Death Angels (40 page)

“It’s like you’re pleading with me,” Ringmar said.

“Just say it.”

“He’s your man.”

“More, say more.”

“You’re his boss.”

“I want to hear it all.”

“Pull yourself together.”

Winter looked south over the meadow. They had cordoned it off from the road. The ruts were fresh, but lots of people had driven down to the water in the past few days. Fishermen, boat owners, lovers. “There’s nothing more for us to do here,” he said, down on one knee next to the rocks.

“His neck was bleeding,” Ringmar said.

“Suffocation. Ask the doctors and they’ll tell you someone tried to choke him.”

The forensic team was at work all around them.

“You’re right, we can’t do anything more here,” Ringmar said.

Winter stared at the rocks. He wasn’t sure how old Bergenhem was. Twenty-six? Martina was a few years older, he knew that. “His wife just had a baby girl,” he said, looking up at Ringmar.

“You mentioned that in the car.”

“Everything went fine. Angela was there the whole time, and her mother is coming this afternoon. From Stockholm. Bergenhem’s mother-in-law, I mean.” Winter stood up. “Why haven’t you asked me?”

“What?”

“Why haven’t you asked me when I’m going to tell Martina?”

“Jesus, Erik, it’s only . . .”

“I’ve got to tell her today. We can’t keep it from the press.”

“No.”

“Today.”

“Let Östergaard go with you.”

“I’ll do it myself. She can take care of me afterward.”

Ringmar drove them back to the city through the old center of Kungsten. Långedragsvägen Way had been patched together and repaired century after century. They went under the viaduct and continued across the Sandarna district. Winter gave a start when the car hit a bump.

“How’s your foot doing?” Ringmar asked.

“It’s my toe.”

“At least you can still walk.”

“That’s what counts.”

“Right.”

“And Marianne has disappeared?”

“We’re looking all over for her,” Ringmar said.

“No trace of her anywhere.”

“It’s only been a few hours.”

“Do you think she’s dead?”

“No, just afraid. Bergenhem was completely unprofessional. He didn’t keep us up to date on what was happening, and it almost cost him his life.”

Winter looked out at the cemetery. “Act unprofessionally and get killed. That’s a good way to sum up our line of work.”

They took the Mariaplan roundabout. Gothenburg is made up of twenty-five small towns, Winter thought, and they’re all just as dangerous.

“Do you think he’s going to make it?” Ringmar asked.

“He’s over the worst of it now. A hell of a headache, but he’s hanging in there. He’s young and strong.”

“But no hero.”

“Not this time, anyway.”

“She knows,” Ringmar said.

“Who, Marianne?”

“She knows.”

“She’s not the only one. So do I.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s almost over.”

Winter called the bar and got the answering machine. He hailed a taxi.

He rang Bolger’s bell and waited. He rang again, then walked back down the two flights of stairs, crossing over to an alley on the other side of the street. The store windows were dark. Night arrived without warning in April, almost like a burglar.

I’ve been blind and deaf, he thought. Maybe I’m to blame, maybe not. There have been hints, innuendos, but who could have . . .

He swatted away those thoughts. He had already been through them more than once.

Bolger drove up, parked his BMW and got out. He raised the remote and Winter heard the lock click shut in the stillness of the night. Bolger disappeared through the front door of the building.

Maybe you’re the one who’s crazy, Winter thought. Your story is the figment of a madman’s imagination. No rules apply any longer, and never have. Each thought crumbles and falls to pieces that fly off in all directions and come back—often broken, rarely whole. Nothing can be polished or even forced into a symmetrical pattern. Nothing is unblemished, not even on the surface.

A gust of wind blew in from the street and swirled behind him.

He’ll come back out any minute, Winter thought. You can shoot him on the spot and that will be it for your career.

Bolger walked out five minutes later. He extended his arm and the lock clicked. After settling into the driver’s seat, he took off.

How strange that not a single person has passed by while you’ve been standing here, Winter thought. It’s like a movie in which a thousand people gather outside a cordoned-off area and follow what’s going on. The eye of the camera watches from a privileged position above it all.

He stepped out of the alley, limped across the street, climbed the stairs and rang the bell again. He took out his ring of skeleton keys and tried one of them. The steel felt soft through his glove.

The lock gave way and he opened the door. He slowly made his way from room to room.

The first place he looked was the chest of drawers, but there was nothing in it except socks and underwear. Bolger was a stickler for neatness.

He checked the closets: shoes, clothes, belts and ties.

A thick envelope, open like a defiant challenge, lay in the third desk drawer from the top. Inside were three passports, each under a different name, none of them Bolger’s. But the photographs were of him. None of the pages were stamped—the brave new Europe had no use for that sort of thing. He’s got more of these somewhere, Winter thought.

One of the passports was in the name of someone who had flown to London the day after Christian.

The investigators had focused all their attention on the passenger lists for the three days around the victim’s arrival.

It was a monumental discovery, but Winter simply filed it away in his mind like a bread crumb that had been laid out for him. I’ve been blind, but now I see, he thought. I’m holding this passport. My hands are trembling.

Maybe it’s just another inexplicable coincidence.

He found lots of papers—accounting records, invoices, bills, business contracts—but they didn’t interest him. Some porn magazines, nothing alarming, were stacked neatly in the bedroom dresser.

No receipts, no copies of tickets or vouchers.

He went back to the desk and picked up a pile of paper from the hutch. There were at least twenty sheets, each of them scribbled all over in a pointed, angular longhand. It looked like a screenplay written in a state of rage. He couldn’t make out the words, then suddenly caught sight of his name in clear, straight letters. He flipped to the next sheet. There was his name again. It was all he could read. The incomprehensible words sprawled out in all directions.

A chill more wretched than any he had ever felt before ran down his back.

A cloth was draped over a foot-high rectangular object on the desk.

He removed the cloth and stared at a photograph of himself, taken shortly before high school graduation. The glass frame looked new.

“WHERE IS HE, THEN?” RINGMAR ASKED. “WE’VE BEEN IN HIS
apartment and gone to his bar. Nobody knows.”

“I know,” Winter said.

The wind swirled above the fjord like a crazed wanderer. Winter pulled his cap down over his ears. His thoughts were frozen in place.

“You’re all alone,” he told himself as the boat docked.

The sea heather bowed over the cliffs as in prayer.

Bolger stood by his outdoor brick fireplace and jabbed at the coal with his poker. Winter had seen him walk over to the structure as he approached.

“First you never come and now you show up every day,” Bolger said when Winter stood next to him. He continued to stoke the fire without looking up, then tapped the brick with the poker.

“We found Bergenhem.”

“Where was he? With his stripper?”

“In a crevice by the Tångudden Road Marina.”

“That kid will do anything to avoid you.”

“I want you to come with me now, Johan.”

“What did you say?”

“It’s over.”

“Do you know who the murderer is? Don’t tell me it’s Bergenhem.”

“I have a boat down at the pier.”

“I might have a thing or two to say about what Bergenhem was up to.” Bolger threw the poker to the ground. It bounced back against the brick with a clang. “But you don’t want to listen. You’ve never wanted to listen to me, Mr. Smarty Pants.”

“Let’s go, Johan.”

“You’ve always thought you knew it all, Erik. Ever since I can remember. If you’re so damn smart, why haven’t you solved this case yet? You haven’t gotten a step further than when you came to the bar and asked for my help a million years ago. My help!” He swayed slightly. The wind cried, delivering a cryptic message from the opposite shore.

“There were all kinds of things that could have helped you, Erik, but you couldn’t see them. You’re not so smart after all.”

They walked down the hill, Bolger as if in his sleep.

“While you’re taking this stroll with me, it could happen again. Has that occurred to you?”

They had been questioning Bolger for three hours when another inspector came in and said that Winter had a call. It was Marianne, obviously in a phone booth. He could hear the roar of traffic in the background.

“You don’t know how happy I am to hear from you,” Winter said.

“It’s dreadful. I just read about it. He was a fine man.”

“He’s going to pull through.”

“What? Is he alive?”

“Yes.”

Winter heard something that sounded like a car splashing water over the curb. He looked out the window. Rain clouds had blown over Gothenburg. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he said.

“Why not?”

“We have him here.”

“Him?”

“Yes.”