summer job. Jeanette hadn’t had a summer job. Angelika had moved into a warehouse.
Three girls, all of them nineteen years old. Just finished with school. Two of them this summer, and the third during a summer five years ago. Three different schools. Jeanette had said she didn’t know Angelika. Had she known Beatrice? He must ask her about that. It wasn’t impossible, after all. They had lived fairly close to each other, in upmarket suburbs next to the sea.
Had it always been the case? Had they attended the same elementary school, perhaps? Middle school? Calm down, Erik. There’s no time to find the answer to every question now.
Had Beatrice and Angelika known each other?
Three girls. One was still alive, the other two were dead.
He remained standing by the map. If he boiled down all his questions to just one, to The Question, would it be: did they all get mixed up with the same murderer? The same bastard? as Halders had put it in this very office. Jeanette, too?
Winter continued reading, smoking at his desk now. Followed Beatrice through her last hour, or hours. She’d been in the town center with some friends. Had she been with them the entire time? That wasn’t absolutely clear. They’d split up soon after one in the morning. Sunday morning. Five of them had gone off together and stopped off at a 7-Eleven five hundred meters from the park, and there, outside the shop, or inside it, something had happened to cause Beatrice to leave her friends.
Winter read through the witness reports. There was a slight mist around the words, as if these young people had memories that weren’t really functioning. Winter knew what the problem was, he’d seen it hundreds of times. They were simply drunk, or at least in various stages of inebriation, and the alcohol had started to leave their bodies, but their senses were not properly sharp, and such things can make a person irritable and nervous, and something like that had applied to the scene at the shop. Something had annoyed Beatrice and she’d left. Yes, they could recall that she’d been annoyed, but nobody could remember why. Perhaps she’d tried to light up a cigarette inside the 7-Eleven. Perhaps she just hated the whole world at that drunken moment. There had been alcohol in her blood, but not very much.
She’d walked toward the park. Her friends had seen her go. Let her go. She’ll be back in a minute. But when they left the shop Beatrice hadn’t come back. They’d called for her, walked in the direction of the park, and called out again.
They’d turned back then. She’d turn up eventually. She must be on the other side of the park by now. She must have caught the night bus. She was already at Lina’s, waiting for them. She’ll be sitting there waiting for us, Lina had said, out there in the night, five years ago, and then the night bus came, and . . . well, they’d all jumped aboard and looked out of the window as they passed by the park, and there was no sign of Beatrice, which meant that she must be waiting for them at Lina’s, didn’t it?
Beatrice wasn’t waiting for them. She was in among the trees all that time. Perhaps. She was definitely there at 11:45 on Sunday morning, behind the bushes in the shadow of the big rock: naked; murdered. The sun had been high in the sky, as high as it was now.
Her clothes were in a heap by her side. Winter read the list of clothes she’d been wearing that evening, the clothes the murderer had pulled off her. They were all in the inventory, but that wasn’t what he was looking for. He was looking for what was missing. Sometimes something was missing that the victim had had, but the murderer had taken away with him.
In Beatrice’s case, it was her belt.
Winter found it in the interrogation of her friends, and, later, in the interview with her parents. Beatrice had been wearing a leather belt that had not been found in the untidy pile of clothes next to her body. One of the detectives who had conducted the
Three girls, all of them nineteen years old. Just finished with school. Two of them this summer, and the third during a summer five years ago. Three different schools. Jeanette had said she didn’t know Angelika. Had she known Beatrice? He must ask her about that. It wasn’t impossible, after all. They had lived fairly close to each other, in upmarket suburbs next to the sea.
Had it always been the case? Had they attended the same elementary school, perhaps? Middle school? Calm down, Erik. There’s no time to find the answer to every question now.
Had Beatrice and Angelika known each other?
Three girls. One was still alive, the other two were dead.
He remained standing by the map. If he boiled down all his questions to just one, to The Question, would it be: did they all get mixed up with the same murderer? The same bastard? as Halders had put it in this very office. Jeanette, too?
Winter continued reading, smoking at his desk now. Followed Beatrice through her last hour, or hours. She’d been in the town center with some friends. Had she been with them the entire time? That wasn’t absolutely clear. They’d split up soon after one in the morning. Sunday morning. Five of them had gone off together and stopped off at a 7-Eleven five hundred meters from the park, and there, outside the shop, or inside it, something had happened to cause Beatrice to leave her friends.
Winter read through the witness reports. There was a slight mist around the words, as if these young people had memories that weren’t really functioning. Winter knew what the problem was, he’d seen it hundreds of times. They were simply drunk, or at least in various stages of inebriation, and the alcohol had started to leave their bodies, but their senses were not properly sharp, and such things can make a person irritable and nervous, and something like that had applied to the scene at the shop. Something had annoyed Beatrice and she’d left. Yes, they could recall that she’d been annoyed, but nobody could remember why. Perhaps she’d tried to light up a cigarette inside the 7-Eleven. Perhaps she just hated the whole world at that drunken moment. There had been alcohol in her blood, but not very much.
She’d walked toward the park. Her friends had seen her go. Let her go. She’ll be back in a minute. But when they left the shop Beatrice hadn’t come back. They’d called for her, walked in the direction of the park, and called out again.
They’d turned back then. She’d turn up eventually. She must be on the other side of the park by now. She must have caught the night bus. She was already at Lina’s, waiting for them. She’ll be sitting there waiting for us, Lina had said, out there in the night, five years ago, and then the night bus came, and . . . well, they’d all jumped aboard and looked out of the window as they passed by the park, and there was no sign of Beatrice, which meant that she must be waiting for them at Lina’s, didn’t it?
Beatrice wasn’t waiting for them. She was in among the trees all that time. Perhaps. She was definitely there at 11:45 on Sunday morning, behind the bushes in the shadow of the big rock: naked; murdered. The sun had been high in the sky, as high as it was now.
Her clothes were in a heap by her side. Winter read the list of clothes she’d been wearing that evening, the clothes the murderer had pulled off her. They were all in the inventory, but that wasn’t what he was looking for. He was looking for what was missing. Sometimes something was missing that the victim had had, but the murderer had taken away with him.
In Beatrice’s case, it was her belt.
Winter found it in the interrogation of her friends, and, later, in the interview with her parents. Beatrice had been wearing a leather belt that had not been found in the untidy pile of clothes next to her body. One of the detectives who had conducted the
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