Room No. 10 (48 page)

“Looks like strangulation,” Berlinger said, shaking his head slightly.

He had worked with steady hands. He had sighed audibly as he stepped into the room and saw the body, as though to say that he had actually left this kind of thing behind long ago.

“When?” Winter asked.

Berlinger shrugged.

“Two weeks ago?” Winter asked. “Three?”

Berlinger looked around, as though he were looking for the alarm clock that no one could hear anymore. Winter could see it. Below it he could see Torsten Öberg crouching in front of a bureau.

“It’s warm in here,” Berlinger said. “Could be.”

“When?” Winter repeated. “Last week?”

“Hardly.”

“So then it’s two weeks,” said Winter.

“Yes, it probably is.”

Berlinger bent over the body again and studied Anton Metzer’s face.

“Well, look at that, a Mensur scar.”

“Oh right, that’s what it’s called,” Winter said.

“You recognize the term?” Berlinger asked, looking up.

“I couldn’t think of it. But I’m familiar with the concept.”

Berlinger looked down at Metzer’s face again.

“This is a little too long and a little too thick for him to be really proud of it,” he said.

“You look like you wish you had one yourself,” said Winter.

“I’m not from the right family, unfortunately,” said Berlinger, smiling very slightly. “Incidentally,
mensur
also means the measured distance between duelers.”

Winter couldn’t hear a German accent. He didn’t ask about Berlinger’s origins.

“Could he have gotten that scar some other way?” he asked.

“Naturally,” said Berlinger.

“How old is it?”

“More than two weeks,” said Berlinger.

Winter waited until the humor had dissipated.

“More than fifty years,” said Berlinger.

•   •   •

“No rope in the apartment,” said Öberg.

“No, I didn’t see one, either,” said Winter.

“But an identical rope may have been used,” said Öberg.

“May have been? Or was?” Halders asked.

“May,” Öberg answered. “At least, I can’t say more than that right now. If it was a nylon rope, it’s almost impossible to say that it was a nylon rope, if you understand what I mean.”

“And no white paint,” said Winter.

“Not on the body, anyway.”

“There was no paint on Ellen Börge’s body, either,” said Winter. “Only the horrible marks.”

He looked out through the window, as though to measure the distance between this apartment and the grove. He could see it, but just barely. A dark cloud had sailed in from the North Sea, and he could already hear the rain against the window.

“Is it connected with this spot?” Halders said. “This place?”

“I don’t know what it’s connected with,” Winter said. “I don’t know if it’s even connected.”

“On the other hand, we know that we have four murders,” said Halders. “And as far as I understand, they’re connected.”

“Metzer, too?”

“Well, he certainly isn’t a stranger to this lot,” Halders said. “Except for me.”

“So you say you talked to someone other than Metzer,” Winter said.

“We were looking for him as a witness,” Halders said. “He was the one who called in, after all.”

Winter didn’t say anything. Torsten Öberg had left them in order to work over by the sofa.

“What kind of murder machine is at work here?” Halders said.

Winter didn’t answer.

“Wasn’t he the one who called in?” Halders asked. “Metzer. About that alleged fight.”

“Maybe,” Winter said. “But he wasn’t the one who opened the door when you came knocking.”

“Where the hell was he, then?”

“That’s a difficult question in this situation, Fredrik.”

“Okay, okay. The person who opens the door isn’t Metzer, but he apparently thinks it’s simpler to say he’s Metzer.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You don’t agree?”

“No, I do.”

“Why does he think it’s simpler to be Metzer?”

“Because it’s more difficult to be someone else,” Winter said.

“Why is it more difficult?”

“Because he doesn’t want anyone to know who he really is.”

“And who is he, really?”

“Mario Ney,” said Winter.

“I don’t know, Erik. It was many years ago, and the guy who opened the door had a full beard.” Halders threw out his arms. “This will probably cost me my career, or what’s left of it. But I can’t say whether or not it was Ney who was standing there in that damn door eighteen years ago.” Halders looked at Winter. “It could have been him, but I don’t know. Let me think for a little bit, and remember.
Maybe it will come if I remember what we said. How our chat went. You know.”

Winter nodded.

“Could it have been Börge?” he asked.

“I’ve only ever caught a fleeting glimpse of that man,” said Halders.

“Börge,” Winter repeated.

“He’s been a part of this whole story,” said Halders.

“Ney rented the apartment right across the yard,” said Winter.

“He’s already confirmed that,” said Halders.

“He hasn’t confirmed that he was here, at Metzer’s place.”

“Then I guess it’s time we ask him to do so,” said Halders. “What did Molina say, by the way?”

“He couldn’t say no under the circumstances. But it’s not enough to detain him.” Winter looked at Öberg and his experts working around the apartment. “We need technical evidence.”

“Or a confession,” said Halders.

Winter looked at the clock.

“I want you to be there for the interrogation, Fredrik.”

•   •   •

“I was never there,” said Ney. “Where did you say I was supposed to have been?”

“The apartment is right across the yard,” said Winter.

“Never been there.”

“How often were you in your own apartment?”

“Never.”

“You rented it.”

“Not for myself.”

Halders was sitting beside him. He didn’t say anything. If Ney had met him eighteen years ago, he didn’t show it. It could be him, Halders thought. But it could also be someone else. It’s impossible to say I recognize him. That might be because it wasn’t him.

“Where were you, then?” Winter asked.

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Where did you live at that time?”

“At home, of course.”

“And where was home?”

“In our apartment. In Tynnered.”

“Did you live alone?”

“I lived with Elisabeth, of course. And Paula.”

“Wasn’t Paula living with her mother?”

“Just that time. Just for that short time.”

“We haven’t found anything that proves your paternity,” said Winter.

Ney didn’t answer.

“You’re not registered anywhere,” Winter continued.

“Paula is mine,” Ney answered.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just that she was mine.”

“For you to do whatever you wanted with?”

“What are you saying?”

“That you thought you could do whatever you wanted with her, Mario?”

“You just don’t get it,” said Ney.

“What don’t we get?” said Winter.

“Look around.”

“What are we supposed to see?”

Ney didn’t answer.

“Should we keep trying to find out why you can’t explain what you were doing during the times in question?”

Ney didn’t say anything. He seemed to be looking at the sky out there, at space. It was as though he disappeared into it sometimes, and then returned, and was gone again. As though his feelings came and went. What kind of feelings were they? What memories did he have? What things had he done?

He came back to where he was and turned his eyes to Winter.

“I want to go home,” he said.

•   •   •

Elsa was climbing on him as if he were a tree with a large crown. He held his arms out like branches. She was on her way up his right shoulder.

“Be careful so you don’t get dizzy,” he said.

“I never get dizzy!” she shouted, as though she were shouting to everyone way down on the ground.

“You just wait,” he said, standing on tiptoe. He felt Lilly starting to lose her balance as she clung to his right leg. She had been howling even before then. She wanted to climb, too.

“What are you doing?!” Angela called from the living room. “Can’t you hear that Lilly’s crying, Erik?”

“I only have two branches,” he called back. Elsa was on her way over to the other shoulder now. She scraped his neck. Lilly caught her breath for a second.

“What?” Angela called.

“I only have two branches.”

Angela showed up in the doorway. Lilly started in again after two seconds of silence. She could be heard for miles. Winter lifted his leg; she hung on.

“I’ve always thought you were a little wooden,” said Angela.

Winter tried to hop on one leg. Elsa held tight to his neck. Lilly screamed again, but now it was from laughter. He hopped another step. The weight around his neck was like a millstone. His right knee began to lock up. His shoulders ached. I’m not really all that young anymore, he thought. He lowered his leg and tried to release Lilly. He bent forward until Elsa could reach the ground with her feet. He was standing in a strange position. Elsa wouldn’t let go.

“Watch your back,” said Angela.

“Help me,” he said. “Please.”

•   •   •

The storm had moved off toward the south. The sensation of being very small under the sky remained. He sometimes felt that way
after big storms. When the winds roared, everyone had to bow their backs.

“How’s your back?” Angela looked at him with a faint smile. He tried to bend backward in the same way as he had bent forward before. “Take it easy, now.”

“I don’t understand it,” he said.

“You should probably start to work out a little, Erik.”

“I’m a policeman,” he answered. “Working out is obligatory for us.”

“So when was the last time you worked out?”

“I work out,” he said.

“What kind of answer is that?” she asked.

“Do you want a glass of wine?” he answered.

Elsa had fallen asleep in the middle of the story about the meanest witch in the whole world. Winter made things up as he went along. He never managed to make the witch mean enough.

“She’s too nice!” Elsa had shouted. This was not the first time she’d thought the witch was too nice.

“But the witch ate up the little boy,” Winter had said.

“She should have eaten up the little girl, too!”

•   •   •

He reached for the bottle of wine. Angela was sitting directly across from him at the kitchen table. She had made scampi au gratin. Winter could smell the herbs and the garlic and the butter.

“Elsa won’t settle for doing things halfway,” he said. “This time the witch was supposed to chow down all the prisoners.” He poured some wine. “All of them children, of course.”

“Don’t forget that you’re the one who tells the story,” said Angela, lifting half a scampi over to him.

“What does that mean, if I may ask?”

“They’re your stories.”

“No, no, they’re hers.” He lifted the glass. “Cheers.”

She lifted hers. They drank.

“She doesn’t want me to tell any at all,” Angela said, putting down her glass. “She says that no one is mean when I try to tell them.”

“You should be happy about that, Angela.”

“Well, if that’s the case, what does it say about you, Erik?”

“I just want to be nice,” he said, smiling. “I just do as she tells me.”

“Pour me a glass, please.”

“They’re only stories, Angela.” He poured her another glass. It was Friday. He pulled over the pan of scampi. “They’re fantasies.”

H
e couldn’t sleep, nor had he counted on being able to. But a person had to try. No one could last long without sleep. This line of work caused sleeplessness, but he wasn’t alone in that. It would have been better to do manual labor along with mental work; then the physical exhaustion might lead to sleep. But manual labor wasn’t without danger. Trees could fall on your head. Scaffolding could fall. Tractors could overturn.

Winter sat up in his bed. Angela was snoring cautiously, as though she wanted to test him. Elsa’s snoring had stopped miraculously, as though it wanted to play a practical joke on medical science. She no longer needed an operation. Winter thought that the ear-nose-and-throat surgeon had looked disappointed, but that must have been his imagination.

He had seen disappointment in Mario Ney’s eyes when he explained that Ney couldn’t go home. Explained. He had just said it.

Halders had shaken his head outside the interrogation room.

“We don’t know enough about this guy,” he’d said.

Winter had looked at the clock.

“And next week you’re off to the sunshine,” Halders had said, following Winter’s gaze to the face of the clock.

“That’s not what I was checking.”

“Then what was it?”

“I wanted to know what time it was.”

Halders had laughed. It sounded strange in the brick corridor, as though it had been somewhere else, a brighter place.

They had met Ringmar up in the department.

“Jonas took off half an hour ago.”

Winter had nodded.

“His mother didn’t look happy.”

“How did he look?”

“Guilty,” Ringmar had said.

“Of what?”

Ringmar shrugged.

“I’m going home,” Winter had said.

•   •   •

His whiskey glass gleamed in the moonlight. It was the only light in there; a beam that reached farther in than the streetlights down on Vasaplatsen did. It was a clear night. Winter thought of Mario Ney when he saw the stars up there. It was the same space that Ney had appeared to long for. There were more stars than Winter had ever seen before. They covered the sky all the way from the southern archipelago to Angered.

He lifted his glass. He couldn’t see the color inside of it now, but he knew that it was amber. There were no colors at night, if you didn’t count black. And white. Winter could see the white light cutting through the darkness in the room. White. He thought of the white hand. He thought of the color white as a symbol. He thought of it as paint. He thought of the can it had once been in. He thought of a wall that has been painted white. Why had Paula Ney’s hand been white? Why had Elisabeth Ney’s finger been painted white? Paula’s white hand. It meant something. It was a message. White paint. The can of paint. A white wall. Painted white. Painted recently. Where did the can of paint come from? They didn’t know. Had they asked . . . the painters? The painters in Paula’s apartment. The walls there. Half-finished. Almost finished. Unfinished. What is it that we’re not seeing? Halders had said. Winter had thought it himself. Think back. Think.