Death Angels (7 page)

There was a draft from the balcony door. Winter stood up from his desk to close it, but then opened it all the way instead and stepped outside. He shivered, catching a whiff of the city below. A patch of fog from beyond the channel drifted through the park and across Nya Allén Street. When the clammy air reached him, he went back inside and shut the door.

He had been poring over the terse memo from the London police. There was an eerie similarity between the two murders. He couldn’t remember anything like it. Not only that, but there was something peculiar about the way the murders had been committed. The British investigators had found little marks in the dried blood that might turn out to match those in the dorm room here in Gothenburg.

He had come home from the office and immediately begun searching the Internet for similar cases, finding what seemed at first like clear patterns, but they were mostly in the realm of the imagination, an illusion. He saw photos that were evocative of his own case, yet they could just as well have been in a dream. He looked for clues in the depths of the electronic night and browsed through several American databases. A surprising number of these kinds of offenders came from Texas or California. Too much sun and sand drives people mad, he thought.

The cell phone on the desk began to ring. He extended the antenna and put the phone to his ear.

“Erik!” crackled a voice at the other end.

“Hi, Mom. You were just on my mind.”

“I’ll bet I was.”

“I was thinking about the sun and sand and what they do to people.”

“Marvelous, isn’t it?” She mumbled something, and he saw in his mind’s eye how she turned around in the little open-plan kitchen and fixed her fourth martini of the evening while glancing at her profile in the mirror. Dear old Mom.

“How was golf today?” he asked.

“We never made it to the course.”

“That’s too bad.”

“It’s been raining all day, but now—”

“Didn’t you move there to escape all that?”

Her sigh echoed in the receiver. “The grass is always greener.” She laughed and it reminded him of unoiled brakes.

“Erik?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“I was planning on calling Karin and Lasse.”

“Now?”

“It’s not that late, is it?”

It’s four dry martinis and half a white Rioja too late, he thought. Maybe mañana. “They’re going through an awful lot right now,” he said. “Wait until morning.”

“You’re probably right. I always said you had a good head on your shoulders.”

“For a cop, you mean.”

“That’s what you had your heart set on.” He heard her turn on a mixer with her free hand. “You’re the youngest chief inspector in Sweden.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a little work to do, Mom.” He clicked past a report from Costa del Sol.

“We’ll call again soon.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Say hi to Dad.”

“One more thing,” she said, but he was already putting down the phone.

Winter got up and walked into the kitchen. He poured some water in the coffeepot, plugged it in and pushed the button. As the hissing sound grew louder, he filled a tea ball and dropped it in a china cup. He poured in a little milk and finally the water. When the brew was dark enough, he removed the tea ball, tossed it in the sink and took the cup into the living room. He put on a Coltrane CD and sipped his tea, watching the evening outside darken to night. A floor lamp by one of the bookcases bathed the room in a soft glow. He stood by the window to look out over the city but saw only his own reflection.

IT WAS SATURDAY. KAREN AND WINSTON HILLIER LIVED SOUTH
of the river. Macdonald kept a respectable distance from the cars in front of him as he drove west on A236. The rest of the world was in a hurry, and the driver in the Vauxhall behind him gave Macdonald the finger even before they’d left North Croydon.

Make my day, Macdonald mumbled to himself, waiting. Go ahead and pass me, pal, so I can call in your license plate number. They were approaching a junction—he would have to take the left fork and watch his tormentor zoom by, honking his horn and screaming obscenities with his finger in the air.

We’re a nation of hooligans, Macdonald thought. That asshole was no doubt on his way to Griffin Park—the place to be on a brisk day in early February, spending a few carefree hours with your buddies.

When he reached the Tulse Hill district, he parked outside a house on Palace Road. It looked to be newly painted. The people in the neighborhood were from the old middle class and had remained there as the battle lines were drawn all around them. Getting out of the car, he heard what sounded like gunfire coming from Brockwell Park.

The windows were dark, but he knew that the Hilliers were waiting for him inside. Thank God you’re not breaking the news, he thought, although your belated arrival might prove to be a disadvantage if the shock has worn off.

Karen opened the door as soon as he knocked. Had she been standing there all morning long? She might have been mentally preparing herself, Macdonald thought, but she looks like you just broke into her house.

“Mrs. Hillier?”

“Yes. Inspector Macdonald, I assume?”

He nodded and pulled out his badge. She ignored it and motioned toward the living room. “Come in.”

I’m like one of those prowlers who stalk people’s nightmares, he thought.

They walked through the hallway. Illuminated as if by a spotlight, Winston sat in a wide couch at the far end of the living room. Macdonald heard a distant squeaking. Looking out the window, he watched a British Rail train go by, a hundred yards below a bare hilltop.

“We never take the train,” Winston said.

Macdonald introduced himself, but Winston didn’t seem to hear. “The railroad and tracks have spoiled this part of London,” he said. “It’s even worse than highway construction.”

Macdonald saw some bottles to Winston’s right and a glass in front of them. Winston picked it up and raised it unsteadily to his lips. He looked at Macdonald, who took a step closer. Macdonald couldn’t tell whether the pale inscrutability of his eyes was the result of blindness or booze.

“I’m not blind,” Winston said, noticing Macdonald’s bafflement. “Just drunk. Since eleven o’clock this morning, to be exact.”

“May I sit down?”

“Welcome to our happy little home.” Winston’s laugh turned to a hiss. “I told Geoff the program was a good idea.” He got up to take a clean glass from the shelf behind him, then looked out the window. “It sounded exciting.” His eyes were on a second train making its way below the hillside, which had become grayer in the light of dusk. “A fresh start for a young man with a bright future ahead of him. A chance for an education in this brave new world of ours.” He gulped his gin and tonic.

“Why Sweden in particular?” Macdonald asked.

“Why not?”

“Did he have any special reason?” Macdonald heard footsteps behind him and turned around. Karen had walked in with the afternoon tea. He could smell warm scones. “Was there some reason for picking Sweden?” he repeated.

“No, except that he had a pen pal in Gothenburg a long time ago,” Karen said, sitting down next to Winston. She laid out cups and little side plates.

“That’s why he went,” Winston said.

“How did he find out about the program?”

“Through his school here,” Karen said.

“Geoff always wanted to be an engineer, and the curriculum appealed to him. The school had an English name. Chandlers or something like that.”

“Chalmers,” Karen corrected him.

“Chalmers.”

Karen turned to Macdonald. “He received a letter too.”

“From Chalmers?”

“No. Somebody wrote to him from Gothenburg, and that seemed to convince him that he should apply.”

Macdonald could tell how hard it was for her to string so many words together all at once. “A personal letter?” he asked.

“What other kind is there?”

“Was it from his old pen pal?”

“We never found out,” Karen said.

“He kept it to himself,” Winston said, “which was perfectly understandable, but he didn’t want to say who it was from either.”

“Just that he had gotten a letter,” added Karen.

“From Sweden?” Macdonald asked.

“Gothenburg,” Winston answered.

Macdonald heard another train in the distance. The strident sound gradually filled up the house. “And he didn’t mention anything about the letter after he got there and moved into the dorm?”

“Not a word,” Winston said.

“Did he say who else he met there?”

“No.”

“Not anybody?”

“He was killed just a few days later, for God’s sake,” Winston shouted. His gaze turned malevolent. Suddenly he slumped to the floor and lay there facedown. “Get out,” he said, his voice muffled by the carpet.

Karen looked at Macdonald as if apologizing for their grief.

They’ve got no reason to apologize, Macdonald thought. I’m the intruder here.

He said good-bye and went out into the late-afternoon sunlight. Tattered clouds hovered in the western sky. Another hour and it would be completely dark. He turned on the ignition, made a U-turn and drove up to Station Rise, parking at the little depot where the trains took aim at the Hilliers and their anguish. The spot was barely legal, but he went into the Railway Pub anyway, ordered a Young’s Winter Warmer and waited for the foam to evaporate, but not a second longer.

THE MORE THE CORE GROUP SHRANK, THE HIGHER THE STACKS
of paper seemed to grow. Cartons and file folders filled up with bizarre evidence—hair, skin, a piece of a fingernail, impressions, marks, bits of clothing, photos that showed the same scene over and over from different angles, a watchcase echoing the cries for help that Winter had heard the last time he was in the room.

Winter had talked to Pia Fröberg, and she didn’t think that all the blows had come at once. She was a top-notch coroner, meticulous. Now, with the remainder of his team gathered in the conference room, he took out a scrap of paper with his notes on it. Geoff Hillier had died of suffocation. The details of his long agony were familiar to everyone in the room.

“How long did it go on?” Fredrik Halders asked. The detective inspector had just turned forty-four. He had stopped combing his hair over his bald spot the year before and left the rest in a crew cut, which had relieved him of the need to smile awkwardly every time someone spoke to him.

“It was a long performance,” Winter said.

“No intermissions?”

“Quite a few,” Ringmar said.

“The first and last wounds were three or four hours apart,” Winter explained. “That’s the best estimate they can come up with.”

“Fucking sadist,” Bergenhem said.

“Yes,” Ringmar said.

“Geoff ’s upper arms were uninjured,” Möllerström said.

“That’s where the bruises are,” Djanali said.

“He must be a strong son of a bitch,” Halders said. “How much did Geoff weigh?”

“Close to a hundred and eighty,” Möllerström answered. “And he was six foot one, so dragging him around was no easy task.”

“If that’s what he did,” Djanali said.

“That’s what he did,” Ringmar said.

“Something like it anyway,” Möllerström said.

“Size ten-and-a-half footprints spinning around the room,” Bergenhem said.

“The only place where he could get hold of him,” Halders said.

“You didn’t have to explain that,” Djanali scoffed.

“Worn-down heels, but with a distinct pattern on the edge,” Möllerström continued.

Winter had asked the group to keep talking. It was a kind of inner monologue turned up for everyone else to hear. Details, thoughts, analyses, day in and day out, new stuff and old, the latest evidence. Don’t hold anything back, let everyone know. They whittled the facts down until the edges took shape and they could start putting it all together.

“How did he manage to sneak out?” Bergenhem asked.

“He changed while he was still there,” Winter answered.

“Even so,” Bergenhem said.

“He bided his time,” Winter said.

“There was a bathroom in there,” Djanali pointed out.

“But still,” Bergenhem said.

“He might have run into two or three people on the way out,” Ringmar offered.

“I’ve been reading some background material,” Winter cut in, “and it seems like everyone looked the other way. Students don’t want to stick their noses into other people’s business these days.”

“It was different back in my time,” Halders mused.

“
You
went to college?” Djanali asked, her eyes wide open.

Halders sighed.

“Then there are those marks on the floor,” Möllerström continued.

“I don’t understand how they can know for sure that it was a tripod,” Halders said.

“That’s why you’re here and they’re there,” Djanali said.

Halders sighed again. “A damn tripod.”

A damn tripod, Winter thought. It didn’t have to mean anything. When they had finished interviewing all the potential witnesses, knocked on a thousand doors, entered all known psychopaths in the database, recorded everybody’s comings and goings down to the last detail, completed the inquiry into the victim’s background, examined and compared the particles found at the scene of the crime, made a million phone . . . “Have we traced all the calls that were made from the phone in the hallway of the dorm?” he asked.

“We’re working on it,” Ringmar said.

“I want a list.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll take care of it. How about the Malmströms?”

Winter thought for a minute. “Yes, all the calls from their house too.” The tripod. What was attached to the top of it? he wondered. And what had happened to the device after the murder? That’s what would tell them all they needed to know. A videotape somewhere. Or several, or one with different segments, or . . .