there.” He looked up, as though he was determining the time with the help of the sun. His black glasses suddenly shimmered with gold. “I called and asked for the guy who’s responsible for the lockers.”
“And?”
“They were going to find him.”
Ringmar nodded.
Winter followed the path of the sun again. He looked at his own watch.
Suddenly he realized that they were about to make a mistake.
“They have security cameras down there now, don’t they, Bertil? I mean, twenty-four hours a day?”
“I think so.”
“When do they erase those pictures from the hard disk?”
• • •
“After seventy-two hours,” said Rolf Bengtsson, branch manager of Speed Services AB, which had taken over the storage lockers from Swedish Railways. “Sometimes sooner.”
Winter had driven down to Central Station. It took five minutes, including parking illegally in the taxi zone. He walked into thebuilding quickly. The locker area in there had recently been rebuilt, just like everything else. He had to ask the way. The lockers were now in the underworld of Central Station. The stairs down were steep. Winter heard the elevator swish behind him. He made note of the security cameras on the ceiling. They were convincing decoys.
“I have a card of those photo-booth pictures I have to show you later,” Winter said as they walked down the stairs.
“Why?”
“Is it possible to tell when someone took their picture in a booth? What time the pictures were taken?”
“No.”
“Okay, but can you determine which booth the pictures were taken in?”
“Yes. We can do that; we know our machines’ idiosyncrasies.”
“Good,” Winter said.
The area down there was bathed in a green color that the contractor had perhaps thought restful. Maybe calming, therapeutic. It was green everywhere, like in a tropical forest. People came and went in the restful light. Maybe it was too restful, too sloping for them to be able to see anything useful in the pictures. If there was anything to see that they wanted to see.
“But the time depends on the level of activity in here,” Bengtsson continued. “The camera doesn’t start until someone moves.”
Seventy-two hours, Winter thought. They might get lucky, or have made a big mistake. Or else it didn’t mean anything.
“Every corner in here is caught by the camera,” Bengtsson said. “No one gets away.”
“If there’s any image left,” said Winter.
“Sometimes there can be film left from five days back. Like I said, it depends on the level of activity in here.”
“Isn’t it still possible to get it back anyway?” said Winter. “Even if the disk has been erased?”
“I’m an expert in photo booths and storage lockers,” Bengtssonsaid, “not in computers. But I know that your computer experts at the police station have tried and failed.” He smiled. “Call me Roffe, by the way.”
• • •
The level of activity by the lockers had been so low that there were still images from four and a half days back. Winter felt a rush of warmth for the counter mechanism. It made certain that they would likely be able to see whether Paula Ney had put a suitcase into a locker. And if she, or someone else, had taken it out during the last few days. The victim. The murderer.
Roffe Bengtsson showed Winter into the control and storage room inside the small office to the left of the stairs. Two people were working there, on cleaning, storage, reception, monitoring. They were a younger man and a younger woman. They had a lot to do. People were coming and going out there. There were lots of people upstairs; it was the day’s peak time.
The woman introduced herself as Helén and shook his hand. She nodded toward the display to the right, on the wall.
“Have you been here before?” she asked.
“No, not since it was redone,” Winter said, and he walked over to the flat display. It looked like a board, divided into six squares. An installation. In the
“And?”
“They were going to find him.”
Ringmar nodded.
Winter followed the path of the sun again. He looked at his own watch.
Suddenly he realized that they were about to make a mistake.
“They have security cameras down there now, don’t they, Bertil? I mean, twenty-four hours a day?”
“I think so.”
“When do they erase those pictures from the hard disk?”
• • •
“After seventy-two hours,” said Rolf Bengtsson, branch manager of Speed Services AB, which had taken over the storage lockers from Swedish Railways. “Sometimes sooner.”
Winter had driven down to Central Station. It took five minutes, including parking illegally in the taxi zone. He walked into thebuilding quickly. The locker area in there had recently been rebuilt, just like everything else. He had to ask the way. The lockers were now in the underworld of Central Station. The stairs down were steep. Winter heard the elevator swish behind him. He made note of the security cameras on the ceiling. They were convincing decoys.
“I have a card of those photo-booth pictures I have to show you later,” Winter said as they walked down the stairs.
“Why?”
“Is it possible to tell when someone took their picture in a booth? What time the pictures were taken?”
“No.”
“Okay, but can you determine which booth the pictures were taken in?”
“Yes. We can do that; we know our machines’ idiosyncrasies.”
“Good,” Winter said.
The area down there was bathed in a green color that the contractor had perhaps thought restful. Maybe calming, therapeutic. It was green everywhere, like in a tropical forest. People came and went in the restful light. Maybe it was too restful, too sloping for them to be able to see anything useful in the pictures. If there was anything to see that they wanted to see.
“But the time depends on the level of activity in here,” Bengtsson continued. “The camera doesn’t start until someone moves.”
Seventy-two hours, Winter thought. They might get lucky, or have made a big mistake. Or else it didn’t mean anything.
“Every corner in here is caught by the camera,” Bengtsson said. “No one gets away.”
“If there’s any image left,” said Winter.
“Sometimes there can be film left from five days back. Like I said, it depends on the level of activity in here.”
“Isn’t it still possible to get it back anyway?” said Winter. “Even if the disk has been erased?”
“I’m an expert in photo booths and storage lockers,” Bengtssonsaid, “not in computers. But I know that your computer experts at the police station have tried and failed.” He smiled. “Call me Roffe, by the way.”
• • •
The level of activity by the lockers had been so low that there were still images from four and a half days back. Winter felt a rush of warmth for the counter mechanism. It made certain that they would likely be able to see whether Paula Ney had put a suitcase into a locker. And if she, or someone else, had taken it out during the last few days. The victim. The murderer.
Roffe Bengtsson showed Winter into the control and storage room inside the small office to the left of the stairs. Two people were working there, on cleaning, storage, reception, monitoring. They were a younger man and a younger woman. They had a lot to do. People were coming and going out there. There were lots of people upstairs; it was the day’s peak time.
The woman introduced herself as Helén and shook his hand. She nodded toward the display to the right, on the wall.
“Have you been here before?” she asked.
“No, not since it was redone,” Winter said, and he walked over to the flat display. It looked like a board, divided into six squares. An installation. In the
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