Night Rounds

opening a fitness center here.”

“What do you think about her idea?” asked Irene.

“The way I feel now, I don’t give a damn.” He covered his face and bent forward.

Tommy and Irene shared a look over Lowander’s back. Using the most comforting voice she could muster, Irene said, “We understand that you’ve been under a great deal of stress. First all your worries about the hospital and now these murders. If you would like to take a break, we can continue later this afternoon.”

Lowander nodded. His head down, he disappeared into the bathroom again. Irene and Tommy stood but waited for him to return.

When he reappeared, he looked totally beaten.

“Would you like a lift home?” asked Irene.

“No … thanks. I’ll stay here and try to pull myself together.”

“Would it be all right if we came back at three this afternoon?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

WHEN THEY REACHED the landing outside the care ward, Irene said thoughtfully, “He looks like he’s heading for a nervous breakdown.”

“No kidding.”

“What do you think about these kinds of private hospitals?”

“Not a good thing. But if the public system can’t provide good health care, it shouldn’t stand in the way of our getting help elsewhere. Even going to private doctors. Dying while waiting in a line for care is completely crazy.”

They continued in silence down the stairs to Folke Bengtsson’s domain.

THE DOOR WAS wide open. They found an empty office. Everything looked the same, except that the cardboard box marked Flags was on the desk. Irene was looking inside when they heard Bengtsson’s heavy tread on the stairs. He sounded rushed. Irene took a step back and turned toward the doorway as Bengtsson appeared. He was out of breath and seemed agitated.

“Finally! Somebody who will listen,” he exclaimed.

He headed straight for the desk and opened the cardboard box. Triumphantly, he pulled out a roll of white rope.

“Look! What did I say?”

“Excuse us, Folke, but what did you say?”

Bengtsson looked from Irene to Tommy uncertainly. “But … I thought they sent you here to check it out.”

“Check what out?”

“The rope! The flag rope!” Bengtsson exploded.

“What about it?”

“Someone has cut off a huge length of the rope. I went up to the attic, but the police wouldn’t let me look. I said I had to see, but they still wouldn’t let me in.”

“Why did you need to see Linda?”

“Not Linda! The rope. The rope she hung from. I believe it’s a piece of this.”

He held out the coil to Irene, who took it with surprise. The rope was strong but soft and supple. Perfect for strangling someone. She didn’t remember what the rope around Linda’s neck looked like, but she needed to check it out immediately.

“You’re probably correct. We’ll go right away and see.”

“I’ll go. You two talk,” Tommy said. He took the rope and headed out the door.

Bengtsson dried his face with a reasonably clean handkerchief that he pulled from one of the many pockets in his blue overalls. He blew his nose while he was at it. Then he smiled weakly at Irene. “Want a cup of coffee?”

“Thanks, I would.” What a saint! It was certainly past time to have a cup, Irene thought.

“Make yourself at home.” Bengtsson pointed at the rickety rib-backed chair and went to fill the coffeepot.

As the water began to percolate and the room filled with the blessed aroma of brewing coffee, Bengtsson searched for mugs and cookies. He exhibited a restlessness he hadn’t last time they were here. He put his white mug with the English I’m the Boss on the table, sank down into his desk chair, and pulled out his handkerchief again, repeating the face-wiping procedure.

“You have to understand.… This morning a policeman came with the wire cutters, which they’d found in the stream. Near the dead … Mama Bird. Who for the love of Christ would ever kill that poor woman?” He kept dabbing at his forehead. “The wire cutters belong to the hospital. I’m absolutely sure of it. Earlier I was searching down here for something that Marianne’s killer could have used to sabotage the reserve generator. Then I wasn’t able to find the wire cutters. They were missing from the toolbox.” Bengtsson pointed indignantly at the toolbox on a nearby shelf.

“So they’ve been missing since Marianne was murdered,” Irene concluded.

“Right.”

Bengtsson got up to pour the coffee. “Last night I couldn’t sleep. All sorts of thoughts were tumbling through my head—you know, Marianne’s murder … the bird lady—and I thought it was nasty that the killer had been in here, in my room, and found himself a weapon.”

Bengtsson stopped when he heard noise at the door. It was Tommy returning.

“You were right,” Tommy said, his face grave. “It’s the same rope.”

Bengtsson nodded grimly, as if he’d been sure the whole time. He poured coffee into another mug for Tommy and took up his tale again.

“This morning I overslept, which is unusual. When I arrived at the building, I ran right into a German shepherd in the hallway. I asked the officer with the dog what they were up to, and the guy said they were looking for Linda. It was such a shock. That she’d still be in the building. Then I heard all the commotion in the surgical ward.…”

“Did you know Linda well?”

“I know everybody here. We would chat now and then. She was always energetic and happy. I can’t understand why anyone would do that to her. Or the other two, for that matter. Unbelievable.” Bengtsson shook his head sorrowfully.

“So how did you think of the flag rope?” Irene asked.

“Oh, yeah, that. I’d rushed upstairs and heard that she was … hanging in the attic. One of the operation nurses told me. Then I thought of something.” Bengtsson paused, then spoke each word with emphasis. “I thought that if that devil had stolen one murder weapon from my room, he could steal another. I remembered the rope for the flag that I bought last fall.” He said nothing for a moment. “I came down here and pulled down the box. When I bought the coil of rope, it was twenty meters long. Now it’s hardly fourteen. I’d measured with my thumb, you see.”

“So six meters are missing,” Tommy said.

“Right.”

They finished their coffee and found nothing more to say.

“IT’S ALMOST TIME for lunch,” Irene said. “There’s something we can do between lunch and when we meet Lowander at three.”

Tommy sighed. “It’s been my experience that your little ideas tend to take more time than we expect.”

“Not this one. You and I should go see the old nurse who was working the night Marianne was murdered.”

“The old lady who saw the ghost? Siv What’s-Her-Name?”

“Siv Persson. Remember the brooch found in the shed? At the time I didn’t recall this, but now I remember that Siv Persson wore a similar brooch that morning after Marianne’s murder.”

SIV PERSSON LIVED in a four-story apartment building of yellow brick only a few blocks from Lowander Hospital. Irene had called ahead from the Chinese restaurant where they’d had lunch—beef with bamboo shoots—to make sure she’d be home.

Siv Persson welcomed a visit from the police. Apparently she’d heard about the murder of Gunnela Hagg and