“Can you tell whether it’s a man?”
Beier threw out his arms. “You can’t always tell even when the pictures are sharp.”
Winter drummed his fingers on the desktop. “And one more big question: the plate number.”
“We may have found something there,” Beier said. “Three letters.
“How sure is that?”
Beier threw out his arms again. “We’ll keep at it,” he said. “But in the meantime you can get to work on these, if you’ve got the manpower.” He poured out the coffee, and Winter drank without registering its taste.
“We know that this car may have been in the vicinity of the dump site when the body was left there,” Winter said.
“That’s right,” Beier said.
“That’s something to go on.”
“All you have to do is track down all the Ford Escorts in the city. Or the country.”
“All the CLXs.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, but that’s where I’m gonna start. That case I worked on last spring, in London-my colleague there told me they were looking for a car and all they had to go on was the color and maybe the make. This is better.”
“Maybe.”
“Of course it’s better, Goran. I can really feel my optimism growing just sitting next to you.”
“Then maybe I’d better rein it in.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t have anything new on that strange marking on the tree. Or whatever you wanna call it.”
“This kid in my department suggested that it might be a Chinese character.”
“Well, that would make things easier.”
“Exactly.”
“Then there are just a billion Chinese to bring in for questioning.”
“You’ve forgotten all the Westerners who know Chinese,” Winter said.
“I suggest you start there,” Beier said.
They sat in silence for a short while, sipped their coffee, listened to the noisy ventilation system. Winter almost felt cold in the chilled air. We’re probably the only two police officers in the whole building wearing ties today, Winter thought, noting that Beier’s leaned toward burgundy. He loosened his own. Beier didn’t comment on it.
“I’m sure it’s connected to the murder,” Winter said.
“Why?”
“It’s just a hunch, but it’s a strong one.”
“Positive thinking, you mean.”
“It’s too much of a coincidence that someone would paint on the tree at virtually the exact same time.”
“Maybe she took part in a ritual.”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“That little inlet may have been a haunt for satanists and other fanatics, or maybe even still is, but she didn’t take part in that kind of thing.”
“Maybe she didn’t have a choice.”
“It would have been noticed. Someone would have heard something.”
“Like our colleagues from the investigations department.”
“That department has some of the most keen-eyed officers on the force.”
“Regardless of the state they’re in?”
“A police officer is always prepared.”
“For what?”
“For the worst,” Winter said, and they both became serious. “It’s often been shown that the choice of location is not random. A murderer selects his spot.”
“I agree with you. I think.”
“We have to ask ourselves why she was put there. Why she was lying at Delsjo Lake. Then, why at that particular end of the lake-”
“Proximity to the road,” Beier interjected.
“Maybe. Then we have to ask ourselves why she was lying exactly in that spot. Not five yards this way or that.”
“You really go in for the mise-en-scene.”
“The mise-en-scene involves movement; it’s the opposite of standing still.”
“That was beautifully put,” Beier said.
Halders preferred to wander the path along the shoreline on his own. The houses slept soundly and impassively atop the hillside.
The area reminded him that he was a poor homicide detective who would never be anything else. He would never make inspector, but he didn’t know whether or not he was bitter about it.
If he was in the right place at the right time, his fortune would be waiting for him there. They would shake hands and return to headquarters, and the police chief would invite him up to his office and at the same time call out to Winter to say, “Now you can just hand everything over to inspector Halders here…”
He began the door-to-door inquiries at one of the houses close to a school he didn’t know the name of. He rang the doorbell and heard the chime echo through the cavernous interior. There was an awning above the door that shaded him and caused the sweat on his forehead to roll more slowly down his face and linger on his eyelids. When the door was opened by a woman in a robe, he blinked and bowed his head. She was dark haired, or it may have been just the intense sunlight that was streaming in from the open doors behind her.
“I’m sorry to bother you. I’m from the police,” Halders said, and held out his police ID. “Homicide department.”
He fumbled with his wallet.
“Yes?”
“We’re conducting an in-”
“Is it the murder on the other side of Borasleden? I just read about it. We were talking about it a moment ago,” the woman said, and a barechested man in swimming trunks suddenly appeared behind her.
“It’s just routine. We have to ask everyone in the vicinity if they’ve seen or heard anything within the last twenty-four hours.”
“When should we be counting from?” the man asked. “My name is Petersen, by the way.” He held out his hand. Halders shook it.
“Same here,” the woman said. “Denise.” She smiled and held out her hand, and Halders squeezed it gently.
“Halders,” Halders said.
“Come in, by the way,” the man said. He followed the couple to an outdoor patio that was paved with what might have been mosaic tiles.
“Would you like a refreshment?” the man asked, and Halders answered with a yes.
“A drink? Gin and tonic?”
“I’m afraid-”
“A beer?”
“That would do nicely.”
The man walked back inside the house, and the woman sank into a folding chair that looked complicated. She nudged a pair of sunglasses to the tip of her nose and seemed to look at Halders. He looked back. She dangled one sandal on her foot. The sandal was red, like the fire in the sun.
“I’m happy to be of service in the meantime,” she said.
Don’t let your imagination run away with you now, Halders thought. Try to keep a little blood up in your
