When Birgitta woke with a start she found she had slept for three hours. Dusk was already falling. She had intended to look for Ho at her home address in Chinatown that same day, but now she decided to wait until tomorrow. She took a short walk to Piccadilly Circus and went into a restaurant. Shortly afterwards a large party of Chinese tourists came in through the glass doors. She stared at them in a state of rising panic but managed to gain control of herself. After her meal she returned to the hotel and sat in the bar with a cup of tea. When she collected her room key she noticed that the hotel had a Chinese night porter. She wondered if it was only now that Chinese people were popping up all over Europe, or if it was an earlier development that she hadn’t noticed before.
She thought back over what had happened, with the return of the Chinese man to the Hotel Eden and Sture Hermansson’s death. She was tempted to call Vivi Sundberg but resisted the urge. If the hotel register was missing, a photograph in the do-it-yourself surveillance camera was unlikely to make much of an impression on the police. Moreover, if the police thought the death was an accident, there would be no point in making a call. But she did dial the hotel’s number. There wasn’t even an answering machine to say the place was closed — not for the season, but probably for good.
Unable to shake off her fear, she barricaded the door with a chair and checked the window locks carefully. She went to bed, surfed through the television channels, but rather than whatever was flickering past on the screen, she kept seeing a sailing boat beating its way over the sea from Madeira.
She woke up in the middle of the night to find the television still on, now showing an old black-and-white James Cagney gangster movie. She switched off the lamp that was shining directly into her face and tried to go back to sleep. But failed. She lay awake for the rest of the night.
It was drizzling outside when she got up and drank coffee without eating anything. After borrowing an umbrella from reception, where there was now a young woman of Asian apparance, perhaps from the Philippines or Thailand, Birgitta stepped out into the streets of London. Most of the restaurants were still closed. Hans Mattsson, who travelled the world in search of new taste sensations, had once said that the best way of finding really good restaurants, be they Chinese, Iranian or Italian, was to look out for ones that were open in the mornings, because they didn’t only cater to tourists. At Ho’s address there was a restaurant on the ground floor, as she had described. It was closed. The building was constructed of red brick, with an alley on either side. She decided to ring the bell by the door leading to the building’s flats.
But something made her hesitate. She crossed the street to a cafe — open in the morning — and ordered a cup of tea. What did she actually know about Ho? And what did she know about Hong Qiu, come to that? One day Hong Qiu had suddenly turned up at her restaurant table out of nowhere. Who had sent her? Could it have been Hong Qiu who sent one of her burly bodyguards after Karin Wiman and Birgitta when they visited the Great Wall? There was one fact Birgitta couldn’t avoid: both Hong Qiu and Ho knew a great deal about who she was. And all this was because of a photograph.
Were her suspicions on the mark? Had Hong Qiu turned up in order to entice her away from the hotel? Perhaps it wasn’t even true that Hong Qiu had died in a car accident. Maybe Hong Qiu and the man who called himself Wang Min Hao were somehow or other both involved in what had happened at Hesjövallen. Had Ho come to Helsingborg for the same reason? Could she have known that a man was on his way once more to the little Hotel Eden?
She tried to recall what she had told Hong Qiu in their various conversations. Too much, she now realised. What surprised her was that she hadn’t been more careful. Hong Qiu had been the one who raised the matter. A throwaway remark that the mass murders in Hesjövallen had been an item in the Chinese mass media? Was that really plausible? Or had Hong Qiu merely enticed Birgitta to walk out onto the ice in order to watch her slip and then helped her back onto dry land once she had found out what she wanted to know?
Why had Ho spent so much time in the public gallery of Birgitta’s courtroom? She didn’t understand Swedish. Or perhaps she did? And then she had suddenly had to rush back to London. What if Ho had only been there in order to keep an eye on Birgitta? Perhaps Ho had an accomplice who had spent hours rummaging through Birgitta’s home while the judge was sitting in court?
Right now I need somebody to talk to, she thought. Not Karin Wiman, she wouldn’t understand. Staffan or my children. But they are out at sea and unreachable.
Birgitta was just about to leave the cafe when she saw the door on the other side of the street open. Out came Ho, who started walking towards Leicester Square. It seemed to Birgitta that Ho was on her guard. Birgitta hesitated before emerging into the street and following her. When they came to the square, Ho entered the little park, then turned off towards the Strand. Birgitta kept expecting Ho to turn round to check if anybody was following her. She finally did just before they came to Zimbabwe House. Birgitta had time to lower her umbrella to hide her face but almost lost Ho until she caught sight of her yellow raincoat again. As they approached the Savoy Hotel, Ho opened the heavy door to a big office block. Birgitta waited for a few minutes before going up to read on the well-polished brass nameplate that it was the English-Chinese chamber of commerce.
She retraced her steps and selected a cafe in Regent Street just off Piccadilly. Sitting down with a cup of coffee she dialled one of the numbers on Ho’s business card. An answering machine invited her to leave a message. She hung up, prepared what she wanted to say in English, then dialled the number again.
‘I did as you said. I came to London because I think I’m being pursued. Right now I’m sitting in Simon’s, a cafe next to Rawson’s fashion house on Regent Street, just off Piccadilly. It’s now ten o’clock. I’ll stay for an hour. If you haven’t been in touch by then, I’ll call you again later.’
Ho arrived forty minutes later. Her garish yellow raincoat stood out among the dark clothes most people were wearing. Birgitta had the feeling that even this was of some significance.
‘What’s happened?’
A waitress took Ho’s order for tea before Birgitta could answer. She explained in detail about the man who had turned up at the hotel in Hudiksvall, that it was the same man she’d told her about before, and that the hotel owner had been killed.
‘Are you sure about this?’
‘I haven’t come all the way to London to tell you about something I’m not sure of. I’ve come here because this all really happened, and I’m scared. This man asked specifically about me. He was given my address, the house where I live. Now I’m here. I’m doing what Ma Li or actually Hong Qiu said to you and you said to me. I’m scared, but I’m also angry because I suspect that neither you nor Hong Qiu has been telling the truth.’
‘Why should I lie? You’ve come a long way to London, but don’t forget that my journey to visit you was just as long.’