Death Angels

8

WlNTER FELT TRANSPARENT. THE LlGHT WAS POURlNG lN FROM the left. He took his sunglasses off the dashboard and put them on, and the city rearranged itself before his eyes. He stopped to let three men stagger across the road on their way from Vasaparken Park to Victoriagatan Street. Their long hair flapped in the northwest wind.

The adrenaline coursed through his veins. He couldn’t have been more ready. It would never be more real than during the next few hours, never more horrible or clear. He was drawn irresistibly to the scene of the crime, and he knew from experience that he would feel ashamed or frightened or both when it was all over. Maybe that came with the territory, getting so involved in a case that he couldn’t imagine spending his time on anything else.

Officers were keeping the sidewalk clear of onlookers, but a horde of people stood just across the street on the other side of the cordon. I would have been one of them in another life, Winter thought. How many of them are there, thirty maybe?

“Call Birgersson and ask him to send five officers right away,” Winter said to Bergenhem.

“Now?”

“This instant.”

Bergenhem dialed the number as they walked up the last flight of stairs. He repeated Winter’s request when the division chief answered. “He wants to talk to you,” he said to Winter.

Winter took the phone. “Sture?… Yes, we’re almost there… Three more steps… He told you, right?… Actually, I thought they would be here already.”

Bergenhem could hear Sture Birgersson’s voice but was unable to make out the words.

“I want everyone on the other side of the street questioned. Call it an encirclement if you like… Yes, now… Thank you. Bye.”

Winter had seen a crowd of faces but no expressions as he walked toward the front door. It must be cold standing out there. Who knows, one of them might be more than just a curious bystander. Someone who knew what Winter would discover in the apartment. Something that brought him back no matter how hard he fought it.

“Who was here first?” Winter asked as he stood outside the apartment looking around at a blur of uniforms.

“It was me.” The officer was in his midtwenties. A faraway look shrouded his pale face.

“Did you arrive alone?”

“My partner was with me. Here he comes.” He pointed toward the stairs.

The alarm had gone out from Skånegatan Street and reached Winter about the same time as the closest squad car. The officers had entered the apartment, turned pale and cordoned off the area.

Jamie hadn’t shown up for his morning shift to do the dishes, mop the kitchen floor and tidy up after the gig the night before-a new band with obscure ties to the west coast of Ireland that hadn’t packed it in until two o’clock.

Douglas was supposed to have the day off, and Jamie hadn’t answered his phone. Annoyed, Douglas had gone to Jamie’s apartment, rung his bell for what seemed like an eternity and pounded on the door until a neighbor stuck his head out and scowled.

He’d finally found the janitor. Jamie? The British kid? Yes, the one in the apartment with the makeshift nameplate on the door, Douglas answered, and he thought that something might be wrong with him.

The janitor, who had a hundred tools in pockets down the legs of his pants and around his waist, unlocked the door, and the rest was a dazed nightmare.

His ears buzzing and his eyes open wide, Winter was the first person to get a good look at the apartment. He stepped around a couple of footprints that pointed toward the door. No traces of violence on the walls. He heard the forensic team gathering by the stairs, and that’s where they would stay until he gave them the go-ahead.

He knew he would be back at least once after the body had been removed, and what he looked for then would depend on what he found now.

The hallway was bright enough for him to see. The light was on in the bathroom. Had the officers turned it on when they came in? Surely no policeman was that dumb.

He stood in the doorway and looked down at the bathtub. There were streaks of blood on the tile, but fewer than he would have expected. He took his time, Winter thought.

Same story in the washbasin, plus three stains on the plastic mat by the tub.

Winter turned around and found himself at a twenty-degree angle from the kitchen door, which was partly open on the other side of the hallway. When he peered inside, he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary except that the little table was missing a chair.

But when he turned his eyes to the middle of the main room, Jamie was sitting on the chair with his back to the door.

He was wearing socks and a pair of pants but no shoes or belt. A red and blue tattoo gleamed on his left shoulder. As Winter made his way between the stains on the floor to get a better look, he saw it was a car but couldn’t tell what kind.

Jamie’s upper arms were blue. His pants were bulging, about to burst. That’s what’s holding him together, Winter thought. His face is uninjured. So strangely aloof, it looks like it’s floating above the chair.

On the table next to him was a bottle of red wine and two glasses, one half full and one empty. Winter leaned over and sniffed. There hadn’t been any time for a toast.

The room was furnished simply, as for a transient guest: a couch for two; no armchair, bookcase or flowers; plain curtains that muted the sunlight between the half-open blinds; a CD player on a little white-wood bench; a hanging rack with twenty or twenty-five albums. Winter edged along the wall to the other side of the couch and read some of the titles at the top: Pigeonhed, Oasis, Blur, Daft Punk, Morrissey. No jazz. The player was open and he glimpsed a disc inside. Carefully, so as not to graze the wallpaper, he leaned forward to see the name of the artist.

The oval of blood around the chair resembled the pattern in Geoff’s room. His eyes followed it toward the door and out into the hallway.

How many steps were there?

For about six feet inside the door, there were no patterns and hardly any stains. Winter inhaled the room’s odors. A bark sounded through the west wall. If it could be heard here, he could be heard there.

It occurred to Winter that he never heard his neighbors, except when they struggled to open the squeaky elevator door and rattled the cage.

Fifteen minutes in this apartment was enough. He went out and motioned to the forensic team, then walked down the stairs and into the sunlight to question the onlookers across the street.

Hitchcock. He could never remember whether Halders or Möllerström had come up with the name. Don’t let the press get wind of it, he had told them. He didn’t like referring to a murderer like that but caught himself doing it anyway.

By some odd coincidence, the investigators in London began calling their man by the same moniker shortly afterward. And it wasn’t long before the British and Swedish teams figured out that it must be the same murderer and started working together, overwhelmed by a feeling of powerlessness, as if someone were laughing at them from above.

The burglar looked out at Kalle and the other children. The snowman was gone. The kids crawled through the barrel, chased each other around the swing and climbed down the rope ladder from the playhouse.

He didn’t know which way to turn. He read the papers and followed the news on television, and he wasn’t stupid, even if he was an idiot when it came to certain other matters. He knew something that nobody else did. There was no doubt in his mind about that. Or was there? He needed time to think, maybe somewhere else.

“What is it?” his wife asked.

“What did you say?”

“You have that look on your face again.”

“Hmm.”

“Is it the job?”

“What job?”

“You know.”

“Hmm.” He looked out at the playground.

“Why don’t you go out and play with Kalle for a while?”

“I was just thinking about that.”

“He’s asked about it.”

“Asked about what?”

“If you two can do something together sometime.”

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“You could do more than think about it.”

“How about we all take a vacation together?”

“Sure, anytime.”

“No, I’m serious, we could go to the Canary Islands tomorrow or the day after.”

“Right.”

“No kidding, I won some money.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did.”

“When? How much?”

“Three thousand. I didn’t want to say anything until I got the money so it would be a surprise.”

“And now you have it?”

“Yes.”

She examined him, trying to see beneath the surface. “Can I take your word for it?”

“Absolutely.”

“How did you win it?”

“At the harness track. Remember last week when I went out there a couple of times? I’ll show you the coupon.” He wondered how the hell he was going to do that.

She looked out at Kalle. “That wouldn’t be a very smart thing to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“We can’t just pick up and go to the Canary Islands.”

“Why not?”

“Just think of everything else we need the money for.”

“We’d never go anywhere if we waited until all our bills were paid. When’s the last time we took a trip?”

“Okay, you’ve got a point, but how much does it cost?”

“We can afford it. That’s all that matters.”

“But now that…”

“There’s no time like the present.”

“I admit it would be wonderful.” She still sounded hesitant.

“Two weeks. And the sooner we leave, the better.”

“How are we going to get tickets on such short notice?”

“Hard cash.”

Winter got hold of Bolger late in the afternoon.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Bolger said when he heard Winter’s voice.

“This is strictly business.”

“Got you.”

“Even if I’m taking advantage of our friendship.”

“Now you’ve lost me.”

“There’s something I need to ask you.”

“Fire away.”

“Not on the phone. Can you hang around until I get there?”

“Sure thing.”

Winter was at Bolger’s bar in fifteen minutes. Three customers at a table by the window gave him the once-over. Bolger offered him a drink, but he turned it down.

“Do you know an Englishman by the name of Robertson?” Winter asked.

“An Englishman, did you say?”

“British at least.”

“What did you say his name was?”

“Robertson, Jamie Robertson.”

“Jamie Robertson? I know who he is, although we haven’t really been introduced. He’s not English, by the way. He’s Scottish.”

“Okay, Scottish.”

“It’s sort of obvious when he talks.”

“Has he ever worked here?”

“No.”

“Do you know whether he’s worked anyplace other than O’Briens?”

“No, but I don’t think he’s been in Gothenburg very long. Ask over at O’Briens.”

“I will.”

“Has something happened?”

“He’s been murdered.”

Bolger seemed to pale, as if someone had changed the bulb in the overhead lamp.

“This isn’t confidential information or anything,” Winter clarified.

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

“In any case, I could really use your help.”

“Since when did you ever need my help?”

“Don’t be childish, Johan.”

“Why the hell would you need my help? You’re smart enough for the two of us.”

“Would you please give me a chance to tell you what I want?”

Bolger glanced over at the waitress behind the bar as if he wanted another drink, then apparently thought better of it.

“You’re in touch with guys in the business,” Winter said, “and people who know their way around the city.”

“So are you.”

“You know what I’m getting at.”

“Sure, you want a petty criminal to do some snooping for you.”

“Cut it out, Johan.”

“Do they let you use informants who’ve been hospitalized for depression?”

“It’s like this, Johan. We’re doing all we can, but I want you to try to remember what you know about Jamie. Who he knew, who he spent his time with. Girlfriends-or boyfriends, if it was that way.”

“I understand.”

“Think about it.”

“Okay.”

“Ask around if you need to.”

“I promise.”