure that it was him?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing?”

“He was just standing there. It looked like he was looking up at the building. At the window, up a ways.”

“Then he turned his head, you said?”

“Yes. It was probably because he heard me. As I was walking on the path behind there.”

“Did he see you?”

“Yes . . . he might have. But I don’t think he recognized me. It was pretty dark . . . and it was raining a little. I had a hood.” Halders heard her swallow. It was audible. “And then he turned his head again.”

“When did this happen?” Halders asked.

“The day before yesterday. About four thirty.”

“Why didn’t you call right away?”

“I . . . I don’t know. At first I was sure it was him. And then . . . I don’t know.”

“Were you afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Afraid of what?”

“That he saw me.” Halders heard her breathing. “That he would . . . I don’t know . . .”

“Even more reason to call me right away. If you thought he would try to find you.”

“Yes . . . I know.”

“Have you seen him other times?”

“No . . .”

“You’re hesitating, Nina.”

“I’ve . . . felt like I’ve been . . . I don’t know . . . being stalked recently.”

“Stalked?”

“Yes . . .”

“Have you seen anyone?”

“No . . .”

“What do you mean, then?”

“I . . . how should I put it . . . it’s like someone is following me. Or spying on me. Watching me. Is that just silly of me? Maybe it’s nothing at all.”

“And you haven’t seen anyone?”

“No . . . not exactly. I’ve thought that I caught a glimpse of someone outside the window. Someone . . . who was standing out there. But I’m not sure. And one time the phone rang but no one said anything. But the line was open. And there was a siren from an ambulance outside, or maybe a police car; I heard it in . . . the room, and I also heard it on the phone. It seemed to be the same sound . . . at the same time. And it was really close by.”

“Why didn’t you say something about this earlier, Nina?”

She didn’t answer.

“Nina?”

“Is it . . . could it be dangerous? For me?”

“Is there anyone you could get hold of?” Halders asked. “A friend, or family? Whose house you could go to?”

“I guess I can . . . call someone.”

“Do it.”

“Do you mean now?”

“Yes.”

Halders heard the fear in her voice. He didn’t want to scare her. But he took her fear seriously.

“Nina . . . are you completely sure that you haven’t seen him any other times? The guy Paula met, I mean.”

“I . . . think so.”

“Not in town? Anywhere?”

“No.”

“At Friskis & Svettis?”

“I don’t go there anymore. Not since it happened.”

“What happened after you passed him that time? When you saw him?”

“Nothing . . .”

“Did you turn around? Was he still standing there?”

“I turned around a bit farther on. But I didn’t see anything then. The bushes were in the way.”

“And then you took the streetcar?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve never seen him before in that neighborhood? Near where Paula lived?”

“No.”

“Okay, Nina. Thanks for calling.”

“What . . . happens now?” she asked.

“We’ll have to have a little talk with him,” Halders answered.

•   •   •

No one opened up when they rang at Jonas Sandler’s door. No one had answered the telephone that was somewhere inside. No one answered Jonas’s cell phone. Halders tried again.

There was a small, handwritten sign on the door: No ads, please.

“No Jonas, thank you very much,” said Halders.

“He’s probably out taking a walk,” said Winter.

“Sure that’s what he’s doing,” said Halders, putting his cell phone into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. “Walking and stalking.”

“It’s too bad when people are unemployed,” said Winter, ringing
the doorbell again. “You can’t get hold of them at work when they’re not home.”

Halders laughed.

“A case for the Social Democrats,” he said.

“We’ll have to take it to the national police commissioner,” Winter said, and he turned around and looked down at the stairwell.

“Isn’t he a Social Democrat, too?” said Halders.

“Don’t you like Social Democrats, Fredrik?”

“If I got to know one for real, maybe I would like him, or her. No doubt there are female Social Democrats, too. No doubt there are also nice ones.”

“I’m a Social Democrat,” Winter said, starting to walk down the stairs.

“Are you joking?”

“Yes.”

“What are you, then?”

“A feminist.”

“Are you joking?”

“No.”

“I’m a feminist, too,” said Halders.

“I know, Fredrik.”

“It’s true. I’m not joking.”

“You’ve tried to hide it, but you can’t fool me,” said Winter.

“No one can fool you, can they?” said Halders.

They were standing outside the front door. It closed behind them with a creaking sound. The sound made Halders think of a Social Democratic politician who had to make decisions that didn’t necessarily help his own career.

“Jonas,” Winter answered. “He may have fooled me.”

•   •   •

“We’ll wait until tonight,” said Ringmar.

Winter nodded.

“He might be out roaming the streets,” Ringmar continued. “Sounding the alarm now . . . well . . .”

“He might have roamed a good bit of the way to hell at this point,” said Halders.

“If that’s the case, we have our man,” said Ringmar.

“Not necessarily,” said Winter.

•   •   •

Anne Sandler didn’t answer the phone. Winter had called the first time as they stood in the yard outside Jonas’s apartment. He had kept calling. She didn’t have an answering machine.

Winter passed the swings in the empty playground. He hadn’t yet seen any children there. It was as though that time was forever gone. The only children he knew who had sat on those swings were Jonas and the girl. But even that was uncertain. Anne Sandler could have been mistaken. Maybe that family never lived here, or at least not in her same stairwell. How was Jonas supposed to remember a girl from one month in a distant childhood? For many people, childhood was very far away. For many, it had never even existed. In his work, Winter had met many people who missed a childhood they’d never had, who were looking for it, desperately searching for it.

That could have horrible consequences.

Had Jonas had a childhood? Winter didn’t know. He had met the boy that was Jonas, but he didn’t know the other one. Had Paula had a childhood? He didn’t know that, either. Yesterday he had thought: This is about childhood, or what could have been childhood. Paula’s. Someone’s. Several people’s. Ellen Börge’s. Or Elisabeth’s, Mario’s. Ellen’s, he had thought again. I can’t get away from it. I-can’t-get-away-from-it. Why won’t she leave me alone?