The Man From Beijing (25 page)

Birgitta Roslin followed her through the glass door and into an empty office.

‘This isn’t my office,’ said Sundberg. ‘But we can talk here.’

Birgitta Roslin sat down on an uncomfortable visitor’s chair. Vivi Sundberg remained standing, leaning against a bookcase filled with red-backed files.

Roslin braced herself, thinking that the situation was preposterous. Sundberg had already decided that no matter what she had to say, it would be irrelevant to the investigation.

‘I think I’ve found something,’ she said. ‘A clue, I suppose you could call it.’

Sundberg’s face was expressionless. Roslin felt challenged.

‘What I have to say is so important you should ask someone else to be present.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m convinced of it.’

Vivi Sundberg left the room and returned swiftly with a man who introduced himself as District Prosecutor Robertsson.

‘I’m in charge of the preliminary investigation. Vivi tells me you have something to tell us. You are a judge in Helsingborg, is that right?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Is Prosecutor Halmberg still there?’

‘He’s retired.’

‘But he still lives in Helsingborg, doesn’t he?’

‘I think he’s moved to France. Antibes.’

‘Lucky man. He enjoyed a decent cigar, that one. Jurors often used to faint when he lit up in the back rooms during breaks in a trial. He started to lose cases when they introduced a smoking ban. He thought it was due to melancholy and cigar deprivation.’

‘I’ve heard stories about that.’

The prosecutor sat down at the desk. Sundberg had returned to her place by the bookcase. Birgitta Roslin described in detail what she had discovered. How she had recognised the red ribbon, traced it to the restaurant, then found out that a Chinese man had been visiting Hudiksvall. She put the video cassette on the desk together with the brochure in Chinese and explained what the roughly written characters on the back cover meant.

Robertsson was staring hard at her. Vivi Sundberg was examining her hands. Then Robertsson grabbed hold of the cassette and stood up.

‘Let’s take a look at this. Now, right away.’

They went to a conference room where an Asian lady was clearing away the coffee mugs and paper bags. Birgitta Roslin bristled at the brusque way in which Vivi Sundberg ordered the cleaning woman to leave the room. After a great deal of difficulty and a succession of curses Robertsson eventually managed to make the video recorder work.

Somebody knocked on the door. Robertsson raised his voice and said they couldn’t be disturbed. The Russian women appeared on the screen but soon left. The picture flickered. Wang Min Hao took centre stage, looked at the camera, then left. Robertsson rewound and paused the tape at the moment when Wang looked at the camera. Sundberg had also become interested now. She closed the blinds on the nearest window, and the picture became clearer.

‘Wang Min Hao,’ said Birgitta Roslin. ‘Assuming that’s his real name. He turns up here in Hudiksvall out of nowhere on the twelfth of January. He spends the night in a little hotel, having first plucked a red ribbon out of a lampshade hanging over a table in a restaurant. That ribbon is later found at the crime scene in Hesjövallen.’

Robertsson had been standing in front of the television screen, leaning over it. He sat down again. Vivi Sundberg opened a bottle of mineral water.

‘Strange,’ said Robertsson. ‘I take it you’ve checked that the red ribbon really did come from that restaurant?’

‘I’m sure it did.’

‘What’s going on?’ said Vivi Sundberg vehemently. ‘Are you conducting some kind of private investigation?’

‘I don’t want to get in your way,’ said Birgitta Roslin. ‘I know you’re very busy.’

Suddenly Sundberg left the room.

‘I’ve asked them to bring the lamp from that restaurant,’she said when she came back.

‘They don’t open until eleven o’clock,’ said Roslin.

‘This is a small town,’ said Sundberg. ‘We’ll get hold of the owner and order him to open up.’

‘Make sure the media mob doesn’t hear about this,’ warned Robertsson. ‘Just imagine the headlines if they do.“Chinaman behind the Hesjövallen Massacre”?’

‘That’s hardly likely after our press conference this afternoon,’ said Sundberg.

So the girl on the switchboard had been right, Roslin thought. Something has happened and will be made public today. That’s why they’re only half interested.

Robertsson started coughing. It was a violent attack, and he turned red in the face.

‘Cigarettes,’ he said. ‘I’ve smoked so many cigarettes that if they were laid out end to end they would stretch from the centre of Stockholm to somewhere south of Södertälje. From about Botkyrka onwards they had filters. Not that they improved things at all.’

‘Let’s talk this over,’ said Vivi Sundberg, sitting down. ‘You’ve caused a lot of trouble and irritation in this building.’

Now she’s going to bring up the diaries, Roslin thought. Today will end with Robertsson digging up something to charge me with. Hardly obstructing justice, but there are other possibilities.

But Sundberg made no mention of the diaries, and Birgitta Roslin had the feeling there was a mutual understanding between them, despite Sundberg’s attitude. What had happened was nothing her coughing colleague needed to know about.

‘We will definitely look into this,’ said Robertsson. ‘We have no preconceived ideas, but there are no other clues indicating a Chinese man.’

‘What about the weapon?’ Roslin asked. ‘Have you found it?’

Neither Sundberg nor Robertsson answered. They’ve found it, Roslin thought. That’s what’s going to be announced this afternoon. Of course it is.

‘We can’t comment on that at the moment,’ said Robertsson. ‘Let’s wait for the lamp to arrive and compare the ribbons. If they are in fact the same, then this information will become a serious part of the evidence. We’ll keep the cassette, of course.’

He reached for a notepad and started writing.

‘Who has seen this Chinese man?’

‘The waitress in the restaurant.’

‘I often eat there. The young one or the old one? Or the miserable old crank in the kitchen? The one with the wart on his forehead?’

‘The young one.’

‘She varies from being modestly shy to very cheekily flirty. I think she’s bored to tears. Anybody else?’

‘Anybody else who did what?’

Robertsson sighed.

‘My dear colleague, you’ve surprised us all with this Chinaman that you’ve pulled out of your hat. Who else has seen him? The question couldn’t be more straightforward.’

‘A nephew of the hotel owner. I don’t know his name, but Sture Her-mansson said he was in the Arctic.’

‘In other words, this investigation is beginning to take on unheard-of geographical proportions. First you produce a mysterious Chinese man. And now you tell us there’s a witness in the Arctic. They’ve been writing about this business in
Time
and
Newsweek,
the
Guardian
phoned me from London, and the
Los Angeles Times
has also expressed interest. Has anybody else seen this Chinese person? I hope whoever you mention isn’t currently in the Australian outback at the moment.’

‘There’s a maid at the hotel. She’s Russian.’

Robertsson sounded almost triumphant when he responded.

‘What did I tell you? Now we’ve got Russia involved as well. What’s her name?’

‘She’s known as Natasha. But according to Sture Hermansson her real name is something different.’

‘Maybe she’s here illegally,’ said Vivi Sundberg. ‘We sometimes find Russians and Poles who shouldn’t be here.’

‘But that’s hardly relevant at the moment,’ said Robertsson. ‘Is there anyone else who’s seen this Chinese man?’

‘I don’t know of anyone,’ said Birgitta Roslin. ‘But he must have come and gone somehow. By bus? Or taxi? Surely someone must have noticed him?’

‘We’ll look into it,’ said Robertsson, putting down his pen. ‘Assuming this turns out to be important.’

Which you don’t believe it is, Roslin thought. Whatever other line of investigation you have, you think it’s more important.

Sundberg and Robertsson left the room. Roslin felt tired. The probability of what she’d discovered having anything to do with the case was low and getting lower. Her own experience was that strange facts often turned out to be red herrings.

While she waited, growing more and more impatient, she paced up and down the conference room. She had come across so many prosecutors like Robertsson in her life. Sundberg was also typical of the women police officers who gave evidence in her courts, but they rarely had hair as red as hers.

Sundberg came back, followed shortly by Robertsson and Tobias Ludwig. He was holding the plastic bag containing the red ribbon, and Vivi Sundberg was carrying the lamp from the restaurant.

The ribbons were laid out and compared. There was no doubt that they were identical.

They sat around the table again. Robertsson summarised briefly what Birgitta Roslin had told them. He’s good at making an effective presentation, she noted.

When he finished, nobody had any questions. The only one to speak was Tobias Ludwig.

‘Does this change anything with regard to the press conference we’ll be holding later today?’

‘No,’ said Robertsson. ‘We’ll look into this. But in due course.’

Robertsson declared the meeting closed. He shook hands and left. When Birgitta Roslin stood up, she received a look from Vivi Sundberg she interpreted as meaning she should stay behind.

When they were alone, Vivi Sundberg closed the door and came straight to the point.

‘I’m surprised you’re still involving yourself in this investigation. Obviously, what you’ve discovered is remarkable. We will investigate further. But I think you’ve already gathered that we have other priorities at the moment.’

‘Can you tell me anything?’

Sundberg shook her head.

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Do you have a suspect?’

‘As I’ve said, we’ll make an announcement at the press conference. I wanted you to stay behind for an entirely different reason.’

She stood up and left the room. When she came back she was carrying the diaries Roslin had been forced to hand over a couple of days earlier.

‘We’ve been through them,’ said Vivi Sundberg. ‘I have decided that they’re irrelevant to the investigation. And so I thought I would demonstrate my goodwill by allowing you to borrow them. You’ll have to sign for them. The only condition is that you return them when we ask for them back.’

Roslin wondered for a moment if she was about to fall into a trap. What Sundberg was doing was not permissible, even if it wasn’t criminal. Birgitta Roslin had nothing to do with the investigation. What might happen if she accepted the diaries?

Vivi Sundberg noticed that she was hesitating.

‘I’ve spoken to Robertsson,’ she said. ‘He had nothing against it provided you sign a receipt.’

‘From what I’ve read so far they contain information about the Chinese working on the transcontinental railway line in the United States.’

‘In the 1860s? That’s nearly a hundred and fifty years ago.’

Sundberg put the diaries into a plastic bag on the table. In her pocket she had a receipt that Roslin duly signed.

Sundberg accompanied her to the reception area. They shook hands at the glass door. Roslin asked when the press conference was scheduled.

‘Two o’clock. Four hours from now. If you have a press pass you can come in. It will be packed. This is too big a crime for a little town like ours.’

‘I hope you’ve made a breakthrough.’

Vivi Sundberg paused before replying.

‘Yes,’ she said eventually. ‘I think we’re on the way towards a result.’

She nodded slowly as if to emphasise what she was saying.

‘We now know that all the people in the village were related,’ she said. ‘All the dead, that is. There’s a family connection.’

‘Everybody except the boy?’

‘He was related as well. But he was just visiting.’

Birgitta Roslin left the police station, thinking hard about what was going to be announced a few hours later.

A man caught up with her on the snow-covered pavement.

Lars Emanuelsson smiled. Birgitta Roslin felt an urge to hit him. At the same time, she couldn’t help being impressed by the man’s persistence.

‘We meet again,’ he said. ‘Over and over you visit the police. The judge from Helsingborg hovers indefatigably on the periphery of the investigation. You must understand why I’m curious.’

‘Put your questions to the police, not to me.’

Lars Emanuelsson turned serious.

‘Rest assured, I already have. But I still haven’t got any answers, which is annoying. I’m forced to speculate. What is a judge from Helsingborg doing in Hudiksvall? How is she involved in the horrific things that have been happening here?’

‘I have nothing to say.’

‘Just tell me why you’re so unpleasant and dismissive.’

‘Because you won’t leave me in peace.’

Lars Emanuelsson nodded in the direction of the plastic bag.

‘I noticed that you were empty-handed when you went in the station earlier this morning. And now you’re coming out with a heavy plastic bag. What’s in there? Documents? Files? Something else?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Never talk to a journalist like that. Everything is my business. What’s in the bag, what isn’t. Why don’t you want to answer?’

As Birgitta Roslin started to walk away, she slipped and fell down in the snow. One of the old diaries tumbled out of the bag. Lars Emanuels-son rushed to help, but she pushed away his hand as she put the book back. Her face was red with anger as she hurried away.

‘Old books,’ Emanuelsson shouted after her. ‘Sooner or later I’ll find out what they mean.’