Winter said nothing. He heard no sounds from the courtyard or from within the building. Birgersson’s face was hidden in a patchwork of shadows and blinding light.
“I cannot stress enough how important it is that we identify this woman,” Birgersson said.
Helene, Winter thought to himself. Mother and murder victim.
“And where the hell are her children?” A mind reader, Birgersson. “If there are any.”
Winter cleared his throat cautiously, suddenly disgusted at the taste of smoke in his mouth, as if the stuff had shown its character as toxic gas.
“I could release photos of her dead face. I’m considering doing that, by the way.”
“What? How do you mean?”
“A public appeal, like a poster.”
“With her dead face?”
“That’s all we have.”
“Out of the question. How the hell would that look? Imagine what people would say.”
“They might say something that would help us.”
“We’re going to find her anyway,” Birgersson said. “Find out who she is.”
“We’re doing everything we can.”
“I know, I know. But it’s-I don’t quite know how to put it, Erik. It’s as if you have too many lines of investigation from the get-go. Too many directions.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, maybe sometimes you’re too conscientious, Erik. Maybe you see too many alternative solutions during the initial phase. Your brain springs into action, and the manpower gets spread thin.”
“So what you’re saying is that it would be better to have a more plodding, dull-witted cop in charge of this?” Winter crossed his legs.
“No no.”
“Well what do you mean, then? We’re following up the lead on the car and the marking on the tree, and we’re questioning people who either live or have been in the vicinity. We’re checking up on the cars that were parked there during the night, and we’re devoting all our resources to finding the woman’s name.”
“Okay, okay.”
“I could issue a public appeal, but you think that would be inappropriate.”
“Not me, primarily.”
“No. It’s primarily those biggest and most insurmountable of obstacles that we come up against in this line of work-namely, timorous superiors who don’t know and don’t understand. And I’m not talking about you.”
“You’re a superior yourself. Next in line to the throne, some say.”
“Not for much longer. I’m not dull witted enough.”
“Just forget I said that, Erik. All I meant is that we simply have to move forward. But you said something about the cars. That’s good-it’s concrete.”
“A hundred thousand identical models of Ford. Yeah, that’s concrete.”
Birgersson didn’t hear. Maybe the meeting was over. Then, “You had a good idea there. The night camera, the car.”
“Don’t start buttering me up now.”
“But it could lead somewhere.”
“We’re doing the best we can. And one way or the other we’ll solve this. I can feel it. Intuitively.”
Birgersson looked up from fiddling with his pack of cigarettes. “I don’t suppose any of our fellow officers partying up at the lodge heard or saw anything? The guys from investigations?”
“Bergenhem hasn’t reported back yet. But if so, someone ought to have been in touch by now-on their own, I mean.”
“Don’t try to fool me into thinking you’ve suddenly gone naive, Erik. How long does it usually take to get your memory back after a night at the lodge?”
“Don’t ask me. I’ve never had one.”
18
Then there was the problem of the other vehicles. One of the owners had contacted the police just yesterday. The other they had to go find.
Bergenhem drove through the Hogsbo industrial zone and parked outside the Hogsbo Hotel.
It smelled of bread and burnt flour from the Paals baking factory a bit farther on. Feeling sick to his stomach at the enveloping aroma, he set his foot down on the asphalt and silently tapped a rhythm.
When a man emerged from the building and walked down the half flight of steps to the parking lot, Bergenhem climbed out of the car. The man walked the twenty paces up to him. Bergenhem took off his sunglasses, and the man’s face brightened up along with everything else around him. The smell of bread returned. It got stuck between his fingers. Bergenhem reached out, and they shook hands. The man’s name was Peter von Holten. He was a few years older than Bergenhem-maybe a bit over thirty, with sharp features, but it may have been the light.
“I’m the one who called,” Bergenhem said.
“Shall we take a little drive?”
Von Holten had insisted that he not be visited at his job. Bergenhem had assured him that was okay. Sometimes they could be accommodating.
“There’s a little park over by the Pripps brewery,” von Holten said.
They drove south and pulled over next to a big bush at the side of the road. They sat on a bench. Now it smelled of beer from the brewery, and Bergenhem wasn’t sure which was worse.
He suddenly longed for the scent of his four-month-old daughter.
“So you haven’t reported your car missing,” Bergenhem said.
“Who could have imagined this? That my car would end up in the middle of a murder investigation?”
“What was it doing there? Why did you put it there, I mean.”
“It was a mistake,” von Holten said, “and I can explain. But it’s a-humph-it’s a little delicate.”
Bergenhem waited for him to continue. A dozen seagulls passed close above their heads, staggering in loose formation as if they’d been intoxicated by the beer-filled gusts of wind.
“I’m just surprised as hell that the car is still there,” von Holten said. “That wasn’t the idea.”
Bergenhem nodded and waited.
“Here’s the thing. There’s this girl that I meet up with sometimes, and the night before last we went out to the lake because it’s a nice place to be on a warm summer evening. And then afterward… we decided that she would take the car.” Von Holten rubbed his mouth and then removed his hand. “I’m married,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“So your girl was supposed to take the car? Do I have that right?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
“Is that necessary?”
“Her name? Of course.”
Von Holten said a name, and Bergenhem wrote it down in the notepad he’d brought with him from the car.
“Where does she live?”
Von Holten stated an address. “She lives alone.”
