Room No. 10 (43 page)

•   •   •

A patrol car had been directed to the grove of trees after Winter had called. He had called while he was still in there, in the dark, and he’d waited for the car to come before he drove to the police station with Sandler in the seat next to him.

Winter and Ringmar arrived one minute after their colleagues in forensics.

One of them was a veteran.

“I can’t believe it’s true,” he said as Winter got out of the car and walked toward them. “The same yard and the same grove.”

“You have a good memory, Lars.”

“Sometimes it’s a burden.”

“History always repeats itself,” said Winter.

“If that’s the case, then we won’t find anything this time either.”

“If that’s the case, I apologize,” Winter said.

“You didn’t last time.”

“Shall we begin?” Winter said, starting to walk toward the familiar trees and bushes. Soon I’ll recognize them as though I grew up here myself. Those swings are mine. The only thing that’s gone is the merry-go-round. There had been a merry-go-round in the middle of the playground when he was here the first time. It was gone now, for safety reasons. Children might injure themselves, be dragged along by scarves that got stuck; they could trip and fall under the merry-go-round.

The swings swung in the never-ending wind. It must always blow from the same direction here, coming in from the northwest between the two buildings that leaned above the playground and shaded the grove of trees.

They were standing in the middle of it now.

The two forensics technicians began to set up spotlights. They wouldn’t do much more this evening. Get an idea of the place. Put up a tent over everything. Come back early tomorrow morning. That was the routine. In the dark, they might destroy more than they found. Digging in the dirt was a sensitive archaeological task. At times, Torsten Öberg and his technicians had even worked with archaeologists from the university, right at the site of evidence. Forensic technicians and archaeologists had the same job: digging for the past. Digging for death. And Winter could stand beside the pit and be part of the whole thing. He was an archaeologist of crime, too. He dug in his own way.

Lars Östensson tested one of the spotlights and the small area exploded in a white light that made it more naked than ever. So this is what it looks like, Winter thought.

“Where is it?” the veteran asked.

Winter pointed toward the hollow in the leaves. In the powerful light, Winter could see that it was deeper than he thought. Sandler
must have been here longer than he knew. Or be stronger than he thought.

“What are we looking for?”

“I don’t know,” Winter answered.

“Last time we were here it was a hand some kid had seen.”

“You remember that?”

“How could I forget? After that girl was murdered. I’d probably forgotten, but it reminded me.”

Östensson had been the one to take in the plaster hand. He would never forget it.

“Are we looking for something big or something small?” he asked.

Winter threw out his arms. It was also a motion toward the place on the ground. Search. Find. It might be everything or nothing.

“I can’t wait until tomorrow,” he said.

“We’ll do more harm than good now, Erik. You know that.”

“I want to bring the dog here.”

•   •   •

The Gothenburg police had a crime-scene search dog. They called it the corpse dog, not a very nice name. Its actual name was Roy. It was trained to sense the odor of a cadaver.

Now it was standing on the playground, its tongue visible through its sharp teeth. The dog’s eyes shone in the spotlight. Or the moonlight. It was bright tonight.

The spotlights shone above the grove of trees and the black earth it stood on. The earth became even blacker in the light, as though it had already become a deep hole. Winter thought of when he had stood here with his flashlight so many years ago. The boy’s white face next to him. The dog’s heavy breathing, and the bark that had suddenly exploded, stronger than any spotlight.

The dog’s keeper’s name was Bergurson; he was Icelandic. He spoke with Roy in a language that sounded ancient.

They were on their way to the grove now. The dog looked like
a wolf. Winter could see the breath of the men who were standing around.

The place seemed less illuminated now, as though a cloud had sailed in front of the spotlights. Winter saw the dog. It was the first time for Winter. He heard the dog.

A long time seemed to pass.

Winter closed his eyes. He wasn’t tired. It was as though he would never be tired again.

“There’s something in the earth here,” said Bergurson.

•   •   •

They made their way down through the topmost layer of leaves, which had stiffened into a brittle hood. Dawn came with a mild light. Four technicians were working inside the grove, under Östensson’s leadership. Winter was there, too. The technicians had divided the surface of the ground into a pattern of squares. They would work their way through the layers section by section with trowels that looked like regular gardening trowels. They would sift all the dirt, look at it. They would try to get closer to what Roy sensed in the air. It might take a long time, or a short time.

“It’s almost like I recognize this dirt,” Östensson said, scooping away a layer. His closest colleague was named Arnberg, a younger man. He got up and adjusted one of the spotlights. The light of dawn was still like half night. “How deep do we have to go?” Östensson mumbled to himself.

Winter walked out of the grove, passed the playground, went in through the front door, and rang at Anne Sandler’s door. He knew it would be in vain. The windows had been black. She was probably still down at the police station, with her son. He rang at the door anyway. No one else opened it, and no other door was opened.

He walked back down the stairs. His cell phone rang as he was standing in the yard.

“Yes?”

“Mario Ney had a position at Hotel Odin a hundred years ago,” came Halders’s voice. It sounded thin and metallic, as though the
reception were coming only halfway through because it was only halfway morning.

“Has he confirmed that?” Winter asked.

“Hell no. He doesn’t know anything.”

“Where is he?”

“Don’t know. Should I call Molina and ask what he says now?”

Until now, the public prosecutor hadn’t found reason to detain Mario Ney. Winter hadn’t seen a reason to either, nor had Halders. The conversation with Molina had been routine.

“Who substantiated it?” Winter asked.

“An old housekeeper. I think that’s what it’s called. She recognized him.”

“His name?”

“No. His picture. Bergenhem was the one who talked to her. I’ve praised Bergenhem.”

“She recognized an old picture?”

“Ney’s face has held up well through the years,” said Halders.

“What did he do there? At the hotel?”

“He was an all-around man of action, as she put it.”

Winter continued to walk toward the grove as he spoke with Halders.

“Let’s figure this out when I come back,” he said.

“How’s it going out there?” Halders asked.

“Nothing so far.”

“Sandler doesn’t seem to be doing very well,” Halders said. “His mom is with him now.”

“Yes, I know. She’s not here.”

“Are you digging deep?”

Winter didn’t answer. Ringmar had stepped out of the grove. He signaled toward Winter. There was something in Ringmar’s eyes.

A
bird screeched. It was the same screech as always. Winter looked up and saw the bird high in the sky, a black scribble against the gray. It must have been circling this grove of trees for eighteen years.

Ringmar waited at the edge. The odd look in his face remained. Winter knew what it was. Ringmar knew that he knew.

Winter followed his older colleague without a word. A small twig had become stuck in Ringmar’s hair. It almost looked like a piece of jewelry.

Östensson, the veteran, looked up from the pit as they stepped into the glade. Winter couldn’t see anything in there that he hadn’t seen before.

“We were waiting for you,” said Östensson, turning his head toward the pit.

Winter nodded.

Pia Eriksson Fröberg, the medical examiner, raised her hand in greeting. She was standing at the ready next to the pit.

“There’s someone lying in the ground here,” said Östensson.

He reached forward and made a circle with one hand above part of the excavation. That was the word that came into Winter’s head. Excavation. And ground. There’s someone lying in the ground. It isn’t consecrated ground.

“I can feel a hand here,” said Östensson, holding his own hand a little above the ground.

“Let’s see what it is,” said Winter. He felt calm, almost cold, but not as though he were freezing. It was a different sort of chill. It was a confirmation. Something he had known all along. Like the boy had known. But it was something more than this pit, this grove of trees.
Nothing had lain here eighteen years ago. The vision the boy had had was because of something else. Maybe he didn’t know what. Maybe they would never find out.

The forensics technicians carefully began to scrape their way down into the square pattern, the layers of dirt.

Östensson didn’t need to dig deep.

The hand became visible.

“This here is going to take some time,” said Östensson.

Winter nodded. Suddenly he felt restless, as though he either had to start digging himself or leave the place.

He walked out of the grove and lit a Corps. The fog had begun to lift and the dampness seemed to rise along with the fog toward the treetops. It was like low clouds out there. Winter inhaled smoke and blew it out and watched the smoke rise with the clouds. Suddenly he heard voices, bright and high voices, and a few seconds later he saw two children come running to the other side of the playground, and each hopped up onto a swing and started swinging, pumping their legs vigorously.

It was a good sight. They were the first children he’d seen there. Somehow, in that moment, it made him very happy. He felt as though he would suddenly start laughing like a madman. He felt tears in his eyes. It could be the smoke from his cigar. He moved it away from his face and wiped his eyes with his arm. The children might be looking over at him; he couldn’t really see. For a few seconds, it was foggy around him.

It felt like he was going to start crying.

Now he could see better.

The children were still there. The bird was still there, up in the sky.

He stubbed out his cigar and went back into the grove.

There was more to see now. More of the hand. The technicians seemed to be working faster now.

Winter saw an arm.

A shoulder.

“A woman,” said Östensson in a low and steady voice. “Here comes her head.”

She wasn’t deep. The body had been carefully covered with leaves.
The autumn, too, had done its job. But Winter couldn’t tell how long she’d been lying here. No one could determine that just yet.

Her head became visible. Winter saw her hair, her cheek, part of her chin. A profile. It was a ghastly sight.

“She can’t have been lying here long,” he heard Östensson say in a calm, low voice. It seemed to calm everyone who was standing or kneeling at the grave. But this was no grave. It was everything but a grave. They called it a grave, but that was their police jargon. Routine.

Winter got down on his knees in order to see the face better. Her hair covered her forehead and part of her left cheek. Her hair was white in the spotlight; perhaps it had been blond while she lived. Winter wasn’t an expert, not like Östensson and his colleagues from forensics, but he could tell approximately how long someone had been dead. He had experience with that. The woman had not yet returned to dust; from the earth you were taken, and to dust you will return. Winter leaned closer. He was almost face-to-face with her. Her eyes were neither closed nor open. The lower part of her face lay in shadow from a tree, a bush, anything. Yet Winter could see her mouth, her chin, her throat. Suddenly he was freezing, as though a wind from the sea had stormed in among the trees. Several thoughts crowded into his head simultaneously. One of them said: This is also a confirmation.

“It’s Ellen Börge,” he said.

•   •   •

So he had found her. How could he recognize her? Her face. Ellen’s face. Almost a generation had gone by since she had disappeared and Winter had studied her face in a picture for the first time. It had stayed in his mind. He had returned to the photographs a few times through the years. It was as if Ellen’s face had been frozen by time and by dirt. Her features had been smoothed by death, and her face had taken on a younger appearance. That wasn’t unusual. Death could lead to an effective face-lift. Winter had heard forensics techs joke about it. But he didn’t feel like joking now. He was standing before Ellen. She was no longer lying in the ground. The light was different here in the morgue, still electric but bluer, even colder. She still looked young; her
face looked even more naked in this light. She was missing the middle toe on her right foot. He didn’t know when she’d lost it. An accident, Christer Börge had said. Winter had recently read that he’d said it. He hadn’t talked to Börge but he would do that soon. He heard someone come in through the door, and he turned his head. It was Halders. He walked up to the table, stood beside Winter, looked at the woman.

“I went through the video again,” he finally said, without taking his eyes from the woman’s face. He looked only at her face.

“Yes?”

“The woman at Central Station looks a little older,” Halders continued, “but sunglasses can’t hide everything.” He nodded slightly at the face below them. “Not when we can make a comparison.”

Winter nodded.

“You don’t seem surprised.”

Winter didn’t answer. He closed his eyes and saw a photograph before him.

“You’ve never let go of the Ellen Börge case,” Halders said. “And you were right not to.”

“I had let it go,” said Winter.

“In that case, it never let you go,” said Halders. “Or us.”