Room No. 10 (52 page)
“There’s something special about this room, isn’t there? This was where Ellen ran the first night, but you know that!”
I have to say something, have to say something, have to say something, say something, say . . .
“Jo . . . Jon . . . Jo,” he said, and it sounded like he was trying to whistle.
Börge gave a start. His arm was still in the bag.
When he lifts up that arm, it’s all over, Winter. Then it will be a one-way trip.
“Jon . . . Jon . . .” he whistled again.
Börge lifted his arm. His hand was empty.
“What? Are you trying to say something, Winter?”
Winter couldn’t answer. He felt exhausted by his attempts to speak. But the horrible pain in his throat began to abate. It was as if his throat was starting to heal. And thoughts were starting to move in his head again, as though they too had been temporarily strangled by the blow.
• • •
The blue lights swept over Vasagatan. The wind tore at them, making them rotate irregularly, like a broken carousel. There were two patrol cars outside the front door of Börge’s building. Halders had left his car door open behind him as he ran to the door.
There were already people inside the apartment.
“The door was wide open,” said the police inspector outside.
“Is he in there?” Halders asked.
“It seems empty.”
Halders walked into the hall. It bent strangely, and he followed the bend. He saw the open door at the far end. He could see a uniform moving in there. He saw a face turn to him. He saw the expression on it.
“What is it?” he shouted, starting to run.
While he was still in motion, he saw the ropes, the metal eyebolts, the workbench, the body parts, the molds. A large stain on the floor, shining in the naked light.
The female inspector was holding her chin, her mouth, her nose. Halders could see only her eyes.
There was nothing alive in this room. Erik has been here, Halders
thought. He must have seen this. He must have understood. Did he understand where he would go from here?
There was a can of paint on the floor next to the wall on the right side. There was a paintbrush on the floor. The white paint had spattered in the shape of a fan when the brush had been thrown. There was writing on the wall. The writing was snow white against the grayish-white plaster of the wall:
MURDERER
The word was painted with letters that were half a meter high. It covered the whole wall. The paint had run down the wall and out onto the floor and had become part of the fan.
“Someone was here after Erik,” said Halders.
• • •
Börge walked across the room and leaned over him. He leaned closer, placed his ear near Winter’s mouth.
“Maybe it will work better if you whisper?”
“Jon . . .”
“Jon? Jon? What are you saying? Jon?”
“Jon . . . Jona . . .”
“Jonas? Aha! Jonas! You’re asking about Jonas?!”
Winter blinked. That meant yes.
“My God, Winter, don’t tell me we have more old friends in common! You saw the photo at Paula’s house, didn’t you?” Börge’s eyes were large now, as though he were the happiest person on earth. “Sweet boy, that one. Like the girl. They were both so sweet.” Börge appeared to lose himself in memories for a few seconds. “He got a little worked up by my little joke when he was little, Jonas did. I was just joking around a bit with that hand he saw.” Börge smiled, but it was a different smile than before, a warm smile. “That was a hobby of mine even back then. A person has to work a little with his hands, don’t you think? Old Metzer didn’t think it was funny, but I didn’t care all that much what he said.”
“He . . . he . . .”
“What are you saying, Winter? Hee-hee? You’re right, it is funny.”
Winter gathered all the lung capacity and muscles he had to be able to squeeze out a few more words.
“He . . . he saw you.”
Winter breathed heavily after his exertion.
“Saw me? Saw me?” Börge grabbed Winter’s shoulder and shook it. “Saw me when? When I was here? Hardly. When I was there? Hardly then, either. Here or there, doesn’t matter. He came snooping around when I stole the rope from Paula’s apartment, but I was already out by then. Those two poor souls clung to each other somehow.”
Börge let go of Winter’s shoulder.
“He’s dependent on me, that boy. Just like she was dependent on me. You read the letter, I assume?” Börge nodded, as though at his own words.
Winter had read it. Paula had written it to Börge. Winter hadn’t understood at first. How can you understand something like that? She had written about her life, about the right to her life. She had wanted her freedom. She had demanded it. Maybe she thought that all the secrets would stop then, all the lies. That something else would come after all the silence, something better. She had also demanded Jonas’s freedom.
“The fact is, I invited the boy here,” said Börge. “He’s welcome to come at any time now. He’s dependent on me, as I said. I did say that, right? Has he told you anything, for example? About anything? The answer is no.”
Winter’s cell phone rang. He had forgotten that he owned one. It belonged to another world, another life. Börge reacted to the sound, but only for a second. It didn’t matter, not for him, not for Winter.
Here I lie. Or sit, or whatever the hell it is. I sat here myself. I set myself in all of this. I was yanked along. I stopped thinking. No, I thought, but in the wrong way. I was alone. Who did I talk to last? It was Jonas. Was it Jonas? What did I say? I don’t remember. I heard hardly anything he said. Too much happened in a short time. The night was too short. I talked to Nina, too. I told her that I was going to Paula’s
apartment. I did do that, didn’t I? But that doesn’t help. I wanted to do everything. Solve everything. A complete solution. I wanted it done before I got on the plane. Now nothing will come of any of it. I shouldn’t have hit that young policeman. I didn’t even ask his name. That was Angela on the phone, I could feel that it was Angela. Jesus! Elsa, Lilly. I should have married Angela. She wanted to. I love you all and I will always love you all no matter what happens. Paula knew. She wrote about forgiveness when she was allowed to write what she wanted. Her murderer wasn’t dictating. She wrote what she wanted when she knew she was going to die. She took the blame upon herself. I understand it now. All the chaos that happened in her life was because she was an unplanned child, maybe unwanted. She must have seen, understood, discovered. What did Börge say to her in this room? Did he have to say very much when she already knew? She wanted to ease the sadness for those who survived her. God in heaven. Help me now, now that I understand, now that I know. If my legs had been free, I would have kicked this bastard to death. Now he’s getting up. He’s walking over to the bag. I have to prepare myself for this. He’s pulling something out. Yes, yes, it’s a rope; he has enough rope to reach around the world. Can I head-butt him? He has to come close enough to put the noose around my neck and if I can reach, then . . .
Börge approached with the rope. The noose was already made. He suddenly disappeared behind Winter’s back. Winter was half lying with his side against the wall. He had started to slide down to the floor again. He couldn’t see Börge at all. He heard him moving behind. It was pointless. He was helpless. The only thing he could see was the window, and there was no help to be had from there. Winter didn’t know how much time had passed since he had stepped in here; it could be hours, days, but life out there was of no help to him. He couldn’t even tell whether it was day or night outside the window.
He felt the noose around his neck. Börge pulled on it. The air began to disappear, what little was left in his airways. Börge shoved him, maybe so that he would slide more easily across the floor.
Winter suddenly heard a sound somewhere outside, like metal
against metal. There it was again. He saw something flap at the edge of his field of vision. He didn’t know when he actually realized that the wild shadows outside the window didn’t belong to nature, the sky. Maybe not until the glass broke. When Börge shouted. Maybe when the black figure flew in through the window, like a strange, wild bird. Winter’s air was about to run out. He had no thoughts left. The last thing he thought was that Jonas Sandler must have climbed up the scaffolding.
H
e heard the children laughing out in the hall. He saw the open suitcases on the polished pine floor. He could see their reflections. Tomorrow they would be off, early tomorrow. It had taken longer than they’d counted on at first, but the clinic in Marbella had been understanding.
John Coltrane was blowing hard and loud from
A Love Supreme.
Winter got up and went out into the hall and caught Lilly up in the middle of a step.
“Time for bed, darling.”
• • •
Later that evening he had a short conversation with Halders.
“Don’t fucking call me unless it’s for completely private reasons,” Halders said.
Winter laughed.
“I’m not kidding, Erik.”
“I’m not going to take anything away from you, Fredrik.”
“There’s not much left to take,” said Halders.
“How are things with Börge?”
“Forget it.”
“I’m trying.”
“He says he did everything he had to do,” said Halders.
“Not really,” said Winter.
“
Do you want
me to remind him? That he didn’t get rid of you? And the boy? He did have plans for the boy, too.”
“He got rid of me,” Winter said.
“If he had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now,” said Halders.
“He’s no boy,” Winter said. “He’s not a boy any longer.”
“I agree with you there,” said Halders.
“I called him this morning,” Winter said. “He’s a lonely man. Paula had become something special for him.”
Halders didn’t say anything.
“It’s not over for him, Fredrik.”
“No. And I’m not planning to forget about him.”
“I know.”
“And Mario isn’t, either.”
“I know that, too.”
Winter heard the faucet running in the kitchen. After ten seconds, Angela came into the room and sat down on the sofa. She had her morning robe on, and that was just as it should be. Morning wasn’t that far off.
“Börge found a way to get to her through the two children,” Winter said into the phone.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Paula was . . . the center. She was the proof that everyone had betrayed him.”
“Yes.”
“But it wasn’t just that.”
“No.”
“Talk to you soon, Fredrik.”
“Take care of yourself now, Erik, and the family.”
• • •
Later that evening, Winter was still thinking about what he had been thinking when he was lying on the floor in room number ten. He didn’t want to think about it, but he would come back to it again and again during the coming months.
“There’s a Swedish church in Fuengirola,” he said.
Angela looked up. They hadn’t gone to bed yet. Maybe they would keep sitting here until it was time to leave for the airport.
“Do you want to get married there?” he asked.
“To whom?” she asked.
“I was thinking to me.”
© ANDERS DEROS
A hugely popular bestselling writer in Europe,
ÅKE EDWARDSON
is attracting a growing, devoted readership in North America. He has worked as a journalist, United Nations press officer, and lecturer at the University of Gothenburg in Sweden’s second-largest city. His Chief Inspector Erik Winter books have been translated into more than twenty languages. He is a three-time winner of the Swedish Crime Writers’ Award for best crime novel.
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