Death Angels

42

“WHERE IS HE, THEN?” RINGMAR ASKED. “WE’VE BEEN IN HIS apartment and gone to his bar. Nobody knows.”

“I know,” Winter said.

The wind swirled above the fjord like a crazed wanderer. Winter pulled his cap down over his ears. His thoughts were frozen in place.

“You’re all alone,” he told himself as the boat docked.

The sea heather bowed over the cliffs as in prayer.

Bolger stood by his outdoor brick fireplace and jabbed at the coal with his poker. Winter had seen him walk over to the structure as he approached.

“First you never come and now you show up every day,” Bolger said when Winter stood next to him. He continued to stoke the fire without looking up, then tapped the brick with the poker.

“We found Bergenhem.”

“Where was he? With his stripper?”

“In a crevice by the Tångudden Road Marina.”

“That kid will do anything to avoid you.”

“I want you to come with me now, Johan.”

“What did you say?”

“It’s over.”

“Do you know who the murderer is? Don’t tell me it’s Bergenhem.”

“I have a boat down at the pier.”

“I might have a thing or two to say about what Bergenhem was up to.” Bolger threw the poker to the ground. It bounced back against the brick with a clang. “But you don’t want to listen. You’ve never wanted to listen to me, Mr. Smarty Pants.”

“Let’s go, Johan.”

“You’ve always thought you knew it all, Erik. Ever since I can remember. If you’re so damn smart, why haven’t you solved this case yet? You haven’t gotten a step further than when you came to the bar and asked for my help a million years ago. My help!” He swayed slightly. The wind cried, delivering a cryptic message from the opposite shore.

“There were all kinds of things that could have helped you, Erik, but you couldn’t see them. You’re not so smart after all.”

They walked down the hill, Bolger as if in his sleep.

“While you’re taking this stroll with me, it could happen again. Has that occurred to you?”

They had been questioning Bolger for three hours when another inspector came in and said that Winter had a call. It was Marianne, obviously in a phone booth. He could hear the roar of traffic in the background.

“You don’t know how happy I am to hear from you,” Winter said.

“It’s dreadful. I just read about it. He was a fine man.”

“He’s going to pull through.”

“What? Is he alive?”

“Yes.”

Winter heard something that sounded like a car splashing water over the curb. He looked out the window. Rain clouds had blown over Gothenburg. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he said.

“Why not?”

“We have him here.”

“Him?”

“Yes.”

“Bolger?”

“That’s right.”

“You knew. It was like you knew even before I called and told you the first time.”

“He said it himself.”

“Just now?”

“A long time ago.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain. But I have to see you.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“It’s absolutely necessary. There’s a good chance that he’ll be released otherwise.”

“But you told me…”

“I’ll explain everything.”

Four hours later they obtained a detention order for Bolger on suspicion of murder. He flatly denied everything, insisting that he needed to sleep. Maybe I’ll remember more when I’m rested, he repeated over and over.

Marianne had agreed to meet Winter and told him she had seen Bolger with two of the victims.

How did she know? She recognized them in the photos that were circulated afterward. Where had she seen them together? Someplace that few people went to. Why hadn’t she said anything? She couldn’t explain it. Nobody else was really in a position to see them, she had offered, and Winter didn’t press her on it right then.

There was something in her manner, a kind of hesitation, when she talked about Bolger. About the way he was. Winter kept that in the back of his mind while he moved on to other things.

“But Lars didn’t say he was going straight to Bolger’s apartment the last time you saw him?”

“He didn’t have to say it.”

Winter knew what time everything had happened. Bolger could have been Bergenhem’s assailant.

Where had Bergenhem been injured? Not among the rocks, certainly. Someone had driven across the fields and carried him down there.

They had turned Bolger’s apartment upside down.

“Can he get out?” Marianne had asked.

“No,” Winter said.

“Will he be arrested?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Who’s going to believe anything I say?”

“We’ve got other evidence too.”

“Enough to convict him?”

“Yes.”

But he didn’t know the true answer to that question. They had strong circumstantial evidence, that was all. Winter had thought Bolger would confess but there was no guarantee, and now he was worried that Bolger would maintain his innocence forever.

“We’re going to need you,” he’d said to Marianne.

“I can’t go back to the boat.”

“Is there some other reason?”

“What would that be?”

“Fear.”

“Would that be so strange?”

“Are you afraid of someone else?”

“Is there someone else?”

“I can’t honestly tell you.”

“Are there more murderers?”

“We don’t know.”

“Jesus.”

Winter could tell she had more on her mind.

“I feel like somebody’s after me,” Marianne said. “He has an accomplice or whatever you call it. But I’m not sure.”

“Do you know who it is?”

“No.”

Macdonald called, his voice equal parts agitation and relief. “Is it going to stick?” he asked.

“Sooner or later,” Winter said. “We might have a murder weapon too.”

“That will make your Viking happy.”

“He’ll have to be a witness if we don’t find anything else. Assuming that Bolger flew on Vikingsson’s plane under one of his pseudonyms.”

“Didn’t you say Vikingsson was crazy?”

“What are we going to do with him? He claims he’s never set eyes on Bolger. He’s been to Bolger’s bar, but it’s just one of many. Why would he remember that particular bartender? We got hold of Möller, his hunting companion.”

“And?”

“He says he doesn’t know a thing about it.”

“The poaching story?”

“All he has to say is that Vikingsson is nuts and he doesn’t know what the guy is talking about. How are things going there?”

“Under control.”

“Are the papers ready?”

“Almost.”

“How many people have you told?”

“We’re operating on a need-to-know basis.”

“That’s good.”

“Maybe we’re being overly cautious.”

“You’re doing the right thing.”

“God have mercy on us.”

“Have you received the photos?”

“You Swedes all look alike. How the hell can we set up a photo lineup with a bunch of fucking clones?”

The line crackled with static, as if the North Sea were eavesdropping on the conversation.

“We share the same sky and the same north wind,” Macdonald said. “But you guys look different from us. It’s hard to explain.”

“ Aberdeen is at the same latitude as Gothenburg.”

“On the map?”

“Where else?”

“Talk to you soon. May God be with us.”

Cohen had asked Winter to conduct the interrogation but he’d declined. He sat in the background like a shadow from another time. He could get up and leave if he was in the way.

Bolger’s somnambulistic behavior had reversed itself. He was full of life, derisive, aggressive, and Winter recognized the tough teenager he had once known. Bolger was a perpetual-motion machine back then, constantly talking about everything he was going to do, the person he would someday become. He would succeed where nobody else could. He was going to prove he was smarter than all the rest.

Winter had sat for hours and thought about what Bolger had said so long ago, what he had done, what he himself had done, what had become of Bolger during all those years that had pursued them with growing fury and finally caught up with them here in this interrogation room.

COHEN: You haven’t satisfactorily accounted for your comings and goings on Friday, March thirteenth.

BOLGER: Like I said, it was an unlucky day and I didn’t want to see anyone. I never left home.

COHEN: Is there someone who can confirm that?

BOLGER: That’s your job to find out.

COHEN: You’d be better off if you cooperated.

BOLGER: Cooperated? Who with? I’m innocent.

COHEN: You’ve said that several times now.

BOLGER: A lot of good it does. The big boss over there in the corner doesn’t believe a word I say. With friends like him, who needs enemies?

COHEN: We found three passports in your apartment. They’re in the following names.

Bolger listened while Cohen recited the names.

COHEN: What do you know about those passports?

BOLGER: Nothing.

COHEN: Are you sure?

BOLGER: Somebody planted them.

COHEN: Who would put three passports in your apartment?

BOLGER: Chief Inspector Erik Winter, who else?

COHEN: You’re claiming that the assistant head of the homicide division of the county criminal investigation unit put passports in your apartment. Is that right?

BOLGER: He broke in, didn’t he? That’s against the law. Planting evidence, or whatever the hell you call it, is the logical next step.

COHEN: We have no knowledge of someone breaking into your apartment.

BOLGER: But I do.

COHEN: What were the passports used for?

BOLGER: Are you deaf or something? I have no idea.

They went on and on in the same vein. Winter studied Bolger from the side. His jowls were much heavier than when he was a kid. Something had drawn them to each other back then, and it had continued through the years. They had both remained bachelors, chosen not to have families-or families had chosen not to have them. Winter remembered Macdonald’s ponytail-clad kin. He had felt a pang of regret when he thought about the photo afterward. What did he have but the remnants of a family? If even that. When had he called his sister last?

Was Bolger plagued by the same regrets? Winter listened distractedly to the interrogation, the questions, the short answers, a couple that were a little longer. The voices came together in the middle of the room and he could no longer tell who was saying what.

Cohen ended the session, and Bolger followed the guards out without looking at Winter.

“I’d like to get a psychological profile of this guy,” Cohen said.

“I’ll arrange for one.”