“Well, I’ll be damned,” Beier said. “Prints after twenty-five years. So you want us to tear off wallpaper and expose God knows how many layers-three maybe, or five-to see if there are any prints left underneath or in between?”
“Yes. There may only be one layer. The top one. Then there’s no problem.”
“Don’t forget that we have to go through the entire house.”
“Yeah, sure. But if. I’m saying if. Could there be anything still there? Traces of fingerprints?”
“The wallpaper glue will have destroyed everything, I think. Especially after such a long time. It’s damp and it penetrates the paper.”
“But you can’t swear that that’s the case?”
“I seldom swear.”
“Then I’d like to give it a try. Would you give it a try, Göran?”
“Okay. We’ll give it a try.”
“The Danes are doing the same.”
“What?”
“Haven’t they been in touch with you yet? If not, then they will be at any moment. They’re removing the layers of wallpaper at that summerhouse in Blokhus.”
“What do they want to find exactly?”
“Evidence from back then,” Winter said. “We know Helene was there. What if our Georg Bremer was also? What if we can prove it? What if we can prove that Helene Andersén was in Bremer’s house as a child? Or as an adult?”
“Then we’ll get invited to the FBI in Washington and lecture on it,” Beier said. “That is, I will.”
The winds swept in a circle around Ödegård, howling along its walls, which shuddered inside. The sky was black in the middle of the day. Night in the middle of the day, Winter thought, standing in front of the windmill. The vanes were spinning in all directions, aimlessly. The forest had moved in closer since they were last here; it loomed over him and everyone else who had come looking for clues. One of those who stood looking on was Birgersson. He’d come out here together with Wellman, and that was a sensation.
“How did you manage to stop the press from stomping around out here among the technicians?” Wellman asked.
“I thought that was your doing,” Winter said.
Wellman let Winter’s answer fly off with the wind around the lot and glade. He looked around. “One hell of a disturbing place, Ödegård.”
There was the loud crack of snapping floorboards coming from inside the house. A saw was being used. Perhaps shovels.
“Someone’s been digging in the basement,” Birgersson said.
“What did you say?” Wellman asked.
“The dirt in the basement has been dug up recently.” Birgersson looked up at the sky as a plane swooped down over them on its way to landing. “Jesus Christ. Am I dreaming or am I still awake?”
“I’ll ride in with you,” Birgersson said, when Winter headed toward the car. Wellman had already returned to the office.
They drove through the forest. Winter could only see it depicted in crayon, naturalistically, as it really was.
“You know we can’t hold this bastard if we don’t find something new,” Birgersson said. Winter kept to the right on the dirt road when they met a radio car on its way out to Ödegård.
“Part of the job of an investigator is also to rule out suspects,” Winter said. “I learned that one from you, Sture.”
“Are you trying to prepare yourself mentally for a failure?”
“That’s a big part of the job.”
“You’re in the process of putting together a very sleek chain of circumstantial evidence, but it’s still thin.”
“That was nicely put.”
“Come on, Erik. For Christ’s sake.”
Winter merged onto the highway, and Birgersson rolled up his window when they reached high speed. As the fog thickened across the fields in toward town, the cars were visible only by their low beams. Winter was overtaken by the airport bus. It careened along past them as if it were straining to take to the skies itself.
“I questioned Bolander yesterday,” Winter said. “The member of the brotherhood who is set to go on trial for the shoot-out at Hising-”
“I know who he is. I am your boss, you know.”
“Of course he didn’t give away anything, but there’s still a connection to the gangs. I’ve tried to focus on that as I’ve read through everything. Several of the names that have come up in this case have had some kind of connection.”
“To what?”
“To those organizations. I say ‘those’ because there are several of them.”
“Yeah?”
“That’s it. We can’t get any further. You’ll get all that in writing later, so you can file it away, Sture. We can see a possible connection but that’s about it. We’ve sent all the files back and forth and searched back in time-well, you know with Brigitta Dellmar and Denmark and the threats against me. The possible threats.”
Birgersson seemed to sink deeper into his seat. As they approached the Delsjö junction, he looked down at the lake and the parking lot beneath them. “The press is starting to lose interest in the girl,” he said. “It’s disturbing. Although it’s always disturbing where the press is concerned. When an investigation begins, it’s like going around with a boil on your ass, having them breathing down your neck all the time, and when the investigation plateaus and they start to lose interest, you realize you may never solve the case.”
“We will solve this case,” Winter said. “And the media interest has picked up again. After Bremer.”
“I’m counting on your being right, Erik.”
Winter rang Bremer’s sister’s doorbell unannounced. A streetcar passed by with the sound of water being flung by a powerful force. The fall had rained its way into November. He felt the dampness on his forehead and hands.
He pushed the bell again. No sound came from inside the apartment, so he rang it a third time and something shuffled inside. The lock cylinder turned. The door opened and he saw her face. She looked him over for a few seconds.
“You again?”
“I’d just like to ask a few more questions,” Winter said.
It sounded as if the old woman was sighing deeply. She hadn’t moved in her wheelchair.
“I was asleep,” she said. “I usually take a nap in my chair when the home helper is off looking after other worthless old geriatrics.”
“May I come in?”
“No.” She didn’t move. “If all you have is a few more questions, then you can ask them now.”
“There are some things regarding your brother-about his past.”
“It’s pointless.”
“It’s important,” Winter said. “I’ll come back later. I’ll call and we can set up a time.”
A day and a half passed. Winter questioned Georg Bremer again, but it felt pointless-lifeless words passed back and forth. He read the transcripts from the past few months. He waited.
Then Beier called, from Ödegård.
“There’s a second layer, and I don’t know how old it is, but it’s got prints. They could be from Bremer, if he put up the wallpaper, in which case we’re, well, back to square one. But they could also be from somebody else. It’s not much. And they’re small.”
“Small?”
“Small. That’s all I can tell you right now. Could be because of how much time has passed, the glue, moisture. But now you know, so stay off our backs for a bit. We’ll work quickly, I promise. But don’t get your hopes up.”
“This could take you to Washington,” Winter said. “Think about it.”
59
WINTER WAS ON HIS WAY TO THE DAY’S QUESTIONING SESSION with Bremer when Michaela Poulsen got in touch. Her voice was neutral.
“The layer of wallpaper underneath may have had prints, but the technicians say that time and wallpaper glue have destroyed everything.”
“Our glue isn’t as high quality as the kind you use in Denmark. They’ve found something here.”