now.” He poured. Three quarters of an inch. “It’s not good to be alone. With the children.”
“No relatives?”
“Not in Gothenburg, it seems.”
Angela looked out of the window when he sat back down. It was beginning to get dark out there, with yellow lines over the sky above the rooftops. She could hear voices and the clink of glasses from the courtyard.
“I can’t stop thinking about the children,” she said, turning to face Winter again. “Were they completely devastated?”
“No. Not superficially at least. Very quiet. The shock, I suppose.” Somebody burst out laughing in the courtyard below, others joined in. He stood up and went to the window. Four stories down a group of friends was making the most of the summer’s night. He closed the window but stayed where he was.
What would happen now? He needed Halders, but he wouldn’t dwell on that for a single minute if Halders decided to stay at home. It was up to him. Winter was not going to lean on him. We’re people before anything else, after all.
He went back to Angela and his whiskey.
6
IT WAS HOT IN HIS OFFICE, SUFFOCATED BY SUMMER. NO WIND outside, nothing to suck into the room that would change the air clinging to everyone’s skin.
Winter looked at the stack of files in front of him: papers, photographs. There were fresh printouts made by Möllerström from the hard disks, but most of the stuff smelled of the past. Five years ago, another summer. Beatrice Wägner. The papers concerning her violent death had an odor of dust and dry darkness—giving a false impression of peace—so pervasive that it almost made him push aside these cold case notes and instead take up the newly begun file on Angelika Hansson.
Reports on murder collected for eternal reading, over and over again. No peace. He’d had a special file of press clippings brought to his office. The newsprint felt as if it were a hundred years old when he touched it.
He stood up, went to the open window, and lit a Corps. The cigarillo tasted pure and soft after leafing through the old documents. It was his third of the morning. He smoked more than twenty a day. Each one was going to be his last. No smoking at home anymore, which was a good thing. Another good thing: Corps Diplomatique was a brand on its way out. His tobacconist had warned him. Every pack could be his last, but Winter was not in favor of hoarding. When Corps were no longer available, he’d stop smoking.
He inhaled, and watched the flow of traffic on the other side of the river. Streetcar, bus, car, streetcar again, pedestrians. All bathed in sunshine that cast no shadows now, as lunchtime approached.
When there are no Corps any more, I’ll quit.
When there are no corpses any more, I’ll quit. Ha!
He went back to his desk. He’d made up his mind to work his way through the Beatrice Wägner files, from the very beginning. All the witness reports, all the summaries. If there was anything there that could be of use to the present investigation, he’d find it. Try to find it. No—find it.
Beatrice Wägner had lived with her parents in a detached house in Påvelund, a western suburb of Gothenburg. Just over a kilometer south of the house in Långedrag where Jeanette Bielke lived. And it couldn’t be much more than two kilometers south from Påvelund to the house in Önnerud when Angelika Hansson had lived, Winter noted. Due south.
He stood up again, and went over to the wall map of Gothenburg and traced with his finger a line running due north from the Hanssons’ house through the Wägners’ and ending up at Jeanette Bielke’s home. A dead straight line. It was a peculiarity, but didn’t necessarily mean anything. Probably didn’t.
He kept looking at the map. Beatrice Wägner had attended the grammar school in Frölunda. Like Angelika and Jeanette, she’d passed her final exams. She’d stayed in Gothenburg when most of her friends had gone away on holiday. He recalled that she’d had some sort of
“No relatives?”
“Not in Gothenburg, it seems.”
Angela looked out of the window when he sat back down. It was beginning to get dark out there, with yellow lines over the sky above the rooftops. She could hear voices and the clink of glasses from the courtyard.
“I can’t stop thinking about the children,” she said, turning to face Winter again. “Were they completely devastated?”
“No. Not superficially at least. Very quiet. The shock, I suppose.” Somebody burst out laughing in the courtyard below, others joined in. He stood up and went to the window. Four stories down a group of friends was making the most of the summer’s night. He closed the window but stayed where he was.
What would happen now? He needed Halders, but he wouldn’t dwell on that for a single minute if Halders decided to stay at home. It was up to him. Winter was not going to lean on him. We’re people before anything else, after all.
He went back to Angela and his whiskey.
6
IT WAS HOT IN HIS OFFICE, SUFFOCATED BY SUMMER. NO WIND outside, nothing to suck into the room that would change the air clinging to everyone’s skin.
Winter looked at the stack of files in front of him: papers, photographs. There were fresh printouts made by Möllerström from the hard disks, but most of the stuff smelled of the past. Five years ago, another summer. Beatrice Wägner. The papers concerning her violent death had an odor of dust and dry darkness—giving a false impression of peace—so pervasive that it almost made him push aside these cold case notes and instead take up the newly begun file on Angelika Hansson.
Reports on murder collected for eternal reading, over and over again. No peace. He’d had a special file of press clippings brought to his office. The newsprint felt as if it were a hundred years old when he touched it.
He stood up, went to the open window, and lit a Corps. The cigarillo tasted pure and soft after leafing through the old documents. It was his third of the morning. He smoked more than twenty a day. Each one was going to be his last. No smoking at home anymore, which was a good thing. Another good thing: Corps Diplomatique was a brand on its way out. His tobacconist had warned him. Every pack could be his last, but Winter was not in favor of hoarding. When Corps were no longer available, he’d stop smoking.
He inhaled, and watched the flow of traffic on the other side of the river. Streetcar, bus, car, streetcar again, pedestrians. All bathed in sunshine that cast no shadows now, as lunchtime approached.
When there are no Corps any more, I’ll quit.
When there are no corpses any more, I’ll quit. Ha!
He went back to his desk. He’d made up his mind to work his way through the Beatrice Wägner files, from the very beginning. All the witness reports, all the summaries. If there was anything there that could be of use to the present investigation, he’d find it. Try to find it. No—find it.
Beatrice Wägner had lived with her parents in a detached house in Påvelund, a western suburb of Gothenburg. Just over a kilometer south of the house in Långedrag where Jeanette Bielke lived. And it couldn’t be much more than two kilometers south from Påvelund to the house in Önnerud when Angelika Hansson had lived, Winter noted. Due south.
He stood up again, and went over to the wall map of Gothenburg and traced with his finger a line running due north from the Hanssons’ house through the Wägners’ and ending up at Jeanette Bielke’s home. A dead straight line. It was a peculiarity, but didn’t necessarily mean anything. Probably didn’t.
He kept looking at the map. Beatrice Wägner had attended the grammar school in Frölunda. Like Angelika and Jeanette, she’d passed her final exams. She’d stayed in Gothenburg when most of her friends had gone away on holiday. He recalled that she’d had some sort of
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