Death Angels

19

BECKMAN HAD SPENT HlS VACATlON DRINKING ON THE TERRACE of the Altamar Aparthotel, gazing out at the northern horizon. He had been sober on the plane home. End of story.

He wasn’t the first person they’d brought in for questioning. But this was something different, Winter thought as he took the elevator up, briefcase in hand. His luggage would arrive later.

Beckman was suffering minor withdrawal symptoms, far from delirious but with an unsteady gait that made him look like he was listening to funk.

Winter sat across from Beckman: what a homecoming for him, and to think I never even got off the ground.

The tape recorder hummed, registering a short, clear laugh that echoed through the corridor outside.

“I don’t remember very much,” Beckman said after they had dealt with the formalities.

“What time did you get home from work the night you saw Jamie Robertson with this man?”

“A minute or two after midnight. But that’s not what actually happened.”

“What didn’t actually happen?”

“It’s like this. I went out, and then I came back and thought I saw the man again.”

“You saw him a second time?”

“I had dropped my scarf somewhere. It might sound weird, but I couldn’t find it and I thought it must have fallen off while I was buttoning up my coat in the doorway, so I went back and saw him from behind as he walked up the stairs.”

“Was he by himself then?”

“Yes, the second time he was by himself.”

“Can you describe what he looked like?”

“That’s not so easy.”

“Try anyway.”

“But there was something else about him too.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know how to put it.”

The laughter returned, a little softer as if it had bounced off the wall at the end of the corridor.

Maybe the laughter will calm him down, Winter thought. Or just confuse him even more. Right this minute we’re ransacking his apartment. He killed Jamie and caught the first available flight. He’s going to confess any minute, and then the other murders too. Maybe he went to London. Maybe tonight we can celebrate and hope for a decent interval before the next case. Everything depends on coincidence, a stroke of luck or a wide net that pulls in just the fish you’re looking for. As long as we stick to our routines, if we’ve got our catch, it’s just a matter of waiting until he stops flailing.

“There was something about him I recognized,” Beckman said. “Now that I’ve had the chance to think about it a little.”

Winter nodded. The central air droned like the murmuring of a heart, suffocating the room in its own odor of perspiration mixed with stale cologne from some other era. The afternoon radiance was waning, the fluorescent lights casting deeper shadows. Winter hadn’t turned on his desk lamp yet. He nodded again to Beckman.

“It was his jacket. That must be what made me think about it now, or what I recognized then.”

“You recognized his jacket?”

“Yes, I don’t know why, but I flashed on something I’d seen on the streetcar.”

“The streetcar?”

“When you sit in a booth like that all day long, you pick up on little things about people. Not as much now as when we had the same route every day, but still.”

Beckman’s hand trembled as he raised a glass of water to his lips, but he managed not to spill it. “You begin to notice regular passengers,” he continued, putting the glass back down.

“So you remembered this guy?” Winter asked.

“I’m pretty sure I had a passenger a few times who wore a jacket like that, but nothing else comes to mind.”

“What was so special about the jacket?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“The color?”

“It was a black leather jacket, but that’s not it.”

“The kind of leather?”

“No,” Beckman said, drawing out the word. “I can’t put my finger on it.”

“The buttons, maybe?”

“The buttons… no.”

Jesus, Winter thought. “The writing on the back of the jacket?”

Beckman shook his head. “It’s completely slipped my mind.”

“Was he tall?”

“I think so… Yes, he was.”

“Taller than Jamie?”

“It looked like it. But it’s hard to tell when two people are walking up the stairs.”

“About my height?” Winter stood up.

“Yes, probably.”

“How would you describe the way he walked?”

“Just like anybody else.”

“He didn’t limp or anything?”

“No, but walking up a staircase is a kind of limp. He had long, dark hair by the way.”

“How long?”

“Shoulder length, I think.”

“Are you sure?”

“It occurred to me at the time that you don’t see many people with hair like that anymore.”

He’s calmer now, Winter thought, as if he had been given a hangover remedy. Or maybe the sound of his own voice and the scraps of memory have soothed him, the way music puts the mind at ease.

“Fifteen years ago, when you saw pictures from the sixties,” Beckman explained, “it seemed like everyone dressed differently back then, especially with their hair. But now I guess they’re pretty much the same as the photos that appear in the papers today.”

“Soccer teams,” Winter said.

“What?”

“Most photos of soccer players in the sixties could have been taken yesterday, at least when it comes to the hair.”

“That’s true.”

“So this man’s hair was long?”

“Like an Argentinean soccer player. There was something unreal about it, almost like a wig.”

“A wig?”

“I’m not sure.”

“A toupee?”

“He was wearing glasses.”

“Glasses?”

“Heavy, with black frames, I think, but don’t hold me to it.”

“Horn-rimmed?”

“I guess that’s what they’re called.”

“We’re going to put together a composite sketch based on what you’ve told us.”

Beckman looked past Winter as if he were getting ready to describe a face he’d never seen. “He was carrying a bag when he went up the stairs the second time.”

“What did it look like?”

“A duffel bag of some kind.”

“Could you tell if he noticed you?”

“I don’t think so. I was worn out from work and didn’t make much noise.”

“He didn’t look in your direction?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Did you hear him say anything?”

“No.”

Crossing Heden Park, Winter saw that the cold had left a blue sheen on the sky even though it was already dark. He felt displaced the way he always did when he had to cut a trip short. He didn’t want to go home. His suitcase had shown up, finally, and though he’d deliberately left it at the office, he changed his mind and retraced his steps. A patrol car drove him back to his apartment. He rode the elevator up, opened the door, dropped his suitcase by the coatrack and leafed through the mail. None of it needed to be opened tonight.

Hungry and restless, he pulled off his clothes outside the bathroom door, took a shower and changed to a mock turtleneck and a soft gray Ermenegildo Zegna suit. He called his favorite restaurant and reserved a table.

His hair was still too wet for outside. Grabbing a towel, he rubbed his head as hard as he could and combed his hair. The phone rang, and he listened to his sister leave a message while he put on a pair of black socks. It rang again. This time it was Bolger, who apologized and said he had just realized that Winter was in London.

Winter’s scalp, still not dry, tingled in the subfreezing air. He pulled his black knit cap down over his forehead and headed west on Vasagatan Street, through Haga Park and across Linnégatan Street to Le Village Restaurant on Tredje Långgatan.

He made his way through the bistro, hung up his coat in the restaurant and walked over to the host.

“Table for one. I have a reservation. Winter.”

“This way, please.” The maître d’ led him to a table at the far end of the room. “Care for something to drink?” he asked once Winter was seated.

“Mineral water, thanks.”

He ordered blue mussel and basil soup, followed by grilled codfish, lightly salted. He drank half a bottle of Sancerre with the entrée. Afterward he lingered over two cups of coffee, lost in thought.