When she returned to her office, she called the police in Hudiksvall, off the top of her head. She thought she recognised the voice of the young woman who answered. She sounded less nervous and overworked than last winter.
‘I’m looking for Vivi Sundberg. Is she in today?’
‘I saw her walk past only a few minutes ago. Who’s calling?’
‘The judge in Helsingborg. That’ll be sufficient.’
Vivi Sundberg came to the phone almost immediately. ‘Birgitta Roslin. Long time no hear.’
‘I just thought I’d check in.’
‘Some new Chinamen? New theories?’
Birgitta could hear the irony in Vivi’s voice and was very tempted to reply that she had lots of new Chinamen to pull out of her hat. But she merely said that she was curious to know how things were going.
‘We still think the man who unfortunately managed to take his own life is the murderer,’ Vivi said. ‘But even though he’s dead, the investigation is continuing. We can’t sentence a dead man, but we can give those who are still alive an explanation of what happened and, not least, why.’
‘Will you succeed?’
‘It’s too early to say
Any new leads?’
‘I can’t comment on that.’
‘No other suspects? No other possible explanations?’
‘I can’t comment on that either. We are still embroiled in a large-scale investigation with lots of complicated details.’
‘But you still think it was the man you arrested? And that he really had a motive for killing nineteen people?’
‘That’s what it looks like. What I can tell you is that we’ve had help from every kind of expert you can think of — criminologists, profile makers, psychologists, and the most experienced detectives and technicians in the country. Needless to say, Professor Persson is extremely doubtful. But when isn’t he? There’s still a long way to go, though.’
‘What about the boy?’ Birgitta asked. ‘The victim who died, but didn’t fit the pattern. How do you explain that?’
‘We don’t have an explanation per se. But of course we do have a picture of how it all happened.’
‘There’s one thing I’ve been wondering about,’ said Birgitta. ‘Did any of the dead seem to be more important than the other victims?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Anybody who was exposed to especially brutal treatment? Or maybe the one who was killed first? Or last?’
‘Those are questions I can’t comment on.’
‘Just tell me if my questions come as a surprise.’
‘No.’
‘Have you found an explanation for the red ribbon?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve been in China,’ said Birgitta. ‘I saw the Great Wall of China. I was mugged and spent an entire day with some very intense police officers.’
‘Really?’ said Vivi. ‘Were you hurt?’
‘No, only scared. But I got back the bag they stole from me.’
‘So perhaps you were lucky after all?’
‘Yes,’ said Birgitta. ‘I was lucky. Thanks for your time.’
Birgitta remained at her desk after replacing the receiver. She had no doubt that the specialists who had been brought in would have had something to say if they’d felt the investigation was going nowhere.
That evening she went for a long walk, and spent a few hours leafing through wine brochures. She made a note of several from Italy that she wanted to order, then watched an old film on TV that she had seen with Staffan when they first started going out together. Jane Fonda played a prostitute, the colours were pale and faded, the plot peculiar, and she couldn’t help but smile at the strange clothes, especially the vulgar platform shoes that had been highly fashionable at the time.
She had almost dozed off when the telephone rang. The clock on the bedside table said a quarter to midnight. The ringing stopped. If it had been Staffan or one of the children they would have called her mobile phone. She switched off the light. Then the telephone rang again. She jumped up and answered using the phone on her desk.
‘Birgitta Roslin? My apologies for calling at this late hour. Do you recognise my voice?’
She did recognise it, but couldn’t put a face to it. It was a man, an elderly man.
‘No, not really.’
‘Sture Hermansson.’
‘Do I know you?’
‘Know is perhaps too strong a word. But you visited my little Hotel Eden in Hudiksvall a few months ago.’
‘Now I remember.’
‘I want to apologise for calling so late.’
‘You already have. I take it you have a special reason for calling?’
‘He’s come back.’
Hermansson lowered his voice when he spoke these last words. The penny dropped, and she realised what he was talking about.
‘The Chinaman?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘He arrived not long ago. He hadn’t booked in advance. I’ve just given him his key. He’s in the same room as last time. Number twelve.’
‘Are you sure it’s the same man?’
‘You have the film. But he seems to be the same person. He uses the same name, at least.’
Birgitta tried to think what to do. Her heart was pounding.
Her train of thought was broken by Hermansson.
‘One more thing.’
‘What?’
‘He asked about you.’
Birgitta held her breath. The fear inside her hit home with full force.
‘That’s not possible.’
‘My English is not good. To be honest, it took me some time before I realised who he was asking after. But I’m sure it was you.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘That you lived in Helsingborg. He seemed surprised. I think he assumed you were from Hudiksvall.’
‘What else did you say?’
‘I gave him your address, because you’d left it with me and asked me to get in touch if anything happened.’
You half-witted imbecile, Birgitta thought. She was suddenly panic-stricken.
‘Do me a favour,’ she said. ‘Call me when he goes out. Even if it’s the middle of the night. Call.’
‘I take it you want me to tell him I’ve been in touch with you?’
‘It would be good if you didn’t mention that.’
‘OK, I won’t. I won’t say a thing.’
The call was over. Birgitta didn’t understand what was going on.
Hong Qiu was dead. But the man with the red ribbon had come back.
34
After a sleepless night Birgitta Roslin called the Hotel Eden just before 7 a.m. The phone rang for a considerable amount of time without anybody answering.
She had tried to deal with her fear. If Ho hadn’t come from London and told her that Hong Qiu was dead, she wouldn’t have reacted so strongly to Sture Hermansson’s call. But she assumed that because Hermansson hadn’t been in touch again during the night, nothing further had happened. Perhaps the man was still asleep.
She waited another half-hour. She had several days ahead of her without any trials and hoped to work her way through all the piled-up paperwork and spend some time pondering her final decision regarding the sentence for the four Vietnamese criminals.
The telephone rang. It was Staffan from Funchal.
‘We’re taking a side trip,’ he said.
‘Over the mountains? Down in the valleys? Along those beautiful paths through all the flowers?’
‘We’ve booked tickets on a big sailing boat that’s going to take us out to sea. We maybe out of mobile phone range for the next couple of days.’