Room No. 10

by Ake Edwardson

  Ney didn’t answer.

  “When she took her long trip, did she go to Ellen? To her mother? Did she know that she was visiting her mother?”

  Ney nodded.

  “And then they continued to keep in touch?”

  “When it was possible.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be possible?”

  “They were both . . . afraid.”

  “Afraid? Of whom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think you do know, Mario.”

  “No.” He looked up. “I didn’t understand.”

  “Do you understand now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who were they afraid of?”

  “Christer Börge,” said Ney.

  “Did he know about their existence? Did he know about Paula? Did he know where Ellen was?”

  “I don’t actually know,” said Ney.

  “Didn’t they say anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you were the one they were afraid of?”

  “No.”

  “They were trying to escape you, Mario.”

  “No,” he said, lifting his head again and looking Winter in the eye. Winter couldn’t decipher what was in there. It was impossible. It was the most difficult thing he’d encountered.

  “When did you last see Ellen?” Winter asked.

  “It was . . . probably a couple of years ago.”

  “Where did you see her?”

  “At home.”

  “Where is home?”

  “In Sicily.”

  “Why did Ellen and Paula live together when the girl was ten years old?”

  Ney seemed to give a start at the sudden change in the interrogation.

  “It was Ellen. She just wanted to live . . . with the girl for a little bit.”

  “Did she tell her then that she was her mother?”

  “No. Not that I know of. For Paula, at that time, Ellen was a friend of the family.”

  Winter thought. According to Jonas, the eleven-year-old Paula had said that Ellen wasn’t her real mother. It could be like she said. Ellen wasn’t her real mother, because Elisabeth was her real mother. That was her world and her life. There weren’t yet any lifelong lies in her life back then.

  But Winter still couldn’t understand the silence, and he couldn’t accept it. These were some of the deepest secrets he had ever encountered in people he’d met in his job. A large part of his work was people’s secrets. From him. From each other. They ran deep.

  There was something more behind all of this, something Ney didn’t want to talk about.

  Ellen had left everything. Just left. That’s what it looked like, anyway. She had gone underground many years ago. Good God. As Winter thought that thought, he realized what he was thinking.

  “Why did Ellen leave everything?” Winter asked.

  “I’ve never completely understood that,” said Ney. “You’ll have to ask her yourself.”

  33

  The November sky was crying as though all hope for the world were gone. The wind tore at the windows as though it wanted to break into the police station. The October storms had come a month too late. Winter felt the wind through the pane, as though it were flowing through the glass.

  “The Älvsborg bridge is closed to traffic,” Ringmar said behind him.

  “No one in his right mind would drive on it anyway,” said Halders.

  Winter turned around.

  “Watch out over there,” said Halders. “The glass could give out.”

  “Then we’d be in the middle of a disaster movie,” said Bergenhem.

  “Maybe we’re the stars,” said Halders. “Maybe we have the lead roles.”

  “There can only be one lead,” said Bergenhem.

  “Then I’m the one we’re talking about here,” said Halders.

  Winter walked over to the oblong table and sat at the narrower end. He could feel the wind even there. It had taken over the ventilation system. Ringmar’s tie was moving. The knot of Ringmar’s tie was loose, almost undone. Winter wasn’t wearing a tie. It had recently begun to chafe at his neck. He couldn’t breathe. Maybe he would never wear a tie again.

  Ringmar cleared his throat. It wasn’t only because he wanted to have the floor and get back to their discussion. The violent change of weather had brought with it the first cold of the autumn. He hoped that it would be the only one.

  “What are we going to do with this?” he said.

  “The man doesn’t seem to be a marvel of reliability,” said Halders.

  They had been discussing Mario Ney for half an hour. Everything he had revealed to Winter. If “revealed” was the correct word.

  “If he has a motive, he’s hiding it well,” said Bergenhem.

  “Isn’t that always how it goes?” said Djanali.

  “Isn’t that the whole point for a murderer, after a crime?” said Halders. “To keep the motive secret?”

  “The motive and the crime itself,” said Bergenhem.

  “If there is a motive,” said Winter.

  “So he’s mentally ill?” said Halders.

  “He isn’t well,” said Winter, with a dry smile, “and he hasn’t been for a very long time.”

  “He’s a hell of a lot better than his daughter and his wives,” said Halders.

  “Is that what you’re calling them? His wives?” said Djanali.

  “I don’t know what I should call them,” said Halders.

  “There’s one thing we can be sure of,” said Ringmar. “It’s still possible to cheat the system.”

  “There are starting to be too many people in this country,” said Halders.

  “You don’t mean that,” said Djanali.

  “I was only speaking from a purely surveillance-based standpoint,” said Halders.

  “You mean Big Brother is starting to lose his grip?” Bergenhem asked.

  “It’s been almost a generation since Paula was born,” said Winter. “A lot has happened since then in the authorities’ version of Sweden.”

  “There’s always a way to cheat the system for someone who wants to,” said Ringmar, “the social system, the financial system.”

  “Yes, if the guy’s story is true,” said Halders, “but there’s starting to be a shortage of people who can verify it.”

  “So what should we do?” said Djanali.

  “Question him again, naturally,” said Halders. “Detain him for another six hours. He could be under suspicion for a crime, couldn’t he? He has no alibi whatsoever. He’s part of the family. That’s all. And the fairy tale he told Erik makes him even more of a suspect, in my book.”

  The room became quiet. Winter could hear the winds tearing at the window. In two weeks, the plane to Málaga would take off. He would be sitting on it, whatever happened. Halders was in the process of taking over. They did have cell phones and all that. But he wouldn’t be all the way on that plane, and, accordingly, it would be wrong to go. He wouldn’t be there. It would be a halfhearted trip in the sunshine. No. Yes. No. The children would be there, and Angela. His family. The world would keep on turning, and so on. There would be hope. He would have his children around him. There would be a sea, a horizon, a sunset, a dawn, and a dusk. Everything in between.

  That was enough for him.

  His cell phone rang. Everyone had been so engrossed in thought that they all appeared to jump when the ringtone sounded in the room. It drowned out the roar of nature outside.

  Winter listened, asked a few questions, hung up.

  “She was hanged,” he said. “Ellen.”

  “When?”

  It was Ringmar who asked.

  “No later than two weeks ago,” Winter asked.

  “She was well preserved,” said Halders. “It was good dirt.”

  “We still don’t know where it happened,” said Ringmar.

  “And how he transported her there,” said Halders.

  “While no one was watching,” said Ringmar.

&nbs
p; “What’s the latest from the door-to-doors?” Ringmar asked, turning to Bergenhem.

  “No one has seen anything. Of the people we’ve talked to so far. Or heard anything.”

  “How many were unavailable?”

  “Six addresses, last I heard from the guys.”

  “And when was that?” Winter asked.

  “Two hours ago.”

  “Get us a list of the unavailable,” he said.

  Bergenhem nodded.

  The unavailable. It sounded like the name of a movie, Bergenhem thought. A thriller. A disaster movie.

  “I’m going to have another conversation with Jonas,” said Winter, standing up.

  “Is he still here?” Halders asked.

  “Yes,” Ringmar answered. “He wanted to stay.”

  “Why?”

  “He said he was afraid.”

  • • •

  Jonas Sandler was sitting on the bed. It looked as though he had tried to make it up. One of the two pillows was on the floor. Winter could hear the wind outside the windows in this part of the building, too. Through the streaked glass he could see Gamla Ullevi. No one was playing soccer there this afternoon. The grass was oddly green, as though it had been painted, and with a very wide brush. He could see across the river to the other side, to the big island. Hisingen was swept in dark clouds. Beyond them was only darkness. Behind the darkness, the sun was about to go down, but no one could see it. It was only something you hoped, that the sun was still there.

  “How’s it going, Jonas?”

  The boy didn’t answer. His face was no longer that of a man, and it probably never would be. Too much had happened in the past.

  “Tell me,” said Winter.

  The boy looked up.

  “What am I supposed to tell you?”

  “The grove of trees. Why did you go out there?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  “What were you thinking when you went there?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What made you get on the streetcar?”

  “I . . . don’t know.”

  “Who are you afraid of, Jonas?”

  He didn’t answer. It was like he suddenly couldn’t hear.

  “Tell me, Jonas.”

  “I . . . that’s what I’m doing.”

  “Did you talk to anyone before you went out to the grove?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Did you talk to anyone before you left?”

  “No.”

  “Your mom? Weren’t you going out there? To see her?”

  “No. Not to see her. I didn’t go there.”

  “Were you planning on going to her place after?”

  “After? After what?”

  “When you’d been to the grove?”

  “No, no. I wasn’t thinking of anything.”

  “You were thinking of Paula,” Winter said.

  “Yes. Paula. Yes.”

  “Why did you think she was buried there?”

  The boy didn’t answer. Winter could tell that he was thinking about what he was going to say. But he had said all along that he knew. Something drew him there. Or someone. It hadn’t let him go.

  “It was like that . . . hand I saw once,” Sandler said, looking up again. He didn’t search for Winter’s eyes. He looked at the window behind Winter, the storm, the wind, the rain. Freedom, maybe. No. He seemed to be looking for that in here. Or for protection.

  “I really thought she was there this time,” the boy continued. “That Paula was there.” He rubbed his eyes. “I can’t explain it.”

  “Someone was there,” said Winter.

  “What?” Now Sandler sought Winter’s eyes. “What did you say?”

  “There was someone under the ground, Jonas. Did you know that?”

  “What? I don’t understand . . .”

  “Did you know that there was someone in that grave, Jonas? When you went out there?”

  “Grave? It was a grave?”

  “There was a woman buried there, Jonas. Where you started to dig. About a foot down in the dirt.”

  “Pa-Paula? Was it Paula?”

  “No, not Paula,” Winter answered.

  “Who was it, then?”

  Winter didn’t answer.

  “Who was it?” the boy asked again.

  “Her mother.”

  • • •

  Winter and Ringmar were sitting in Winter’s office. Winter had a slight headache that might get worse. He had taken ibuprofen and was waiting for it to take effect.

  Ringmar blew his nose loudly.

  “I hope that isn’t contagious.”

  “It’s too late for that,” said Ringmar.

  Winter felt the wind through the window, which was open a few centimeters out onto the park. He had opened it as soon as they’d come into the office.

  “The boy must have seen someone there in the grove,” said Ringmar. “Or outside it.”

  “Why doesn’t he say so, then?”

  “We haven’t asked him often enough,” said Ringmar.

  “You’re welcome to go in there and continue,” Winter said.

  “I don’t think it’ll help right now, Erik.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s in some sort of shock.”

  “It’s almost like I am, too,” said Winter.

  “What’s actually up with this list from Revy?” Ringmar said, grabbing the paper that was on Winter’s desk.

  “Well, the name Christer Börge isn’t on it, anyway.”

  “What was his name, your desk clerk? Saldo? Salko? In any case, didn’t he say that it wasn’t complete?”

  Winter didn’t answer.

  “And Börge hasn’t gotten the question from us, has he?” Ringmar said. “Whether he worked there?”

  “No, he has,” Winter said. “I remember it. Not whether he worked there, but when I met him in connection with Ellen going missing, he said he’d never heard of the place. Of Revy.”

  “Really,” Ringmar said.

  “Why say something like that?” said Winter.

  “He probably didn’t want you to know.”

  “But he knew we could check.”

  “And we have checked,” Ringmar said, waving the list, which he was still holding in his hand. “But it hasn’t helped, has it?”

  “What a fucking mess,” Winter said, getting up and walking over to the window in order to close it.

  “Have you talked to that desk clerk since all of this?” Ringmar asked. “What was his name?”

  “Salko, Richard Salko. No, I haven’t talked to him. He’s not answering at home.”

  “The hotel, then?”

  “The hotel closed. For good, thank God.”

  The phone on Winter’s desk jangled. Ringmar stretched out his hand and picked it up. Winter was over by the window.

  “Yes? Yes, hi. No, this is Bertil. Oh? Really? Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. Oh, shit. Yes. Yes. Okay, bye.”

  In the black mirror of his computer monitor, Winter could see Ringmar bang the receiver on the desk.

  “That was Öberg,” said Ringmar.

  “Well? Well?” Winter felt the draft from the window. It felt like he’d opened it up wide. “What did he say?”

  “They’ve found a little saliva on the rope,” Ringmar said. “The rope that hanged Ellen Börge.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s a woman’s.”

  “What?”

  “Elisabeth Ney’s.”

  “Elisabeth Ney’s?” Winter repeated. He felt the familiar shiver on the back of his head. “Elisabeth Ney’s?”

  “Yes sir. That’s all they’ve found.”

  “But . . .”

  “As long as she hasn’t returned from the dead to carry out her deed, she’s come into contact with that rope before,” said Ringmar.

  Three ropes, Winter thought. Identical ropes, blue, creased. Good instruments for murder. Nothing stuck. Except for something that Elisabeth Ney left behi
nd.

  Winter had placed the ropes beside one another, but it had mostly felt like a symbolic act. He understood neither the symbolism nor the act.

  “I don’t think there were meant to be any traces on that rope,” said Ringmar.

  “Especially not from the Ney family,” said Winter.

  • • •

  Mario Ney looked up when Winter stepped into the room. Ney got up slowly. He suddenly looked smaller than before, shorter. It was something about his shoulders. His back had usually been straight, but it wasn’t anymore. He was standing bent over himself, as though there was a great pain emanating from his stomach.

  Maybe he’s prepared, Winter thought.

  “What happened?” Ney asked.

  “Why do you ask, Mario?”

  “You look like something has happened.”

  “And how does that look?”

  “Like you, right now.”

  “Please sit down,” Winter said, preparing himself for questioning.

  • • •

  “I have nothing more to say,” Ney said a few minutes into the interview.

  “You haven’t told me anything yet,” said Winter.

  “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “Tell me about the apartment on Hisingen.”

  “I have nothing more to say about it.”

  “Why did you rent it?”

  “I’ve told you that. Do I have to repeat everything?”

  “Did you live there yourself?”

  “Never.”

  “Did you live somewhere else in the area?”

  “Why would I have done that?”

  Winter didn’t say anything. Ney wasn’t waiting for an answer. He seemed to be studying something in the distance, beyond the walls.

  Suddenly he stared Winter in the eyes.

  “While we’re sitting in here, a murderer is walking around loose out there,” Ney said.

  34

  Halders stroked his scalp. It looked newly shaven. Winter could see the ceiling lights gleaming on Halders’s bald head, as though he’d polished his skull.

  “What does Molina say?” Halders said.

  “He asked me if there’s really reasonable suspicion,” Winter answered.

  “Well, is there?”

  “I can usually get a reading on parts of the interrogation, but Ney is something of a mystery,” Winter said.

  “Maybe that means something,” said Halders.

  “The traces of his wife on the rope ought to count as a reason to detain him,” Bergenhem said. He had come into the room just after the others.