Room No. 10

by Ake Edwardson

  “Who was it he was supposed to visit in that stairwell?”

  “Don’t remember,” said Halders. “I’ll have to look in the archive. Don’t even know if I wrote it down.”

  “Would you be able to check?”

  “When? Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” Halders said, getting up. “But what’s the hurry?”

  “I don’t know.”

  • • •

  The traffic was starting to thin out on the Älvsborg bridge. There were a hundred times a hundred lights down there. The evening sky was cloudless, deep blue over the North Sea.

  Metzer. His name was Anton Metzer. He had been on his way to visit a man in Martinsson’s stairwell, but he didn’t make it all the way there that night. Winter had written down the name. It told him nothing. He hadn’t interrogated everyone who lived in the stairwell. After half a day there hadn’t been anything to interrogate about. No one had asked questions about a hand that had been seen by an eleven-year-old boy and his dog.

  No one had talked to Metzer after Halders’s visit the same evening. There hadn’t been anything else to talk about, and there wasn’t now, either. Still, Winter felt a slight agitation, no, not that . . . a foreboding. A foreboding about the past. Could you say that? Why am I driving out there right now?

  The interrogation of the boy had told him something that he didn’t yet understand but still had the sense to follow up on. His primary reason for going out wasn’t to talk with the boy’s mother, but he would also try to do that.

  He would walk into that strange little grove of trees. Strange? Yes. It had been strange to stand there. The boy’s evident silence. Fear. Yes. The dog’s teeth. The dog had also become strangely silent.

  Winter parked in the parking lot alongside the buildings. He could be anywhere in the city at all. There were a hundred times a hundred residential areas like this one. He recognized the place because he knew he’d been here, but that was the only reason. He walked across the yard. The playground was in the electric half light, a glow that was more white than black. The grove of trees lay at the far end, and now he knew where he was for real, as though the last time he had been here was yesterday.

  He walked in among the few trees and turned on his flashlight. He suddenly heard a dog barking somewhere. The ground turned white when he shone the light on it. They had stood here. Somewhere down there had been something the boy said he’d seen.

  They hadn’t found anything.

  Winter shone the light on the ground for a long time, but he didn’t see anything that didn’t belong there. Just stone, dirt, gravel, dead leaves. A new autumn, one of many since the last time.

  He walked back toward the playground. It was like coming out of the forest.

  He felt the breeze in the stairwell, like the last time he had been here. He remembered it. It remained even when the door down there swung closed, whirling up and down like a lost soul.

  He rang the doorbell. It said “Metzer” on the nameplate, no first name. He rang again. It pealed inside, a ring that was left over from the past. Winter hadn’t given notice of his arrival. Metzer could be out.

  The door opened a few inches.

  “Mr. Metzer? Anton Metzer?”

  Winter could see a pair of eyes, part of a forehead. Dark hair.

  “Yes?”

  Winter introduced himself.

  “May I come in for a bit?”

  “Why?”

  “I have a few questions I’d like to ask.”

  “What is this about?”

  “May I come in?”

  The door opened. The man took a few steps back. He was dressed in a white shirt and brown pants that looked like they were made of gabardine. The slippers he had on his feet looked comfortable. His face was aged. It smelled like food in the hall, a late dinner. Winter heard voices from somewhere within, a television. There was an old rotary phone on a small table in the hall.

  “Well . . . I guess you should come in, then,” Metzer said, gesturing into the apartment.

  They went into the living room. There was a debate program on the television; people were sitting on two facing benches and Winter heard an agitated voice say, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard” and saw that it was a woman with large hair. Stupid things were always being said on TV, but few people dared to say so on the tube itself. Before Winter had time to hear any defense of the stupidity, Metzer turned the debate off with a button on the TV.

  Winter explained the reason for his visit.

  “That was a long time ago,” Metzer said.

  Winter nodded.

  “I don’t remember you,” Metzer said.

  “It was my colleague whom you spoke to.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Did you know the Martinssons?”

  “No, no. I never exchanged a word with them.”

  “But you became concerned when you walked past their door?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did it sound like?”

  “Like someone was about to kill someone else.”

  “Have you heard anything like that before?”

  “Here? No.”

  “Did you talk to them afterward? Either of them?”

  “No. Why would I do that?” Metzer changed position on the sofa. “And they moved just a few weeks later, you know, or maybe it was even sooner.”

  Winter nodded.

  “I just became concerned. That was why I called the police.”

  “Who was it that you were supposed to visit that evening?” Winter asked.

  “It was a neighbor over there. I told them that then, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  Winter read the name from his notebook. He remembered it, but he still used the notebook. It looked as though he had done his homework, prepared himself. He didn’t want it to look as though he’d fluttered across the bridge by chance.

  “He wasn’t home, I believe?”

  “No.”

  “So you had time to ring the doorbell that evening? At his place?”

  “Yes . . . I think I did, didn’t I?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No . . . It probably says in the witness statement, or whatever it’s called.”

  “It says that you didn’t visit him.”

  “Then that must be how it was.”

  Metzer looked at Winter. There was a line on his face that ran from one temple down across his cheek. It looked like a scar left by a sword. Metzer. He could be of German nobility.

  “It wasn’t . . . actually him I was going to visit,” Metzer said after a little while.

  “Sorry?”

  “His name was on the door, but he didn’t live there.”

  Winter nodded. He felt something across the top of his head, a faint excitement. That was how his body reacted. It came without warning.

  Please tell me, Anton.

  “There was a woman living there, subletting. And her daughter. It was just for a little while.”

  Winter nodded again.

  “They only lived there for a month or two.”

  He fell silent.

  “Yes?” said Winter.

  “I talked to the woman a little bit out in the yard. And the girl. And I . . . helped them a little. They needed help. Nothing was going on between her, the mom, and me, nothing like that. I was too old for that, even then. But I guess I felt sorry for them.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. They were a little . . . lost. Alone.” He seemed to give a small smile. “Like me, maybe.”

  “You were on your way to visit them that evening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything about that then? Eighteen years ago?”

  “No one asked.” Metzer rubbed his chin. It looked newly shaven. “And it wasn’t important. After all, surely it wasn’t something that would be of interest to the police, was it?”

  22 />
  Winter was standing in the yard again. He heard a dog barking again, from behind the grove of trees. The barking was carried by the wind. It circled around the playground as though it had wings. As Winter passed the playground, he thought of the boy. He must have sat there many times. The wind moved the swings in a faint back-and-forth motion. It was as though someone were sitting there, an invisible child.

  As he walked up the stairs, he had a strong sense that he would learn something important in the next hour. Something important, something he had suspected when he’d stood out in the yard and sat in Metzer’s apartment where the scent of loneliness and quiet desperation had sat over everything like dust.

  He rang the doorbell. It must be the same one as back then. Nothing seemed to have changed here; there was nothing new about what he saw around him. Nothing had been renovated, improved, spruced up. The money had run out before it had reached out here. There was none of that money for those who lived here. There was no money at all.

  Winter rang the doorbell and heard a single chime.

  The woman who opened the door had a towel wound around her hair. He recognized her immediately.

  She recognized him.

  “How may I help you?” she said. And then: “Has something happened?”

  “May I come in?” Winter said.

  “Has something happened to Jonas?”

  It was as though he were back in this place eighteen years ago, in this stairwell. He had only gone out for a little while, and come back, and the boy had disappeared.

  “You recognize me?” he said.

  “Winter,” she said. “I remember that name.”

  “I recognize you, too,” he said.

  “It’s been many years.” She looked behind his shoulder, as though to see whether he had come alone. “Many years have gone by.”

  “May I come in?”

  She took a few steps to the side, as though to let him pass. He stepped into the hall. All these halls I’ve stepped into during all these years. I could have sold vacuum cleaners, or encyclopedias. May I come in for a moment and sell you something? Steal something. Steal time.

  Winter saw the playground through the window, or maybe it could be called a French balcony. The glass went all the way down to the floor.

  “What is it that’s happened?” she asked again. She had removed the towel from her head in the bathroom, and she’d come back and sat across from Winter. Her hair was still damp. The lighting in the room made it shine.

  “Is it about Jonas?” she continued.

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Is it that strange?” She looked straight at him. “Why else would you come here?”

  “Nothing has happened to him,” Winter said. “But I ran into him. Recently.”

  “Why?”

  There was alarm in her eyes, but Winter couldn’t determine why. There could be several reasons for it, most of them natural.

  “Have you heard about the murder of a woman by the name of Paula Ney?” he asked. He could have chosen to ask her whether she recognized the name, just the name, but he wanted to see her reaction.

  “Paula? Paula . . . who? A murder? Why would I have heard of that?”

  “Paula Ney. N-e-y.”

  “How awful. No . . . I don’t know. Might I have read about it? Might it have been in the paper?”

  Göteborgs-Posten was on the table. Winter could see that it was open to the TV-guide portion. He could see the TV in the corner, to the right of the French balcony. It was an older model, but Winter couldn’t tell how old it was. He didn’t know much about televisions.

  “There’s been quite a bit about it in the paper,” he said, nodding toward the television, “and they’ve talked about it on TV.”

  “I might have seen something . . .” She looked down at the paper and then toward the TV. “But why did you come here to say that?”

  There were several answers to that question. It would be a long story.

  • • •

  Her face had transformed during the last minute. He had said that a woman had been murdered. And that he had recently run into her son. The alarm had spread out from her eyes.

  “Surely Jonas doesn’t have anything to do with this?” She leaned forward. “He doesn’t, does he?”

  “He met this woman a few times,” Winter said.

  “Oh, God.”

  “Have you met her?”

  For a second it looked as though she would say yes, just because it might help her son, without her knowing why or how. But maybe it would be just as well to say no. Maybe the truth was better now.

  “No,” she answered.

  “Paula Ney,” said Winter. “Jonas never talked about her?”

  “No.”

  “Are you completely sure of that?”

  “Yes. What is this? What has he done? Surely he hasn’t . . .”

  Winter didn’t say anything.

  “Is he”—she searched for the word—“a suspect?”

  Winter told her about Friskis & Svettis. He told her portions of Jonas’s story.

  She appeared to relax.

  “Well, then that’s what happened.”

  Winter heard a dog barking again and turned his head.

  “You believe him, don’t you?” she said. “Why wouldn’t you believe him?”

  Winter turned back toward her. Anne. Her name was Anne. It said so on the door, Anne Sandler.

  “All I did was talk to Jonas,” Winter said. “That’s all. We talk to many people when we’re working on an investigation. We have to. Jonas is one of the witnesses, an important witness. He was one of the last people to see Paula.”

  He saw her relax. Her alarm left parts of her face. He had seen a twitch at her temple, and a nervous movement across her mouth. Now the alarm was creeping back into her eyes again. It seemed to remain there.

  “When did you last see Jonas?” he asked in an easy tone.

  “Would you like coffee?” she said, and began to stand up. “Why, I forgot to ask you if you want a cup of coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” Winter answered. “Can you just tell me when you last saw each other?”

  • • •

  It had been some time since they’d seen each other. She hadn’t been able to tell him exactly how long. A month or so. That was a long time. She couldn’t give Jonas an alibi for the time that Winter was working with. He didn’t mention anything about an alibi. That might come later, another day, week, month.

  Winter didn’t ask why she so seldom saw her son, or why he didn’t see her. If it was, in fact, seldom. Who was he to judge? How many years had it been between the next-to-last and the last time he saw his father? And then it had been too late. How many times had he seen his mother in recent years? More and more often, at least. And maybe too often, this coming winter.

  They were in the kitchen now. Winter had suggested it. They had sat here eighteen years ago. The chair where Jonas had sat was empty. Winter remembered which chair it was. Memory sometimes worked that way.

  He had a few more questions.

  “I understand that a woman and her daughter lived on the fourth floor in this building?”

  She turned around with a few buns on a plate that she’d taken out of the microwave oven.

  “That time,” Winter continued, “when I was here the first time. Eighteen years ago.”

  “I see . . .”

  “Is that true?”

  “Yes . . . I think it was . . .”

  “How well did you know them?”

  “It wasn’t long. They didn’t live here for more than a month or so, I think, maybe two. It was a very short time.”

  “But you still remember that woman, and her daughter?”

  Sandler nodded.

  “Why is that?”

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  She was standing at the kitchen counter.

  “If it was such a short time,” Winter said.

  “Well . . . I suppose we sa
w each other a few times out at the playground. Or in the yard. And I suppose Jonas played with that girl a little bit. They were about the same age.” Sandler took a step toward the table. “There weren’t very many children here then. It was mostly older people here.” She walked up to the table and sat down. “And now they’re even older. Or we are, I should say.”

  “What were their names?” Winter asked. “What was their last name?”

  “I . . . don’t remember.”

  “Was it a difficult name to remember?”

  “I don’t actually know. Isn’t it easier to remember a difficult name?”

  “What was the woman’s first name?”

  “I don’t remember that either.” She pushed the coffee cup forward a bit on the table. “That’s strange. I really ought to.”

  “What was the girl’s name, then?”

  Sandler appeared to consider this.

  “I think her name was Eva,” she said after a bit. “I think I remember because Jonas said that name.”

  “Did you ever visit them? Did you go to their home?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It . . . just never happened. I suppose we didn’t have time to get to know each other well enough.” She looked around in the kitchen. “And they were never in here.” She looked suddenly at the empty chair beside Winter, as though it reminded her of something, too. “No, wait, I think the girl was here once.”

  “Was there any man in the family?”

  “Not that I know of. I didn’t see anyone. She never talked about any man.”

  Winter could see in her face that it had suddenly become painful to talk, that he had reminded her of something else that she didn’t want to think about, or talk about.

  “Why are you asking about her? About them?” she said, looking at him. “What do they have to do with . . . the murder?”

  “It’s about that night,” Winter said. “When we came here. When there was a fight in the Martinssons’ apartment.”

  “I remember that you asked about that. Back then. I think I told you what I knew about them, the Martinssons. It wasn’t much, I remember that.”

  Winter nodded.

  “But what do they have to do with it? With that fight? Or with anything else? The mom and the girl, I mean.”