Room No. 10 (46 page)

“Christer,” said Winter. “Christer Börge.”

Ney looked at Winter. Winter saw the answer in his black eyes.

“Paula was your daughter.”

Ney nodded slowly, in the same manner as before.

“Yes. Paula was mine.”

“You . . . and Elisabeth adopted her?”

Ney nodded again.

“Why?”

“Ellen . . . was weak. She was sick. She couldn’t manage.”

“Ellen disappeared,” said Winter. “Ellen has been gone. She’s been missing.”

Ney didn’t answer.

“When did you meet Ellen for the first time, Mario?”

“It was a long time ago. At the hotel. When I worked at the hotel.”

“Odin?”

“Yes.”

“Did she work there, too?”

“Yes.”

“Did you live with Elisabeth then?”

“No.”

“Did you know Elisabeth then?”

Ney didn’t answer.

Winter repeated the question.

“Yes, a little bit.”

“Were you together? Were you a couple?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you and Ellen become a couple?”

“She . . . didn’t want to,” said Mario. “She couldn’t manage it.”

“She lived with someone, too, right?”

“Yes.”

“Christer Börge.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t she leave him?”

“But . . . she did.”

“Much later. Long after Paula was born.”

Ney nodded.

“How well did you know Christer Börge?”

“Not . . . not at all.”

“Didn’t you ever meet him?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“At the hotel.”

“Odin?”

“Yes, there, too.”

“What do you mean, Mario?”

“You’re asking about the hotel. Which hotel do you mean this time?”

“Did you meet him at more than one hotel?”

“Yes.”

“Did he work at Revy?”

“Well, he was there when I picked things up a few times, anyway. They shared things. Odin and Revy.”

“Why was Börge there?”

“Why? He worked there, I think.”

“Doing what?”

“It was probably some sort of janitor thing. I don’t really know.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that earlier?”

“No one asked. And why would I say anything about it?” He looked at Winter. “I didn’t even remember it until you started asking.”

“And you also saw him at the other hotel?”

“Odin? Just for a short time. A few weeks.”

“Did Christer Börge work there, too?”

“Yes.”

“As what?”

“I . . . don’t really remember that, either. Janitor. I don’t know.”

That can wait, Winter thought. But something else can’t wait.

“Why didn’t the two of you tell us that Paula was adopted?” Winter asked. “Why didn’t you ever tell us?”

“It didn’t seem . . . necessary,” Ney said. His voice had lost its
strength again. “It . . . didn’t matter then. The only thing that mattered was that she was . . . gone. That she was dead. Nothing could change that.” He looked up. “We didn’t have the strength.”

“But we haven’t found anything about adoption,” said Winter. “There’s no information about it. No documents. No papers.”

“There . . . aren’t any papers,” said Ney.

“What?”

“There are no documents,” said Ney.

“Why aren’t there any documents?” Winter asked.

“We . . . they . . . switched . . . identities.” Ney looked up. His eyes were clearer now, as though revealing this lifelong lie drew the veil away from his eyes. He was on his way to confessing a lifelong lie. Maybe it was the end of the whole story.

“Elisabeth became . . . Ellen. Officially. At least when it came to . . . the authorities. As though she had given birth to Paula. And I became Paula’s father. Which of course . . . I was.”

“Christer Börge, then? What did he become?”

“He didn’t know.”

“He didn’t know?”

Winter had raised his voice more than he thought.

“Ellen left him,” said Ney, “it was during those . . . months. But it was a longer time than that. It was more than a year. And she had the baby . . .”

“And moved back?”

Ney nodded.

“She never said anything to Börge?”

“No.”

“And she continued to live with him?”

“Yes . . .”

“Up until she left him for good?”

“Yes . . .”

“This isn’t possible,” said Winter. “This can’t be possible.”

“That’s how it was,” said Ney.

“Why did Ellen disappear?”

“She wanted to get . . . away from him,” said Ney. “She was afraid.”

“Why didn’t she just move? Leave her husband? More . . . officially?”

“She was . . . afraid,” Ney repeated.

“Where did she go?”

“A few different places.”

“Where?”

“Italy.”

“Italy?”

“My old . . . neighborhood. Sicily. Outside Caltanissetta. It’s in the mountains. South of Palermo.”

That sounded logical. That’s why they’d been so secretive about Mario’s background. Sicily. Anyone could hide for as long as she wanted in a Sicilian mountain village.

“Did Paula know?”

“Know what?” Ney asked.

“About Ellen. That Ellen was her mother?”

“No . . .”

Winter waited for him to continue. He saw in Ney’s eyes that there was more.

“Not at first. That came . . . later.” Ney suddenly leaned over the table, as though a severe pain in his chest had increased. “We . . . told her later.”

“How did she react?”

Ney didn’t answer.

“When she took her long trip, did she go to Ellen? To her mother? Did she know that she was visiting her mother?”

Ney nodded.

“And then they continued to keep in touch?”

“When it was possible.”

“Why wouldn’t it be possible?”

“They were both . . . afraid.”

“Afraid? Of whom?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do know, Mario.”

“No.” He looked up. “I didn’t understand.”

“Do you understand now?”

“Yes.”

“Who were they afraid of?”

“Christer Börge,” said Ney.

“Did he know about their existence? Did he know about Paula? Did he know where Ellen was?”

“I don’t actually know,” said Ney.

“Didn’t they say anything to you?”

“No.”

“Maybe you were the one they were afraid of?”

“No.”

“They were trying to escape you, Mario.”

“No,” he said, lifting his head again and looking Winter in the eye. Winter couldn’t decipher what was in there. It was impossible. It was the most difficult thing he’d encountered.

“When did you last see Ellen?” Winter asked.

“It was . . . probably a couple of years ago.”

“Where did you see her?”

“At home.”

“Where is home?”

“In Sicily.”

“Why did Ellen and Paula live together when the girl was ten years old?”

Ney seemed to give a start at the sudden change in the interrogation.

“It was Ellen. She just wanted to live . . . with the girl for a little bit.”

“Did she tell her then that she was her mother?”

“No. Not that I know of. For Paula, at that time, Ellen was a friend of the family.”

Winter thought. According to Jonas, the eleven-year-old Paula had
said that Ellen wasn’t her real mother. It could be like she said. Ellen wasn’t her real mother, because Elisabeth was her real mother. That was her world and her life. There weren’t yet any lifelong lies in her life back then.

But Winter still couldn’t understand the silence, and he couldn’t accept it. These were some of the deepest secrets he had ever encountered in people he’d met in his job. A large part of his work was people’s secrets. From him. From each other. They ran deep.

There was something more behind all of this, something Ney didn’t want to talk about.

Ellen had left everything. Just left. That’s what it looked like, anyway. She had gone underground many years ago. Good God. As Winter thought that thought, he realized what he was thinking.

“Why did Ellen leave everything?” Winter asked.

“I’ve never completely understood that,” said Ney. “You’ll have to ask her yourself.”

T
he November sky was crying as though all hope for the world were gone. The wind tore at the windows as though it wanted to break into the police station. The October storms had come a month too late. Winter felt the wind through the pane, as though it were flowing through the glass.

“The Älvsborg bridge is closed to traffic,” Ringmar said behind him.

“No one in his right mind would drive on it anyway,” said Halders.

Winter turned around.

“Watch out over there,” said Halders. “The glass could give out.”

“Then we’d be in the middle of a disaster movie,” said Bergenhem.

“Maybe we’re the stars,” said Halders. “Maybe we have the lead roles.”

“There can only be one lead,” said Bergenhem.

“Then I’m the one we’re talking about here,” said Halders.

Winter walked over to the oblong table and sat at the narrower end. He could feel the wind even there. It had taken over the ventilation system. Ringmar’s tie was moving. The knot of Ringmar’s tie was loose, almost undone. Winter wasn’t wearing a tie. It had recently begun to chafe at his neck. He couldn’t breathe. Maybe he would never wear a tie again.

Ringmar cleared his throat. It wasn’t only because he wanted to have the floor and get back to their discussion. The violent change of weather had brought with it the first cold of the autumn. He hoped that it would be the only one.

“What are we going to do with this?” he said.

“The man doesn’t seem to be a marvel of reliability,” said Halders.

They had been discussing Mario Ney for half an hour. Everything he had revealed to Winter. If “revealed” was the correct word.

“If he has a motive, he’s hiding it well,” said Bergenhem.

“Isn’t that always how it goes?” said Djanali.

“Isn’t that the whole point for a murderer, after a crime?” said Halders. “To keep the motive secret?”

“The motive and the crime itself,” said Bergenhem.

“If there is a motive,” said Winter.

“So he’s mentally ill?” said Halders.

“He isn’t well,” said Winter, with a dry smile, “and he hasn’t been for a very long time.”

“He’s a hell of a lot better than his daughter and his wives,” said Halders.

“Is that what you’re calling them? His wives?” said Djanali.

“I don’t know what I should call them,” said Halders.

“There’s one thing we can be sure of,” said Ringmar. “It’s still possible to cheat the system.”

“There are starting to be too many people in this country,” said Halders.

“You don’t mean that,” said Djanali.

“I was only speaking from a purely surveillance-based standpoint,” said Halders.

“You mean Big Brother is starting to lose his grip?” Bergenhem asked.

“It’s been almost a generation since Paula was born,” said Winter. “A lot has happened since then in the authorities’ version of Sweden.”

“There’s always a way to cheat the system for someone who wants to,” said Ringmar, “the social system, the financial system.”

“Yes, if the guy’s story is true,” said Halders, “but there’s starting to be a shortage of people who can verify it.”

“So what should we do?” said Djanali.

“Question him again, naturally,” said Halders. “Detain him for another six hours. He could be under suspicion for a crime, couldn’t he?
He has no alibi whatsoever. He’s part of the family. That’s all. And the fairy tale he told Erik makes him even more of a suspect, in my book.”

The room became quiet. Winter could hear the winds tearing at the window. In two weeks, the plane to Málaga would take off. He would be sitting on it, whatever happened. Halders was in the process of taking over. They did have cell phones and all that. But he wouldn’t be all the way on that plane, and, accordingly, it would be wrong to go. He wouldn’t be there. It would be a halfhearted trip in the sunshine. No. Yes. No. The children would be there, and Angela. His family. The world would keep on turning, and so on. There would be hope. He would have his children around him. There would be a sea, a horizon, a sunset, a dawn, and a dusk. Everything in between.

That was enough for him.

His cell phone rang. Everyone had been so engrossed in thought that they all appeared to jump when the ringtone sounded in the room. It drowned out the roar of nature outside.

Winter listened, asked a few questions, hung up.

“She was hanged,” he said. “Ellen.”

“When?”

It was Ringmar who asked.

“No later than two weeks ago,” Winter asked.

“She was well preserved,” said Halders. “It was good dirt.”

“We still don’t know where it happened,” said Ringmar.

“And how he transported her there,” said Halders.

“While no one was watching,” said Ringmar.

“What’s the latest from the door-to-doors?” Ringmar asked, turning to Bergenhem.

“No one has seen anything. Of the people we’ve talked to so far. Or heard anything.”

“How many were unavailable?”

“Six addresses, last I heard from the guys.”

“And when was that?” Winter asked.

“Two hours ago.”

“Get us a list of the unavailable,” he said.

Bergenhem nodded.

The unavailable. It sounded like the name of a movie, Bergenhem thought. A thriller. A disaster movie.

“I’m going to have another conversation with Jonas,” said Winter, standing up.

“Is he still here?” Halders asked.

“Yes,” Ringmar answered. “He wanted to stay.”

“Why?”

“He said he was afraid.”

•   •   •

Jonas Sandler was sitting on the bed. It looked as though he had tried to make it up. One of the two pillows was on the floor. Winter could hear the wind outside the windows in this part of the building, too. Through the streaked glass he could see Gamla Ullevi. No one was playing soccer there this afternoon. The grass was oddly green, as though it had been painted, and with a very wide brush. He could see across the river to the other side, to the big island. Hisingen was swept in dark clouds. Beyond them was only darkness. Behind the darkness, the sun was about to go down, but no one could see it. It was only something you hoped, that the sun was still there.