Douglas was supposed to have the day off, and Jamie hadn’t answered his phone. Annoyed, Douglas had gone to Jamie’s apartment, rung his bell for what seemed like an eternity and pounded on the door until a neighbor stuck his head out and scowled.
He’d finally found the janitor. Jamie? The British kid? Yes, the one in the apartment with the makeshift nameplate on the door, Douglas answered, and he thought that something might be wrong with him.
The janitor, who had a hundred tools in pockets down the legs of his pants and around his waist, unlocked the door, and the rest was a dazed nightmare.
His ears buzzing and his eyes open wide, Winter was the first person to get a good look at the apartment. He stepped around a couple of footprints that pointed toward the door. No traces of violence on the walls. He heard the forensic team gathering by the stairs, and that’s where they would stay until he gave them the go-ahead.
He knew he would be back at least once after the body had been removed, and what he looked for then would depend on what he found now.
The hallway was bright enough for him to see. The light was on in the bathroom. Had the officers turned it on when they came in? Surely no policeman was that dumb.
He stood in the doorway and looked down at the bathtub. There were streaks of blood on the tile, but fewer than he would have expected. He took his time, Winter thought.
Same story in the washbasin, plus three stains on the plastic mat by the tub.
Winter turned around and found himself at a twenty-degree angle from the kitchen door, which was partly open on the other side of the hallway. When he peered inside, he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary except that the little table was missing a chair.
But when he turned his eyes to the middle of the main room, Jamie was sitting on the chair with his back to the door.
He was wearing socks and a pair of pants but no shoes or belt. A red and blue tattoo gleamed on his left shoulder. As Winter made his way between the stains on the floor to get a better look, he saw it was a car but couldn’t tell what kind.
Jamie’s upper arms were blue. His pants were bulging, about to burst. That’s what’s holding him together, Winter thought. His face is uninjured. So strangely aloof, it looks like it’s floating above the chair.
On the table next to him was a bottle of red wine and two glasses, one half full and one empty. Winter leaned over and sniffed. There hadn’t been any time for a toast.
The room was furnished simply, as for a transient guest: a couch for two; no armchair, bookcase or flowers; plain curtains that muted the sunlight between the half-open blinds; a CD player on a little white-wood bench; a hanging rack with twenty or twenty-five albums. Winter edged along the wall to the other side of the couch and read some of the titles at the top: Pigeonhed, Oasis, Blur, Daft Punk, Morrissey. No jazz. The player was open and he glimpsed a disc inside. Carefully, so as not to graze the wallpaper, he leaned forward to see the name of the artist.
The oval of blood around the chair resembled the pattern in Geoff’s room. His eyes followed it toward the door and out into the hallway.
How many steps were there?
For about six feet inside the door, there were no patterns and hardly any stains. Winter inhaled the room’s odors. A bark sounded through the west wall. If it could be heard here, he could be heard there.
It occurred to Winter that he never heard his neighbors, except when they struggled to open the squeaky elevator door and rattled the cage.
Fifteen minutes in this apartment was enough. He went out and motioned to the forensic team, then walked down the stairs and into the sunlight to question the onlookers across the street.
Hitchcock. He could never remember whether Halders or Möllerström had come up with the name. Don’t let the press get wind of it, he had told them. He didn’t like referring to a murderer like that but caught himself doing it anyway.
By some odd coincidence, the investigators in London began calling their man by the same moniker shortly afterward. And it wasn’t long before the British and Swedish teams figured out that it must be the same murderer and started working together, overwhelmed by a feeling of powerlessness, as if someone were laughing at them from above.
The burglar looked out at Kalle and the other children. The snowman was gone. The kids crawled through the barrel, chased each other around the swing and climbed down the rope ladder from the playhouse.
He didn’t know which way to turn. He read the papers and followed the news on television, and he wasn’t stupid, even if he was an idiot when it came to certain other matters. He knew something that nobody else did. There was no doubt in his mind about that. Or was there? He needed time to think, maybe somewhere else.
“What is it?” his wife asked.
“What did you say?”
“You have that look on your face again.”
“Hmm.”
“Is it the job?”
“What job?”
“You know.”
“Hmm.” He looked out at the playground.
“Why don’t you go out and play with Kalle for a while?”
“I was just thinking about that.”
“He’s asked about it.”
“Asked about what?”
“If you two can do something together sometime.”
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
“You could do more than think about it.”
“How about we all take a vacation together?”
“Sure, anytime.”
“No, I’m serious, we could go to the Canary Islands tomorrow or the day after.”
“Right.”
“No kidding, I won some money.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“When? How much?”
“Three thousand. I didn’t want to say anything until I got the money so it would be a surprise.”
“And now you have it?”
“Yes.”
She examined him, trying to see beneath the surface. “Can I take your word for it?”
“Absolutely.”
“How did you win it?”
“At the harness track. Remember last week when I went out there a couple of times? I’ll show you the coupon.” He wondered how the hell he was going to do that.
She looked out at Kalle. “That wouldn’t be a very smart thing to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“We can’t just pick up and go to the Canary Islands.”
“Why not?”
“Just think of everything else we need the money for.”
“We’d never go anywhere if we waited until all our bills were paid. When’s the last time we took a trip?”
“Okay, you’ve got a point, but how much does it cost?”
“We can afford it. That’s all that matters.”
“But now that . . .”
“There’s no time like the present.”
“I admit it would be wonderful.” She still sounded hesitant.
“Two weeks. And the sooner we leave, the better.”
“How are we going to get tickets on such short notice?”
“Hard cash.”
Winter got hold of Bolger late in the afternoon.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Bolger said when he heard Winter’s voice.
“This is strictly business.”
“Got you.”
“Even if I’m taking advantage of our friendship.”
“Now you’ve lost me.”
“There’s something I need to ask you.”
“Fire away.”
“Not on the phone. Can you hang around until I get there?”
“Sure thing.”
Winter was at Bolger’s bar in fifteen minutes. Three customers at a table by the window gave him the once-over. Bolger offered him a drink, but he turned it down.
“Do you know an Englishman by the name of Robertson?” Winter asked.
“An Englishman, did you say?�
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“British at least.”
“What did you say his name was?”
“Robertson, Jamie Robertson.”
“Jamie Robertson? I know who he is, although we haven’t really been introduced. He’s not English, by the way. He’s Scottish.”
“Okay, Scottish.”
“It’s sort of obvious when he talks.”
“Has he ever worked here?”
“No.”
“Do you know whether he’s worked anyplace other than O’Briens?”
“No, but I don’t think he’s been in Gothenburg very long. Ask over at O’Briens.”
“I will.”
“Has something happened?”
“He’s been murdered.”
Bolger seemed to pale, as if someone had changed the bulb in the overhead lamp.
“This isn’t confidential information or anything,” Winter clarified.
“It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
“In any case, I could really use your help.”
“Since when did you ever need my help?”
“Don’t be childish, Johan.”
“Why the hell would you need my help? You’re smart enough for the two of us.”
“Would you please give me a chance to tell you what I want?”
Bolger glanced over at the waitress behind the bar as if he wanted another drink, then apparently thought better of it.
“You’re in touch with guys in the business,” Winter said, “and people who know their way around the city.”
“So are you.”
“You know what I’m getting at.”
“Sure, you want a petty criminal to do some snooping for you.”
“Cut it out, Johan.”
“Do they let you use informants who’ve been hospitalized for depression?”
“It’s like this, Johan. We’re doing all we can, but I want you to try to remember what you know about Jamie. Who he knew, who he spent his time with. Girlfriends—or boyfriends, if it was that way.”
“I understand.”
“Think about it.”
“Okay.”
“Ask around if you need to.”
“I promise.”
9
WlNTER SAT ON RINGMAR’S DESK , HlS JACKET HALF UNBUTTONED, his holster girded by the gleam of his silk shirt. Ringmar knew that he himself could never sit there with the same kind of elegant nonchalance. His legs were too short and his suits too cheap and his shirt didn’t shine the same way.
“How many times have we talked to Geoff’s parents in London?” Winter asked.
“Two or three.”
“I’m still thinking about the letter someone wrote to him.”
“Me too.”
“He didn’t give anything to someone else, did he?”
“Not that we know of.”
“There was something in the witness statement of his pen pal. Geoff wrote that he would be coming to Gothenburg, and she answered right away. But that was the end of their correspondence.”
“Right.”
“Shouldn’t he have responded eventually? Isn’t that what pen pals are supposed to do?” Winter paused for a moment. “Englishmen don’t waste their time.”
“They get it right from the very beginning. Just look at their soccer teams.”
“One of their officers calls the Malmströms every couple of days. But it’s mostly to offer a little TLC.”
“Hmm.”
“That’s their thing. He’s called a family liaison officer or something like that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The chief investigator picks one right away. At least some of them do.”
“You did the same thing.”
“If you’re referring to Möllerström, I had no choice.”
Before Ringmar could answer, the phone in his breast pocket started to ring. He pressed the green button and mumbled his name. “I’ll see if I can find him,” he said with his eyes on Winter. He put the phone on his desk and motioned to the corner of the room.
Winter followed behind him.
“It’s your mother.”
“Is she sober?”
“Getting there.”
“What does she want?”
Ringmar shrugged.
Winter walked back to the desk and picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Erik!”
“Hi, Mom.”
“We were so worried.”
“Were you?”
“We read about the second murder.”
“I’m a little busy right now, Mom. Was there something else on your mind?”
“Your sister called. I know she’d like to hear from you a little more often.”
“She could have told me that directly without calling all the way to Spain.” Winter rolled his eyes in Ringmar’s direction. “I promise to give her a call,” he continued. “Bye for now, Mom.”
He pushed the red button and handed the phone back to Ringmar. “Women,” he said.
Ringmar cleared his throat. “And where’s your phone, may I ask?”
“It’s charging in my office.”
“Okay.”
“I put it on call forwarding.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“The cell phone is a monstrous invention,” Winter said. “I’ve seen people standing on opposite street corners talking to each other.”
“It’s modern man’s way of keeping himself company.”
“Just imagine if lightning struck and zapped you back in time. There you are in exactly the same spot, but it’s six hundred years earlier.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s raw and chilly and there’s nobody else around. The only thing you have with you is your phone. You duck behind a tree to hide from some knights that come charging down the path, or whatever it’s called, and you realize that something crazy is going on. Do you follow me?”
“Perfectly.”
“All you can do is try not to panic. When you’ve gotten a grip on yourself, you call home and Bodil answers. Still with me?”
“Keep going.”
“Here you are in the Middle Ages and you’ve got your wife on the line. Pretty amazing, isn’t it?”
“Fascinating.”
“What a movie it would make.”
“With me in the lead role?”
“That’s not for me to say. But here’s the best part of it—or the worst. There was no electricity back then, so you don’t have anywhere to plug in your battery charger. You stand there talking to Bodil, and you know that as soon as the battery runs out, it’s all over. You’ll be alone forever.”
“What a grotesque story.”
10
A MASSIVE EFFORT WAS UNDER WAY.
Twenty men had rung every bell in the neighborhood, and Möllerström was working overtime entering all the information they had gathered into the database.
A couple of days after Jamie’s murder, rumors had begun circulating that Sture Birgersson was thinking about calling in the National Criminal Police Corps, and the issue resurfaced when Winter’s team convened to discuss the latest murder. Halders, who had heard the scuttlebutt, made a grimace that changed his appearance only slightly. “I’d rather eat shit.”
Winter laughed out loud, which was unusual for him, especially at meetings. “I believe Fredrik just summed up all of our feelings.”
“Stockholm is a great city,” Djanali mused, looking out the window toward Skövde and Katrineholm. She turned back and eyed Halders. “Nice people, cultured, easy to be with.”
“Particularly in the Flemingsberg area,” Halders said.
“Do you always get off the subway there?” Djanali asked. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that it goes farther?”
“I’d rather eat shit,” Halders said.
“You could use a more balanced diet.”
“Your irony is a little undernourished too.”
“Irony? Who’s being ironic?”
Wint
er discreetly shuffled his papers and everyone stopped talking. “We’ll continue to work in teams of two. Djanali and Halders will be together today. They seem to be hitting it off just fine. The rest of you can go ahead like you have been.” He glanced over at Bergenhem. “And I have something to talk to you about after the meeting.”
Bergenhem raised his head. He looks like a schoolboy, Winter thought. “We’ve found something,” he said to the whole group.
Ringmar flipped off the light and turned on the slide projector. He clicked back and forth between the rooms of the two British victims and finally stopped on Jamie’s.
The police photographer had used a wide-angle lens, and the room bulged out in the center.
Winter nodded. Ringmar clicked to the next slide, Jamie’s upper body, and Möllerström felt ashamed, like an eavesdropper who is privy to a forbidden act.
“Look at those uninjured shoulders,” Winter said, nodding again. Ringmar clicked to a new enlargement.
“Do you see it?” Winter stared into the semidarkness. Nobody noticed anything. He nodded to Ringmar once more, and an even bigger enlargement appeared.
“Do you see it now?” Winter moved his pointer toward a spot on the bare shoulder that could have been a piece of dust on the screen.
“What’s that?” Djanali asked.
“It’s blood,” Winter said. She saw the light from the projector reflected in his eye. “But it’s not Jamie’s.”
Nobody stirred. Djanali shivered and raised her arm as if to keep her hair from standing up.
“I’ll be damned,” Halders said.
“Not Jamie’s blood,” Bergenhem echoed.
“When did you find this out?” Djanali asked Winter.
“Just a couple of hours ago, when I went through the photos in the morning light.”
He was here when it was pitch black, Djanali thought, when everyone except this superman was fast asleep.
“Fröberg called me as soon as the test results came back,” Winter said.
“And the lab has verified it?” Halders asked. “I mean, there was quite a lot of blood, to put it mildly.”
“Yes,” Winter said.
“Can it be used as evidence?” Bergenhem asked.
“If there’s enough,” Ringmar said. “They think so. They’re working like crazy on it right now.”
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