“Some quite enjoy the party.”
“Don’t give me that, Erik. You detest the sight of big groups of people drinking beer out of plastic cups and trying to convince themselves they’re having a good time. Or letting themselves be convinced they’re giving a good time. And look what happened to our Aneta. The Gothenburg Party! How’s she doing, by the way?”
“She’s having a little difficulty chewing, I guess.” Winter had tried to block out any thoughts of Aneta. But that was the wrong way to go about it. “I’m planning to pay her another visit soon as I can.”
“Humph. I hope she comes back soon, for the sake of morale. Her own, that is. And I like her. She’s not easily spooked, especially not by me, and that shows moxie.”
“Yeah, you’re pretty scary, Sture.”
“What’s all this about a mysterious symbol?” Birgersson was a boor about changing the subject.
“I don’t know.” Winter perched his cigarillo on the edge of the ashtray. “I really don’t know. Earlier I guess I had pretty much set it aside, but then Fredrik and I were down by the lake, and, well, you read the report.”
“That must have strengthened your belief in the importance of intuition when working on an investigation,” Birgersson said. “That you were on the scene when the boys appeared.”
“I literally was on the scene. I had a sudden impulse to head out there and it led me to the right spot.”
“How do you explain, then, that Halders went there too? I don’t think our good friend Fredrik can even spell intuition.”
“It’s not an easy word to spell. Have you ever tried it yourself?”
Birgersson smiled and waved it off. “So you were on the scene. But what good did it do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“The daub of paint in the boat doesn’t prove anything.”
“Of course not. But it’s the same paint as on the tree.”
“Maybe the boys did it themselves.”
“Then they’re good liars.”
“More and more people are getting better at lying. That’s what makes police work so variable, so fascinating. It keeps you on your toes at all times, don’t you find? Everyone lies.”
“The boys may have done it,” Winter said. “Or more likely other boys, or anyone at all who wanted to leave a sign behind. Or someone who’s just pulling our leg.”
“Or else it’s something a hell of a lot more sinister.”
“Yes.”
“Then it’ll be either a lot more difficult or a lot easier,” Birgersson said. “Know what I mean?”
“A maniac.”
“Either a maniac with a purpose, who’s satisfied and lost interest and is waiting for us, or a maniac who has only just gotten started.”
Winter said nothing. He heard no sounds from the courtyard or from within the building. Birgersson’s face was hidden in a patchwork of shadows and blinding light.
“I cannot stress enough how important it is that we identify this woman,” Birgersson said.
Helene, Winter thought to himself. Mother and murder victim.
“And where the hell are her children?” A mind reader, Birgersson. “If there are any.”
Winter cleared his throat cautiously, suddenly disgusted at the taste of smoke in his mouth, as if the stuff had shown its character as toxic gas.
“I could release photos of her dead face. I’m considering doing that, by the way.”
“What? How do you mean?”
“A public appeal, like a poster.”
“With her dead face?”
“That’s all we have.”
“Out of the question. How the hell would that look? Imagine what people would say.”
“They might say something that would help us.”
“We’re going to find her anyway,” Birgersson said. “Find out who she is.”
“We’re doing everything we can.”
“I know, I know. But it’s-I don’t quite know how to put it, Erik. It’s as if you have too many lines of investigation from the get-go. Too many directions.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, maybe sometimes you’re too conscientious, Erik. Maybe you see too many alternative solutions during the initial phase. Your brain springs into action, and the manpower gets spread thin.”
“So what you’re saying is that it would be better to have a more plodding, dull-witted cop in charge of this?” Winter crossed his legs.
“No no.”
“Well what do you mean, then? We’re following up the lead on the car and the marking on the tree, and we’re questioning people who either live or have been in the vicinity. We’re checking up on the cars that were parked there during the night, and we’re devoting all our resources to finding the woman’s name.”
“Okay, okay.”
“I could issue a public appeal, but you think that would be inappropriate.”
“Not me, primarily.”
“No. It’s primarily those biggest and most insurmountable of obstacles that we come up against in this line of work-namely, timorous superiors who don’t know and don’t understand. And I’m not talking about you.”
“You’re a superior yourself. Next in line to the throne, some say.”
“Not for much longer. I’m not dull witted enough.”
“Just forget I said that, Erik. All I meant is that we simply have to move forward. But you said something about the cars. That’s good-it’s concrete.”
“A hundred thousand identical models of Ford. Yeah, that’s concrete.”
Birgersson didn’t hear. Maybe the meeting was over. Then, “You had a good idea there. The night camera, the car.”
“Don’t start buttering me up now.”
“But it could lead somewhere.”
“We’re doing the best we can. And one way or the other we’ll solve this. I can feel it. Intuitively.”
Birgersson looked up from fiddling with his pack of cigarettes. “I don’t suppose any of our fellow officers partying up at the lodge heard or saw anything? The guys from investigations?”
“Bergenhem hasn’t reported back yet. But if so, someone ought to have been in touch by now-on their own, I mean.”
“Don’t try to fool me into thinking you’ve suddenly gone naive, Erik. How long does it usually take to get your memory back after a night at the lodge?”
“Don’t ask me. I’ve never had one.”
18
THERE’D BEEN FOUR CARS IN THE PARKING LOT DOWN BY THE lake. The thefts of the two reported stolen-both out of gas-seemed to have been carried out in accordance with standard rules of the industry, except that the spot where they’d been dumped was an anomaly. The owners claimed not to have any connections to eastern Gothenburg. They also had alibis.
Then there was the problem of the other vehicles. One of the owners had contacted the police just yesterday. The other they had to go find.
Bergenhem drove through the Högsbo industrial zone and parked outside the Högsbo Hotel.
It smelled of bread and burnt flour from the Pååls baking factory a bit farther on. Feeling sick to his stomach at the enveloping aroma, he set his foot down on the asphalt and silently tapped a rhythm.
When a man emerged from the building and walked down the half flight of steps to the parking lot, Bergenhem climbed out of the car. The man walked the twenty paces up to him. Bergenhem took off his sunglasses, and the man’s face brightened up along with everything else around him. The smell of bread returned. It got stuck between his fingers. Bergenhem reached out, and they shook hands. The man’s name was Peter von Holten. He was a few years older than Bergenhem-maybe a bit over thirty, with sharp features, but it may have been the light.
“I’m the one who called,” Bergenhem said.
“Shall we take a little drive?”
Von Holten had insisted that he not be visited at his job. Bergenhem had assured him that was okay. Sometimes they could be accommodating.