will be lots of imaginary things we’re missing in that purse,” said Ringmar. “Why not steal the whole purse? That’s nothing for a murderer. Probably a precautionary measure.”
“It might mean that there was nothing in her purse that he wanted to have,” said Winter.
“So my talk about an imaginary suitcase is just . . .” Halders began.
“Imaginary,” Bergenhem filled in.
“It’s worth a follow-up,” Winter said. “Do a check in her apartment, Fredrik.”
Meanwhile, Djanali was reading Paula Ney’s last letter. They assumed it was her last letter. She read aloud: “ ‘If I’ve made you angry at me I want to ask for your forgiveness.’ ” She looked up. “Is that something a person wants to write as a final message?”
“Maybe she didn’t think it was a final message,” Ringmar said.
“But if she did think so. If she thought she was going to die. Is that the moment when someone who is condemned to death asks for forgiveness?”
No one around the worn table commented on Djanali’s words. A thin ray of sunlight suddenly shot through the window and split the table in two: Bergenhem and Halders on one side, Winter and Ringmar and Djanali on the other. It was like a boundary, but there were no boundaries between them. We have been together for a long time, Winter thought, keeping his eyes on the sun boundary. Even Bergenhem is starting to get wrinkles.
“She was Catholic, wasn’t she?” Halders said. “Maybe she was asking for forgiveness for her sins.”
“No,” Winter said, “Paula wasn’t Catholic.”
“What sins?” Bergenhem asked, leaning forward, toward Halders.
“I mean figuratively. Like a routine thing, or whatever. A confession.”
“Paula was confessing, you mean?” Djanali asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe that’s the wrong word.”
“Maybe someone was prepared to forgive her for her sins,” Ringmar said.
“Like who?” Halders said.
“The murderer.”
“The murderer became her confessor?” Bergenhem said.
“He let her write the letter.”
“Or forced her to,” said Halders.
“Dictated,” Bergenhem said.
“No,” Winter said, “I don’t think so.”
“But it might indicate that there’s some big, and old, clash between Paula and her parents,” Halders said.
“When isn’t there?” Djanali said. “Between children and parents?”
“I said big clash,” Halders said.
“We’ll have to check it out,” said Ringmar.
“It won’t be easy,” Halders said. “It’s not like we can hear both sides.”
“There are more than two sides,” said Bergenhem.
“Look at that,” Halders said, turning to Bergenhem, “first Latin and then philosophy. Have you been taking night classes this summer, Lars?”
“I don’t need to do that to understand that we can talk to people other than her parents about her relationship with her parents,” Bergenhem said.
“Did you make a note of that, Erik?” Halders said, turning to Winter.
“Let’s get to work,” Winter said, and got up.
• • •
Winter was working at the telephone. He called the desk clerk at Revy; it was the same man. No, he hadn’t seen any suitcase. He hadn’t found any suitcase. Why would he have? Winter thought as he hung up. He didn’t see anything else, didn’t hear anything or say anything.
The phone rang.
“Looks like someone rummaged around a little through her clothes and shoes,” Halders said.
He sounded far away.
“Oh?”
“Might be her, might be someone else, might have been a hundred years ago. But I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” Winter asked.
“There’s no suitcase here. No backpack either, or anything you could carry your clothes in.”
“Have you checked in the attic? In the basement?”
“Of course,” Halders answered. “I’ve taken my night classes.”
“At her parents’ house, then?”
“I just called.”
“She must have had something to carry things in when she moved home,” Winter said, “during
“It might mean that there was nothing in her purse that he wanted to have,” said Winter.
“So my talk about an imaginary suitcase is just . . .” Halders began.
“Imaginary,” Bergenhem filled in.
“It’s worth a follow-up,” Winter said. “Do a check in her apartment, Fredrik.”
Meanwhile, Djanali was reading Paula Ney’s last letter. They assumed it was her last letter. She read aloud: “ ‘If I’ve made you angry at me I want to ask for your forgiveness.’ ” She looked up. “Is that something a person wants to write as a final message?”
“Maybe she didn’t think it was a final message,” Ringmar said.
“But if she did think so. If she thought she was going to die. Is that the moment when someone who is condemned to death asks for forgiveness?”
No one around the worn table commented on Djanali’s words. A thin ray of sunlight suddenly shot through the window and split the table in two: Bergenhem and Halders on one side, Winter and Ringmar and Djanali on the other. It was like a boundary, but there were no boundaries between them. We have been together for a long time, Winter thought, keeping his eyes on the sun boundary. Even Bergenhem is starting to get wrinkles.
“She was Catholic, wasn’t she?” Halders said. “Maybe she was asking for forgiveness for her sins.”
“No,” Winter said, “Paula wasn’t Catholic.”
“What sins?” Bergenhem asked, leaning forward, toward Halders.
“I mean figuratively. Like a routine thing, or whatever. A confession.”
“Paula was confessing, you mean?” Djanali asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe that’s the wrong word.”
“Maybe someone was prepared to forgive her for her sins,” Ringmar said.
“Like who?” Halders said.
“The murderer.”
“The murderer became her confessor?” Bergenhem said.
“He let her write the letter.”
“Or forced her to,” said Halders.
“Dictated,” Bergenhem said.
“No,” Winter said, “I don’t think so.”
“But it might indicate that there’s some big, and old, clash between Paula and her parents,” Halders said.
“When isn’t there?” Djanali said. “Between children and parents?”
“I said big clash,” Halders said.
“We’ll have to check it out,” said Ringmar.
“It won’t be easy,” Halders said. “It’s not like we can hear both sides.”
“There are more than two sides,” said Bergenhem.
“Look at that,” Halders said, turning to Bergenhem, “first Latin and then philosophy. Have you been taking night classes this summer, Lars?”
“I don’t need to do that to understand that we can talk to people other than her parents about her relationship with her parents,” Bergenhem said.
“Did you make a note of that, Erik?” Halders said, turning to Winter.
“Let’s get to work,” Winter said, and got up.
• • •
Winter was working at the telephone. He called the desk clerk at Revy; it was the same man. No, he hadn’t seen any suitcase. He hadn’t found any suitcase. Why would he have? Winter thought as he hung up. He didn’t see anything else, didn’t hear anything or say anything.
The phone rang.
“Looks like someone rummaged around a little through her clothes and shoes,” Halders said.
He sounded far away.
“Oh?”
“Might be her, might be someone else, might have been a hundred years ago. But I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” Winter asked.
“There’s no suitcase here. No backpack either, or anything you could carry your clothes in.”
“Have you checked in the attic? In the basement?”
“Of course,” Halders answered. “I’ve taken my night classes.”
“At her parents’ house, then?”
“I just called.”
“She must have had something to carry things in when she moved home,” Winter said, “during
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