‘I’ll leave you alone,’ said Chan Bing. ‘As you understand, the men can’t see you. Speak into microphone on the table if you want somebody to walk forward or turn in profile.’
‘Who will I be speaking to?’
‘You speak to me. Take good time.’
‘There’s no point. I don’t know how many times I have to say that I didn’t see the faces of my attackers.’
Chan Bing didn’t reply. The curtain was pulled to one side, and Birgitta Roslin was left alone in the room. On the other side of the one-way mirror were a number of men in their thirties, simply dressed, some extremely thin. Their faces were new to her. She didn’t recognise any of them — even if she thought for a brief moment the man on the far left was a bit like the man caught on Sture Hermansson’s surveillance camera in Hudiksvall. But it wasn’t him. This man’s face was rounder, his lips thicker.
Chan Bing’s voice came from an invisible speaker. ‘Take time.’
‘I have never seen any of these men before.’
‘Let the impressions mature.’
‘Even if I stay here until tomorrow, none of my impressions will change.’
Chan Bing didn’t answer. She pressed the microphone button in annoyance.
‘I have never seen any of these men before.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now look carefully at this one.’
The man standing fourth from the left on the other side of the oneway mirror took a step forward. He was wearing a quilted jacket and patched trousers. His thin face was unshaven.
Chan Bing’s voice sounded tense. ‘Have you seen this man before?’
‘Never.’
‘He’s one of the men who attacked you. Lao San, twenty-nine years, previously punished for many crimes. His father was executed for murder.’
‘I’ve never seen him before.’
‘He has confessed to the crime.’
‘So you don’t need me anymore, then?’
A policeman who had been hidden in the shadows behind her stepped forward and closed the curtain. He beckoned her to follow him. They returned to the office where Chan Bing was already waiting. There was no sign of Hong Qiu.
‘We want to thank you for your help,’ said Chan. ‘Now remains only some formality. A record is being written out.’
‘A record of what?’
‘The confrontation with the criminal.’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘I’m not a judge. What would happen to him in your country?’
‘That depends on the circumstances.’
‘Naturally our law system works the same way. We judge the criminal, his will to confess and the special circumstances.’
‘Is there any risk that he will be sentenced to death?’
‘Hardly,’ said Chan drily. ‘It is Western prejudice that in our country we condemn simple thieves to death. If he had used weapon it would be different.’
‘But his accomplice is dead?’
‘He resisted arrest. The two policemen he attacked are in intense care.’
‘How do you know that he was guilty?’
‘He resisted arrest.’
‘He might have had other reasons for that.’
‘The man you recently saw, Lao San, has confessed that it was his accomplice.’
‘But there is no proof?’
‘There is confession.’
It was clear to Birgitta that she would never be able to overcome Chan’s patience. She decided to do what she was asked to do, then leave China as quickly as possible.
A woman in police uniform came in with a file. She was careful to avoid looking at Birgitta.
Chan Bing read out what was written in the minutes. Birgitta thought he seemed to be in a hurry now. His patience is at an end, she thought. Or something else. He has what he wants, maybe.
In a long-winded document Chan Bing confirmed that Mrs Birgitta Roslin, Swedish citizen, had been unable to identify Lao San who was the perpetrator of the serious assault to which she had been subjected.
Chan Bing finished reading and handed the document over to her. It was written in English.
‘Sign,’ said Chan Bing. ‘Then you can go home.’
Birgitta Roslin read both pages carefully before adding her signature. Chan Bing lit a cigarette. He seemed to have forgotten already that she was there.
Hong Qiu entered the room. ‘We can go now,’ she said. ‘It’s all over.’
Birgitta said nothing on the way back to the hotel.
‘I assume there wasn’t a suitable flight available for me today?’
‘I’m afraid you will have to wait until tomorrow.’
There was a note for her at the front desk saying that she had been rebooked with Finnair the following day. She was about to say goodbye when Hong Qiu offered to collect her later for dinner. Birgitta agreed immediately. Being alone in Beijing was the last thing she wanted just now.
She entered the lift and thought of Karin, on her way home, airborne and invisible high up in the sky.
She called home immediately, but had problems working out the time difference. When Staffan answered, she could hear that she had woken him up.
‘Where are you?’
‘Still in Beijing.’
‘Why?’
‘I was delayed.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Here it’s one in the afternoon.’
‘Aren’t you on the way to Copenhagen now?’
‘I’m sorry if I woke you. I’ll be arriving at the same time I was supposed to arrive tomorrow, but a day later.’
‘Is everything OK?’
‘Everything’s fine.’
The connection was cut off. She tried to call again, but couldn’t get through. She sent a text confirming the change in plans.
When she finished, she looked around and had the feeling that somebody had been in her room while she had been detained by the police. Her suitcase was open. Her clothes were not as she had packed them. The night before, she had tried closing the lid to make sure that nothing was catching. She tried closing the lid again now, but it was impossible.
Then she realised — identifying an attacker was nothing more than a means of getting her out of her hotel room. Everything had gone very quickly once Chan Bing had finished reading the minutes to her. He must have been informed that whoever was searching her room had finished.
It’s not about my case, she thought. The police are searching my room for other reasons. Just as Hong Qiu suddenly appears at my table out of thin air.
There’s only one possible explanation. Somebody wants to know what I’m doing with a photograph of an unknown man outside the skyscraper next to a hospital. Perhaps that man isn’t such a mystery after all?
The fear she had felt earlier now hit her with full force. She started searching for cameras and microphones, looking behind pictures, examining lampshades, but she found nothing.
At the agreed time she met Hong Qiu in the lobby. Hong Qiu suggested they go to a famous restaurant, but Birgitta didn’t want to leave the hotel.
‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘Mr Chan Bing is a very trying man. All I want to do is to have a quick bite to eat, then go to sleep. I’m going home tomorrow.’
The final sentence was intended as a question. Hong Qiu nodded.
‘Yes, you’re going home tomorrow.’
They sat down by one of the tall windows. A pianist was playing on a small stage in the middle of the huge room, which contained both aquariums and fountains.
‘I recognise that tune,’ said Birgitta Roslin. ‘It’s an English song from the Second World War. We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when. Perhaps it’s about us?’
‘I’ve always wanted to visit the Nordic countries. Who knows?’