He shook hands with Louise and wished her luck.
‘Unfortunately I can’t stay,’ he said. ‘I have a meeting at the embassy. But Madame Riveri will keep me informed.’
He left the room, and I could hear his footsteps dashing up the stairs.
‘He’s been a great help,’ I said.
‘I’m glad he’s not the father of my child,’ was Louise’s response.
I didn’t understand what she meant. Or perhaps I did.
Madame Riveri was about fifty years old and elegantly dressed. She moved and talked in a relaxed manner which left no one in any doubt about her opinion of her own ability in legal affairs. With a firm gesture she dismissed the female officer and took a notebook out of her bag. When she realised that Louise’s French wasn’t good enough to sustain a meaningful discussion, she switched to English. I now heard in detail how Louise had travelled around on the Metro looking for a suitable victim. Madame Riveri wanted to know exactly where and when she had boarded the first train, where she had changed and why she had chosen that particular man as her target. The way Louise answered convinced me that she trusted Madame Riveri.
They spoke about the baby, but the identity of the father wasn’t mentioned. Finally Madame Riveri asked if this was the first time Louise had committed a crime. She said it was, but I could see that the other woman didn’t believe her. Louise’s dexterity spoke of a great deal of practice over a long period.
‘What you have just told me is not true, of course. However, it will help our case if you are a first-time offender who just happened to get caught.’
Madame Riveri snapped her leather-bound notebook shut and slipped it into her bag.
‘I would ask you not to speak to anyone unless I am present,’ she said. ‘We’ll have you out of here in a couple of days, three at the most. I doubt if it will be sooner, but it is possible.’
She got to her feet, shook Louise’s hand then nodded to indicate that she wanted me to accompany her. The police officer escorted Louise away and I trotted up the stairs after Madame Riveri; she was moving so fast that I found it difficult to keep up. When we were out on the street and the heavy door had closed behind us, she gave me her card.
‘I’ll pay whatever it costs, of course,’ I said.
She gave me an ironic smile. ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘But we don’t need to discuss that at the moment.’
I wanted to find out what was going to happen next, but she hailed a cab and disappeared without even saying goodbye.
I set off for my hotel. There was rain in the air. I stopped on the bridge over the Seine and watched a barge as it passed beneath me. A woman was hanging out washing, and there was a pram anchored to the deck. I jumped when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and looked straight into a dirty, unshaven face. When the man asked me for money, there was no avoiding his bad breath. I gave him a euro and walked away.
I remembered my father confiding his great fear: he was terrified that one day he would be unable to pay his bills and would end up living on the street. I never understood why he told me that. Perhaps he wanted to warn me? But I was careful and always made sure I had money put aside in case of something unexpected.
When I reached the hotel, Monsieur Pierre was back with his warm smile. I went into the bar and had a cup of tea as a change from all that coffee before taking the lift up to my room.
I had just lain down on the bed when my telephone rang. It was Madame Riveri; she had arranged an appointment with the magistrate’s court for the following day to request that Louise be released and deported from France. She wanted to know if I would be able to pay for my daughter’s flight to Sweden; I told her that wasn’t a problem.
I fell asleep, and in my dream my father was running around a deserted pavement cafe. It was very windy, and the napkin over his arm was flapping like a partially torn-off wing. I tried to call out to him, but I couldn’t force a single sound from my throat.
As my father fell over, I woke up with my heart racing. I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to slow my breathing. After a few minutes I checked my pulse: ninety-seven. Much too fast. I lay down again and thought about my heart. Had I lived a life that put me at risk of an unexpected heart attack? I tried to dismiss the idea but without success. I took a tranquilliser from the pack I always carried with me and waited for it to take effect.
My phone rang again; this time it was Lisa Modin.
‘I’m in Paris. Where are you?’
‘At the hotel you booked for me.’
‘Is it OK?’
‘Yes. Where are you?’
‘At the station — Gare du Nord.’
‘Not Gare Montparnasse?’
‘I’m on my way there.’
‘Are you staying in this hotel?’
‘No, but not far away.’
‘I’ll come and meet you. Just tell me where you are in the station, and I’ll come over.’
‘There’s no need. I know where my hotel is.’
‘I’ve always dreamed of meeting a woman arriving in Paris.’
She laughed, briefly and with a hint of embarrassment.
‘I’ve found my daughter,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you more later.’
‘Pick me up in an hour. I’ve only just got here; I need to sit down and get used to the idea.’
I promised to meet her, then I went down to the bar and ordered a mineral water. Monsieur Pierre was just getting ready to hand over to the night porter.
Thirty minutes later Lisa rang to tell me she was in a small cafe next to a big Dubonnet sign.
There were still plenty of people in the station, but the rush hour was over. I immediately spotted the Dubonnet sign; Lisa was sitting alone, drinking tea next to the barrier separating the cafe from the waiting room. She was wearing a dark blue coat, and her suitcase was by her feet.
I thought how pretty she was, and that she had come to visit me.
I was just about to go over to her when my phone rang. I thought it might be Louise, so I answered.
Needless to say, it was Jansson.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asked. ‘Where are you?’
‘It doesn’t matter where I am. What do you want? If you’ve developed some new imaginary illness, I don’t have time for that right now.’
‘I just wanted to call and tell you there’s a fire.’
At first I didn’t understand what he meant, and then I went cold all over.
‘What’s on fire? My boathouse?’
‘The house on Källö. The widow Westerfeldt’s house.’
‘Has it burned down?’
‘It’s still burning. I just wanted you to know.’
The call ended abruptly; I guessed that Jansson had failed to charge his phone, as usual.
I thought about what he had said; I hoped the widow Westerfeldt had managed to get out. Her house was very similar to mine. It had been built along the same lines by skilled carpenters at the end of the nineteenth century.
I stood there clutching my phone. I was finding it very difficult to process what Jansson had said, but surely it must mean that I couldn’t possibly be a suspect? Unless of course there were natural causes behind this latest blaze.
I couldn’t know, and yet I was sure. There was a pyromaniac or an arsonist loose on our islands.
I slipped my phone into my pocket, and when I looked over at Lisa again she had seen me. She waved hesitantly, as if she really wanted to hide the gesture.
I waved back and went over to her table.