reused since.”
“Is that all the cameras?” asked Winter.
“I’m not following you.”
“You said that there were a couple of cameras. Were there more than that being used in the area we’re talking about?”
“No, not as I understood it.”
“I need to see those tapes.”
“Where?”
“Can you get them over to homicide by this afternoon?”
“Absolutely. We have special courier cars set aside just for that kind of thing,” Kronvall said, and Winter gave a short laugh.
“Thanks for your help.”
“If this solves the case, then we want credit.”
“Of course.”
“Chief Walter Kronvall of the traffic department provided the crucial assist. Something like that.”
“Here at homicide we don’t forget our friends,” Winter said, then hung up and lingered next to the timetable.
He thought once again about the woman who just a short time ago lay so close by and had been carried there like a slaughtered animal. A victim—and perhaps quarry. Her nameless body was itself a message about what happened. Why? He thought of her half-open mouth and exposed teeth. Like a silent plea. A distant cry.
Winter drove back to the area where the woman was discovered. The grass in the ditch still looked flattened from the weight of her body. He turned around and followed his own tracks with his gaze. It was a long way to carry someone, dead or alive. A dead body was heavy but offered no resistance.
Whoever carried her need not have been a giant. Fear of discovery could make a murderer strong, assuming that he even cared, that is. Or had several people walked there in the sparse light of dawn? More people filled with madness, rage, adrenaline.
She could have been carried over the rough fields, through the fog. Why not?
The police tried to work their way through the terrain within a reasonable radius, but they couldn’t go stomping around haphazardly. If there were too many of them, everything became haphazard.
A shot made Winter start. Another shot shattered the early afternoon silence of the forest and disturbed the low drone of the cars driving alongside. The hard sounds sent echoes above the birch trees and across the water beyond. The shooting ranges were back in use.
“And the sun also rises,” Ringmar said, knocking on the open door before Winter had had a chance to wring his shirt dry.
“I like the sun.”
“When you’re ready, the gentlemen of the press are waiting.”
“It’ll have to be quick. I want to look at these tapes as soon as I’m done.”
Winter explained the videocassettes to Ringmar as they walked down the corridors. The representatives of the media looked like they were on their way to the beach: shorts, thin shirts, someone in sunglasses. Cool guy, Winter thought, and took his place in front of a lectern at the far end of the room.
“We don’t know who she is yet,” he answered to the first question. “And we may need your help to find that out.”
“Do you have a photo?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hans Bülow from the Göteborgs-Tidningen was one of the few journalists Winter knew by name.
“We’ve taken photos of the victim’s body. We don’t usually release pictures like that to the public, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“But if you have to?”
“We’ll get back to you on that.”
“But she was murdered?”
“I can’t answer that yet. It could be suicide.”
“So she took her own life and then drove out to Delsjö Lake and lay down in a ditch?” said a woman from the local radio news.
“Who said anything about her dying anywhere else?” he said.
The woman looked at Hans Bülow out of the corner of her eye. The latest issue of GT had an article that speculated about what might have happened.
“We have not yet been able to determine the exact sequence of events leading up to the . . . death,” Winter said.
“When will we know whether she’s been murdered?”
“Later this afternoon I
“Is that all the cameras?” asked Winter.
“I’m not following you.”
“You said that there were a couple of cameras. Were there more than that being used in the area we’re talking about?”
“No, not as I understood it.”
“I need to see those tapes.”
“Where?”
“Can you get them over to homicide by this afternoon?”
“Absolutely. We have special courier cars set aside just for that kind of thing,” Kronvall said, and Winter gave a short laugh.
“Thanks for your help.”
“If this solves the case, then we want credit.”
“Of course.”
“Chief Walter Kronvall of the traffic department provided the crucial assist. Something like that.”
“Here at homicide we don’t forget our friends,” Winter said, then hung up and lingered next to the timetable.
He thought once again about the woman who just a short time ago lay so close by and had been carried there like a slaughtered animal. A victim—and perhaps quarry. Her nameless body was itself a message about what happened. Why? He thought of her half-open mouth and exposed teeth. Like a silent plea. A distant cry.
Winter drove back to the area where the woman was discovered. The grass in the ditch still looked flattened from the weight of her body. He turned around and followed his own tracks with his gaze. It was a long way to carry someone, dead or alive. A dead body was heavy but offered no resistance.
Whoever carried her need not have been a giant. Fear of discovery could make a murderer strong, assuming that he even cared, that is. Or had several people walked there in the sparse light of dawn? More people filled with madness, rage, adrenaline.
She could have been carried over the rough fields, through the fog. Why not?
The police tried to work their way through the terrain within a reasonable radius, but they couldn’t go stomping around haphazardly. If there were too many of them, everything became haphazard.
A shot made Winter start. Another shot shattered the early afternoon silence of the forest and disturbed the low drone of the cars driving alongside. The hard sounds sent echoes above the birch trees and across the water beyond. The shooting ranges were back in use.
“And the sun also rises,” Ringmar said, knocking on the open door before Winter had had a chance to wring his shirt dry.
“I like the sun.”
“When you’re ready, the gentlemen of the press are waiting.”
“It’ll have to be quick. I want to look at these tapes as soon as I’m done.”
Winter explained the videocassettes to Ringmar as they walked down the corridors. The representatives of the media looked like they were on their way to the beach: shorts, thin shirts, someone in sunglasses. Cool guy, Winter thought, and took his place in front of a lectern at the far end of the room.
“We don’t know who she is yet,” he answered to the first question. “And we may need your help to find that out.”
“Do you have a photo?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hans Bülow from the Göteborgs-Tidningen was one of the few journalists Winter knew by name.
“We’ve taken photos of the victim’s body. We don’t usually release pictures like that to the public, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“But if you have to?”
“We’ll get back to you on that.”
“But she was murdered?”
“I can’t answer that yet. It could be suicide.”
“So she took her own life and then drove out to Delsjö Lake and lay down in a ditch?” said a woman from the local radio news.
“Who said anything about her dying anywhere else?” he said.
The woman looked at Hans Bülow out of the corner of her eye. The latest issue of GT had an article that speculated about what might have happened.
“We have not yet been able to determine the exact sequence of events leading up to the . . . death,” Winter said.
“When will we know whether she’s been murdered?”
“Later this afternoon I
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