‘She was in a hurry. What was different about the death of the boy?’
‘I haven’t managed to find out every detail. I have to admit that the Hudiksvall police and the ones they’ve called in from the CID in Stockholm are keeping their cards unusually close to their chest. But I think I’m right in saying that the boy wasn’t exposed to unwarranted violence.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘What can it mean but that he was killed without first having to experience unnecessary suffering, torture and fear? You can draw various conclusions from that, each one more likely but probably more false than the next. But I’ll let you do that yourself. If you’re interested.’
He stood up, having first once again stubbed out his cigarette in the plant pot.
‘I’d better get back to circulating,’ he said. ‘Maybe we’ll bump into each other again. Who knows?’
She watched him go out through the door. A receptionist came past and paused when she smelled the smoke.
‘It wasn’t me,’ said Birgitta Roslin. ‘I smoked my last cigarette when I was thirty-two years old, which must be around about the time you were born.’
She went up to her room to pack her bag. But she paused by the window, watching the persistent father with his sledge and his children. What exactly had that unpleasant man said? And was he really as unpleasant as she thought? No doubt he was only doing his job. She hadn’t been particularly cooperative. If she’d treated him differently, he might have had more to tell her.
She sat down at the little desk and began making notes. As usual, she could think more clearly when she had a pen in her hand. She hadn’t read anywhere that a young boy had been murdered. He was the only young person to be killed, unless there were other victims the general public didn’t know about. What Lars Emanuelsson had said about excessive violence could only mean that the others in the house had been badly beaten, perhaps even tortured, before they were killed. Why had the boy been spared that? Could it simply be that he was young and the murderer had somehow taken that into account? Or was there some other reason?
There were no obvious answers. And anyway, it wasn’t her problem. She still felt ashamed of what had happened the previous day. Her conduct had been indefensible. She didn’t dare think about what would have happened if some journalist had found her out. Her return back home to Skåne would have been humiliating, to say the least.
She packed her bag and prepared to leave her room. But first she switched on the television to catch the weather forecast, which would help her make up her mind about which route to take. She stumbled on the broadcast of a press conference at police HQ in Hudiksvall. There were three people sitting on a little dais, and the only woman was Vivi Sundberg. Her heart skipped a beat — what if Sundberg was about to announce that a judge from Helsingborg had been exposed as a petty thief? She sat down on the edge of the bed and turned up the sound. The man in the middle, Tobias Ludwig, was speaking.
She gathered it was a live broadcast. When Tobias Ludwig had finished what he had to say, the third person — public prosecutor Robertsson — pulled the microphone towards him and said that the police badly needed any relevant information they could get from the general public. Nonlocal cars, strangers who had been noticed in the vicinity, anything that seemed unusual.
When the prosecutor had finished, it was Vivi Sundberg’s turn. She held up a plastic bag. The camera zoomed in on it. There was a red ribbon inside. Sundberg said the police would like to hear from anybody who recognised the ribbon.
Birgitta Roslin leaned towards the screen. Hadn’t she seen a silk ribbon like the one in the plastic bag? She knelt down in order to get a better view. The ribbon certainly reminded her of something. She racked her brains, but couldn’t place it.
The press conference proceeded to the stage where journalists started asking questions. The picture vanished from the screen. The room in police HQ was replaced by a weather map. Snow showers would drift into the east coast from the Gulf of Finland.
Birgitta Roslin decided to take the inland route. She paid at the front desk and told the girl on duty that she had enjoyed her stay. There was a bitterly cold wind as she made her way to the car. She placed her bag on the back seat, studied the map and decided to drive through the forest to Järvsö and continue south from there.
When she came out onto the main road, she pulled into the first parking bay. She couldn’t stop thinking about that red ribbon she had seen on television. She remembered having seen an identical ribbon, but couldn’t put her finger on when or where. She could almost identify it, but couldn’t take that final step. If I’ve come this far, surely I’ll be able to find out, she thought, and phoned police HQ. Timber trucks kept rumbling past, whipping up heavy clouds of snow that restricted her view. It was quite some time before the phone was answered. The operator who responded sounded harried. Roslin asked to speak to Erik Huddén.
‘It’s related to the investigation,’ she explained. ‘Hesjövallen.’
‘I think he’s busy. I’ll give him a buzz.’
By the time he came to the telephone, she was starting to have second thoughts. He also sounded impatient and under pressure.
‘Huddén.’
‘I don’t know if you remember me,’ she said. ‘I’m that judge who insisted on speaking to Vivi Sundberg.’
‘I remember.’
She wondered if Sundberg had said anything about what had happened that night. But she had the distinct impression that Huddén knew nothing about it. Perhaps Sundberg had in fact kept it to herself, as she’d promised? Perhaps I’m helped by the fact that she broke the rules by letting me into the house in the first place?
‘It’s about that red ribbon you showed on TV,’ she said.
‘Hmm, I’m afraid it seems to have been a big mistake to do that,’ said Huddén.
‘Why?’
‘Our switchboard has practically gone up in smoke thanks to all the people who claim to have seen it. Usually wrapped round Christmas presents.’
‘My memory tells me something quite different. I think I’ve seen it.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. But it has nothing to do with Christmas presents.’
He was breathing heavily at the other end of the line, and seemed to have trouble making up his mind.
‘I can show you the ribbon,’ he said eventually. ‘If you come right away.’
‘Within half an hour?’
‘You can have two minutes, no longer.’
He met her in reception, coughing and sneezing. The plastic bag with the red ribbon was on the desk in his office. He took it out of the bag and laid it on a piece of white paper.
‘It’s exactly seven and a half inches long,’ he said. ‘Just under half an inch wide. There’s a hole at one end suggesting that it’s been fastened to something. It’s made of cotton and polyester, but gives the impression of being made of silk. We found it in the snow. One of the dogs sniffed it out.’
She was certain she recognised it, but still couldn’t remember where from.
‘I’ve seen it,’ she said. ‘I can swear to that. Maybe not this particular one, but something identical.’
‘Where?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘If you’ve seen a similar one in Skåne, that’s hardly going to help us.’
‘No,’ she said seriously. ‘It was somewhere up here.’
She stared at the ribbon while Erik Huddén leaned against the wall, waiting.
‘Still can’t place it?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
He put the ribbon back into the plastic bag and accompanied her down to reception.