Michaela Poulsen called from the lobby. It was shortly past eight. Winter was ready and walked down the steps under the desolate landscapes that hung in frames on the walls.
They followed Boulevarden, which turned into Østerågade. There were a lot of people out. Winter heard Swedish and German. A street troubadour sang about eternal youth in an open square to the left and had just started “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” when they walked past.
The wind tore at Winter’s hair at the intersection of Bispensgade.
“I always feel a strong sense of dread right here,” Poulsen said.
“I can understand that.”
“Come to think of it, I often feel a sense of dread in this job.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Now I’m going to keep looking straight ahead while I speak to you, because I think there’s a guy standing over there by the bookstore who’s more interested in us than he is in the books in the shop window.”
Winter felt he had to make an effort not to turn his head to the left. He looked at the dark stone walls of the bank in front of him. People passed behind them on the sidewalk as they stood with their backs to La Strada.
“Do you recognize him?” he asked.
“It’s hard to tell from here, but I doubt it. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to send a celebrity after us. A celebrity to me, that is.”
They moved a bit to the side and gazed at the Jyske Bank.
“So let’s get back to talking about what we were talking about just now,” Poulsen said. “Do you remember what it was?”
“The strong sense of dread we feel in our work,” Winter said.
They continued looking at the Jyske Bank but in silence.
“I can now inform you that the guy over by the bookstore has gone,” she said. “You don’t have to look, but we can walk over there now. I’m starting to feel stiff from standing here.”
They passed the bookstore. Mannequins stood unclothed in the windows of the Nordjylland fashion house and gazed out with glassy eyes. The bookstore was displaying new books by best-selling Danish authors.
“He’s either been reading Ib Michael or Susanne Brøgger,” Poulsen said.
They continued along Bispensgade to the entertainment district around Jomfru Ane Gade. It was difficult to make headway among all the people moving between the restaurants and bars. Music was coming from every direction. Winter thought about the Gothenburg Party. It was the same atmosphere here, filled with an anxiety that was both hard and soft, or of that same old search for calm.
“Shall we grab a table somewhere, seeing as we’ve confirmed that we are being watched?” Poulsen asked.
“Let’s do that.”
“There’s a pretty good brasserie in the next street. Or should we try to force our way into the thick of things right here?”
“Might be best to be in the thick of things,” Winter said. “It’s easier to observe us without our seeing.”
“He’s been walking behind us for the past few minutes,” Poulsen said.
Winter looked around. A hundred brutal neon signs pummeled his eyes: “L.A. Bar,” “Fyrtøjet,” “Rock Nielsen,” “Down Under Denmark,” “Café Rendezvous,” “Faklen,” “Rock Caféen,” “Duty,” “Jules Verne,” “Sunrise,” “Dirch på Regensen,” “Fru Jensen,” “Gaslight,” “Pusterummet,” “Corner,” “Jomfru Ane’s Dansbar,” “Giraffen,” “Musikhuset,” “Spirit of America.”
They went into Sidegaden. The slogan for the place was: “The night belongs to us.”
Poulsen ordered two bottles of Hof, and they squeezed together in front of the bar.
Winter was about to say something but was cut off by his Danish colleague.
“He walked past and now he’s walking past again.”
Winter raised the bottle to his mouth and turned his head slightly. He saw people out on the street and that was it.
“I don’t recognize him,” Poulsen said. “But that bastard’s certainly keeping an eye on us.”
“What conclusions should we draw from that?”
“I suppose you should feel honored. And that this is serious. I think your arrival has stirred up a bit of dust.”
“We’ve gotten closer to something.”
“Yes, and it both frightens and pleases me.”
“Now we’re going to find the last man in the group,” Winter said. “The group that visited the bank.”
“You think he’s still alive?”
“Yes. He killed Helene Andersén and he killed her father.”
Poulsen gripped her half-finished bottle of Hof and looked at him. “After twenty-five years. Why?”
“That’s what I’m trying to work out.”
“He could have done it right away.”
“No. That may have been the intention, but it didn’t work out. Maybe Kim Andersen got in the way.”
“What happened to the mother, then? Brigitta.”
“He killed her too,” Winter said. “He killed Kim Andersen and Brigitta Dellmar and the child was taken to Sweden. The idea was to get rid of any connection.”
“So why kill Helene after all this time?”
“I don’t know. Something happened. Something has happened. She found out something. She got to know who did it. She confronted him. The man who killed her mother and father. I’ve been looking for a single murderer all along.”
“And another child,” Poulsen said. “It’s a horrific situation.” She set her bottle down on the bar. “They’re all possible theories. But the question is still whether our bikers are more than just indirectly involved.”
“Look at the guy following us.”
“Maybe they know,” Poulsen said. “But the question is whether more than just the original gang of five was involved in this from the beginning.”
“Six,” Winter said. “You’re forgetting the child, Helene.”
“Where’s your murderer, then? Did he go along to Sweden or is he still in Denmark? Maybe even here in Ålborg?”
“He may have just walked by out there on the street,” Winter said. “I don’t know. The murder in August in Gothenburg doesn’t necessarily point to him living permanently in Sweden, but he was certainly there then.”
“If it is a he,” Poulsen said.
Winter nodded mutely.
“Or there’s another possible theory,” she said. “That there’s still just one survivor left from that bank robbery-and I’m counting all six-but that it’s a woman. Brigitta.”
Winter nodded again.
“I think your face just went pale,” she said. “I’m probably just as pale as you are. That’s an even more horrific thought.”
“That would have meant having her own child killed.”
“Maybe she had no choice. Maybe she didn’t know. You know as well as I do that we’re treading along the very brink of human misery here.”
“Yes,” Winter said, “that’s part of the job.”
“But it’s also just a theory,” Poulsen said.
53
THE RAIN AGAINST THE WINDOWWOKE HIMBEFORE THE ALARM. There was no sky out there to light the path through the room from the bed to the toilet.
Winter swung his legs over the side of the bed, and as he walked toward the john he stubbed his toe against the bedside table. It happened once every season.
He swore and sat down to massage his toe. The pain shrunk to a dull ache, and he stood up in order to take care of his pressing need.
When he was back in bed, he looked up at the ceiling and thought about Beate Møller, whom he hadn’t seen. Is that what he would end up doing? Would he drive out to her house in the east of the city only to park a ways off and see her walk in and walk out?