“Really?”
“Then you guys come nosing around all the time.”
“That’s because something else has happened.”
“Yes, I read about it. But I don’t under—”
He stopped when Halders held the picture of the boy in front of his nose. It was an enlargement of the graduation party photo.
“Do you recognize him?” Halders asked.
“No,” said Matthias after a short pause. “Who is he?”
“You mean you haven’t read about it?”
“No. Read? Read what?”
“This is a witness we’d like to get in touch with, but he’s disappeared.”
“You don’t say.”
“We’ve been told that he lives here.”
“Here?” said Mattias, looking around as if expecting to see the boy enter the room.
“In this area.”
“It’s a pretty big area. A hundred thousand. A hundred thousand idiots.” Halders spelled out the address.
“But that’s the other side of the Arts Center, isn’t it?”
A woman had answered the door on the top floor, the fourth.
“He lives on the next floor down, I think,” she’d said, when she’d looked at the photograph Winter had showed her. It was the same as the one Halders had just shown Mattias on the other side of the Arts Center.
“Do you recognize this face?”
“Yes . . . I think so. At least, I’ve passed somebody on the stairs who looks like him.”
They went down the stairs.
“I’ve seen him going in there.” There were three doors on this landing. She pointed at the middle one. “That one.”
The name plate said Svensson.
Winter pressed the bell, but couldn’t hear it ring. Nobody answered. He knocked, twice. The woman was still standing beside him.
“Thank you very much,” he said, turning toward her.
She looked disappointed.
“We might get in touch with you again if we need any more help,” Winter said.
“Well . . . OK, if you do . . . ,” she said, going back up the stairs and looking behind her.
Winter knocked on the door yet again, but nobody answered.
“Have you checked up on her old man yet?” Mattias asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you spoken to Jeanette about it?”
“Have you?”
“Don’t need to.”
Halders made no comment.
“Why don’t you nail him?” Mattias said.
“Tell me how we can do that.”
“Follow him.”
“You mean keep a watch on him and see what he’s up to?”
Winter was waiting outside. He thought he saw the man who hated darkies walk by and gape at him from the other side of the playground. It was too hot for children to be playing there. Every window in sight was open. Winter felt very thirsty, and checked his watch.
Halders approached from over the playground. He handed over a Coke with ice.
“McDonald’s,” he said, taking a swig from his own.
“You’ve saved my life,” said Winter, half emptying it in one gulp.
“Don’t exaggerate,” said Halders, looking up at the building. “Did you find it?”
“A woman thinks she’s seen him going into one of the apartments on the third floor.”
“Thinks?”
Winter shrugged.
“Is that enough for us to be able to go in on?” Halders asked. “You’re in charge of this jamboree.”
Winter took another drink.
“Yes,” he said.
“I like it,” said Halders. “Have you contacted the owner of the buildings?”
“Here he comes now,” said Winter, indicating the man walking toward them.
The apartment smelled stuffy. If only we could measure the age of air, lots of things would be very different, Winter thought: nobody’s been here since June 18. That’s when the windows were closed.
“Cozy,” said Halders, when they’d finished going through the apartment in their protective overshoes.
There was a stripped bed in one of the two rooms, the smaller one. A lonely looking little table and a sort of armchair in the bigger room. In the kitchen were a larger table and two wooden chairs. That was all. No decorations, no flowers, no pictures, nothing to suggest any character. No curtains, just venetian blinds, closed.
There was nothing at all in the bathroom. No toothpaste, no toothbrush, no bottle of shampoo.
“You can’t take it with you when you go,” said Halders, looking around again. His voice echoed around the bare rooms. Winter could see the beads of sweat on his brow.
“We’d better start looking for Mr. Svensson,” Winter said.
Halders laughed ironically. “I know a sixth-hand apartment when I see one.”
“Even so, there must be a first-hand lease,” said Winter. “The beginning of the chain.”
On the way out Winter went up to the next floor and knocked on the helpful woman’s door. She seemed pleasantly surprised when she answered.
He showed her another photograph. She nodded, several times.
“I’m quite sure,” she said.
“The girl has been here,” said Winter, as they walked through the playground to the car. “Angelika Hansson. The neighbor saw her with our man.”
“An observant neighbor.”
“Indeed.”
“Some people see more than you would expect them to,” said Halders.
“I think she’s reliable.”
“So the girl has been here.”
They had come to Winter’s car. The paintwork was hotter than hell. “He was in the photograph taken at her graduation party. They knew each other.”
“But her parents didn’t recognize him.”
“There can be lots of explanations for that.”
“At this stage? When we’re looking for whoever killed their daughter?”
“Strange things happen to people,” said Winter, touching the paintwork again. “How much is it possible to explain? Explain properly?”
“Let’s get out of here,” said Halders. “I’m coming with you. I’ll get my car later.”
They drove through the tunnel, past Långedrag. There was a lot of traffic heading for the seaside.
“I’m selling my apartment,” Halders said. “It’s going to be the house for me from now on.”
Winter’s mobile rang in its holder on the dashboard. He listened, said, “Thank you,” and hung up.
“There is a Svensson on the lease, but he doesn’t actually live there.”
“Who does live there? Actually.”
“Watch this space,” said Winter. “Sara’s looking for the next link in the chain.”
“Who might lead us to the third?”
“We might come across a name we recognize.”
They came to the roundabout next to the park.
“Let’s take a look,” said Halders.
Winter parked a hundred meters away. They walked over the grass. There was a slight whiff of damp from the pond. Lots of people were standing in it, up to their thighs in water. Others were in the shade of the trees. No cooler, but at least they were protected from the sun. A little line of parents with children snaked back from the ice cream van.
The police tape had been taken down. It seems so long ago, Winter thought. Another age.
“You can almost see as far as the place where the Nöjd girl was killed,” said Halders.
Winter looked. It was hidden by trees, but that was the place all right. You could walk over the grass to it, if you wanted to.
“Nothing new from the eggheads playing with the tape?” Halders asked.
Winter shook his head, and looked at the hollow, the clump of trees, and the bushes. It looked cold, it was so dark in there. Another world.
“One of these days we’ll see him come over the grass and stand in front of that damn rock,” Halders said.
Winter said nothing.
“Then he’ll take out the leash and look for the dog he doesn’t have.”
Winter closed his eyes. Halders didn’t speak. Winter could hear faint sounds from the pond, as if somebody was treading water. A faint noise, but a sign of life. He opened his eyes again and looked at the hollow and the surrounding trees. It was a dead spot, would always be dead. Grass shouldn’t grow there. No leaves on the trees. Nothing but rocks, darkness. He could hear the voice on the answering machine in his mind, the grunting, the drowning out of the faint sounds of life coming from all around him. It would be there to the very end.
27
WINTER DROVE TOWARD THE TOWN CENTER. THE EXHAUST FUMES
that had built up in the tunnel irritated his nose. Halders started coughing.
Halders had taken his CD with him and put it into Winter’s player.
“Modern country,” Halders said. “Julie Miller.”
“Sad stuff,” said Winter. “ ‘Out in the Rain,’ isn’t it?”
“Cools you down,” said Halders.
They circled yet another roundabout.
What did the boy who’d disappeared know? Did he know anything about why and how? Who was he? Had
he
been strangled, the same as Angelika Hansson and Anne Nöjd? And Beatrice Wägner. Don’t forget Beatrice.
Don’t forget Jeanette Bielke either. Nor her father.
Nor her mother.
“What impression have you gotten of Jeanette’s mother?” Winter asked. Halders coughed again.
“Not much,” he said, after yet another coughing fit. “She’s sort of a shadow.” He cleared his throat, opened the window, and spat into the slipstream. “She’s kept out of the way whenever I’ve been there.”
They stopped at a red light outside the Opera House. Sails were slack on boats in the marina. Bronzed bodies in bathing suits sat in the sidewalk cafés. Everything was blue, white, yellow, brown, brick red.
“There’s an awful lot of innuendo in this case,” Winter said.
“You can say that again,” said Halders.
“It’s time we dug more deeply into that.”
“Unless it’s just sidetracks.”
“Sidetracks are there to be followed until you come to the dead end.”
Halders didn’t respond. He was watching two families crossing the street in front of them. Two men about thirty, each pushing a baby carriage. “You can say that about most things in this life,” he said, when they moved off again.
“What, exactly?”
“Well . . . most things are really sidetracks that are there for you to follow, and they nearly always lead to a dead end.”
Winter didn’t respond. The death of Margareta hadn’t changed Halders’s philosophy of life.
At the same time, it summed up their work. Sidetracks. Dead ends. Sidetracks. Dead ends. In the end there would be no more dead ends left, but if they worked hard and had a bit of luck, there would be one last track, and they’d follow it, and this one wouldn’t lead to a dead end. That was where they were heading, all the time. That was their job. Follow tracks as far as hell, where they might find some answers. Not answers to everything. You never find that, he thought. Seldom explanations. There aren’t too many explanations for people’s secrets. Who has ever had life explained to them? There is no ultimate summary of life. Life simply comes to an end, just like that, much too early for some; it simply stopped, like a sun suddenly falling out of the heavens.
Yngvesson was working in his sound studio when Winter arrived. The studio was a little room inside another little room. There was a jagged line dancing on one of the computer screens, like a heartbeat.
“Not pleasant listening,” said Yngvesson, turning to face Winter.
“What can you hear?”
“Well, the particular sound made by a noose being tightened around somebody’s neck, for one thing.”
“What did she say before that happened?”
Yngvesson swung around to face the control console, which, like the room itself, was surprisingly small.
“It’s mainly a struggle. Moaning. No specific cries for help.”
“A struggle? Is there any doubt in the attacker’s mind about how it’ll end, do you think?”
“What do you think yourself, from what you’ve heard so far?”
“No.”
“No,” repeated Yngvesson. “But in cases of rape there’s often a moment when the victim sees an opportunity of escaping. Of breaking free. Lots of victims have talked about that, afterward. It’s as if there’s a sort of . . . gap in the struggle, or the assault, when the attacker hesitates, or seems to hesitate.”
“Apologizes?”
“No. That comes later,” said Yngvesson. “If at all.”
“What do you hear in this case?”
“I don’t hear any doubt,” Yngvesson said. “No doubt at all.”
It was silent in the studio. Winter could hear nothing from the world outside.
“I’m wondering if she knew him,” Winter said.
“How do you mean?”
“If there’s any way you can hear that she recognized him. Knew him.”
“That I can’t say,” said Yngvesson. “Not yet at least.” He looked at Winter again. “You’ll have to rely on your detective work for that. And the clever way in which you phrase the questions you put to those who knew her.”
“Yes, OK.”
“What I can tell you, though, is that he says something to her,” Yngvesson said.
“Can you figure out what he says?”
“If I can filter it out from the sound image when it’s at its clearest.”
“When’s that?”
“When they’re close to her bag. That’s when the sound is best.”
“So he definitely says something to her?”
“Or to himself. Do you want to hear?”
Winter nodded, and sat down on the chair next to the biggest computer.
The voice came over the loudspeaker. This isn’t heavy metal, Winter thought. This is the real thing.
“NNAAAAIEIEIEYRRRRYY!”
“RREIEIYYYY!!”
Winter looked at Yngvesson. His profile was sharp, calm, professional. God only knows what he was thinking.
“He might be saying her name,” said Yngvesson, without turning his head. “She was named Anne. ‘
AAAIEIEIE
’ . . . that could be her name.”