him was a bottle of red wine and two glasses, one half full and one empty. Winter leaned over and sniffed. There hadn’t been any time for a toast.
The room was furnished simply, as for a transient guest: a couch for two; no armchair, bookcase or flowers; plain curtains that muted the sunlight between the half-open blinds; a CD player on a little white-wood bench; a hanging rack with twenty or twenty-five albums. Winter edged along the wall to the other side of the couch and read some of the titles at the top: Pigeonhed, Oasis, Blur, Daft Punk, Morrissey. No jazz. The player was open and he glimpsed a disc inside. Carefully, so as not to graze the wallpaper, he leaned forward to see the name of the artist.
The oval of blood around the chair resembled the pattern in Geoff’s room. His eyes followed it toward the door and out into the hallway.
How many steps were there?
For about six feet inside the door, there were no patterns and hardly any stains. Winter inhaled the room’s odors. A bark sounded through the west wall. If it could be heard here, he could be heard there.
It occurred to Winter that he never heard his neighbors, except when they struggled to open the squeaky elevator door and rattled the cage.
Fifteen minutes in this apartment was enough. He went out and motioned to the forensic team, then walked down the stairs and into the sunlight to question the onlookers across the street.
Hitchcock. He could never remember whether Halders or Möllerström had come up with the name. Don’t let the press get wind of it, he had told them. He didn’t like referring to a murderer like that but caught himself doing it anyway.
By some odd coincidence, the investigators in London began calling their man by the same moniker shortly afterward. And it wasn’t long before the British and Swedish teams figured out that it must be the same murderer and started working together, overwhelmed by a feeling of powerlessness, as if someone were laughing at them from above.
The burglar looked out at Kalle and the other children. The snowman was gone. The kids crawled through the barrel, chased each other around the swing and climbed down the rope ladder from the playhouse.
He didn’t know which way to turn. He read the papers and followed the news on television, and he wasn’t stupid, even if he was an idiot when it came to certain other matters. He knew something that nobody else did. There was no doubt in his mind about that. Or was there? He needed time to think, maybe somewhere else.
“What is it?” his wife asked.
“What did you say?”
“You have that look on your face again.”
“Hmm.”
“Is it the job?”
“What job?”
“You know.”
“Hmm.” He looked out at the playground.
“Why don’t you go out and play with Kalle for a while?”
“I was just thinking about that.”
“He’s asked about it.”
“Asked about what?”
“If you two can do something together sometime.”
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
“You could do more than think about it.”
“How about we all take a vacation together?”
“Sure, anytime.”
“No, I’m serious, we could go to the Canary Islands tomorrow or the day after.”
“Right.”
“No kidding, I won some money.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“When? How much?”
“Three thousand. I didn’t want to say anything until I got the money so it would be a surprise.”
“And now you have it?”
“Yes.”
She examined him, trying to see beneath the surface. “Can I take your word for it?”
“Absolutely.”
“How did you win it?”
“At the harness track. Remember last week when I went out there a couple of times? I’ll show you the coupon.” He wondered how the hell he was going to do that.
She looked out at Kalle. “That wouldn’t be a very smart thing to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“We can’t just pick up and go to the Canary Islands.”
“Why not?”
“Just think of everything else we need the money
The room was furnished simply, as for a transient guest: a couch for two; no armchair, bookcase or flowers; plain curtains that muted the sunlight between the half-open blinds; a CD player on a little white-wood bench; a hanging rack with twenty or twenty-five albums. Winter edged along the wall to the other side of the couch and read some of the titles at the top: Pigeonhed, Oasis, Blur, Daft Punk, Morrissey. No jazz. The player was open and he glimpsed a disc inside. Carefully, so as not to graze the wallpaper, he leaned forward to see the name of the artist.
The oval of blood around the chair resembled the pattern in Geoff’s room. His eyes followed it toward the door and out into the hallway.
How many steps were there?
For about six feet inside the door, there were no patterns and hardly any stains. Winter inhaled the room’s odors. A bark sounded through the west wall. If it could be heard here, he could be heard there.
It occurred to Winter that he never heard his neighbors, except when they struggled to open the squeaky elevator door and rattled the cage.
Fifteen minutes in this apartment was enough. He went out and motioned to the forensic team, then walked down the stairs and into the sunlight to question the onlookers across the street.
Hitchcock. He could never remember whether Halders or Möllerström had come up with the name. Don’t let the press get wind of it, he had told them. He didn’t like referring to a murderer like that but caught himself doing it anyway.
By some odd coincidence, the investigators in London began calling their man by the same moniker shortly afterward. And it wasn’t long before the British and Swedish teams figured out that it must be the same murderer and started working together, overwhelmed by a feeling of powerlessness, as if someone were laughing at them from above.
The burglar looked out at Kalle and the other children. The snowman was gone. The kids crawled through the barrel, chased each other around the swing and climbed down the rope ladder from the playhouse.
He didn’t know which way to turn. He read the papers and followed the news on television, and he wasn’t stupid, even if he was an idiot when it came to certain other matters. He knew something that nobody else did. There was no doubt in his mind about that. Or was there? He needed time to think, maybe somewhere else.
“What is it?” his wife asked.
“What did you say?”
“You have that look on your face again.”
“Hmm.”
“Is it the job?”
“What job?”
“You know.”
“Hmm.” He looked out at the playground.
“Why don’t you go out and play with Kalle for a while?”
“I was just thinking about that.”
“He’s asked about it.”
“Asked about what?”
“If you two can do something together sometime.”
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
“You could do more than think about it.”
“How about we all take a vacation together?”
“Sure, anytime.”
“No, I’m serious, we could go to the Canary Islands tomorrow or the day after.”
“Right.”
“No kidding, I won some money.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“When? How much?”
“Three thousand. I didn’t want to say anything until I got the money so it would be a surprise.”
“And now you have it?”
“Yes.”
She examined him, trying to see beneath the surface. “Can I take your word for it?”
“Absolutely.”
“How did you win it?”
“At the harness track. Remember last week when I went out there a couple of times? I’ll show you the coupon.” He wondered how the hell he was going to do that.
She looked out at Kalle. “That wouldn’t be a very smart thing to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“We can’t just pick up and go to the Canary Islands.”
“Why not?”
“Just think of everything else we need the money
Similar Books
