and an old-fashioned wheelchair. On the floor next to the bedside table was an enamel chamber pot. The room gave the impression of not having been used for a very long time.
She returned to the living room, tiptoeing around as if afraid of disturbing somebody. The drawers in a writing desk were half open. One was full of tablecloths and napkins, another of dark-colored balls of wool. In the third drawer, the bottom one, were some bundles of letters and notebooks with brown covers. She took out one of the notebooks and opened it. There was no name in it. It was completely filled with tiny handwriting. She took out her glasses and tried to make sense of what looked to be a diary. The spelling was distinctly old-fashioned. The notes were about locomotives, coaches, railroad tracks.
Then she noticed a word that gave her a start: Nevada. She stood stock-still and held her breath. Something had suddenly begun to change. This mute, empty house had sent her a message. She tried to decipher what followed, but she heard the front door opening. She replaced the diary and closed the drawer. Vivi Sundberg came into the room.
“No doubt you’ve seen where the bodies were lying,” she said. “I don’t need to show you.”
Birgitta Roslin nodded.
“We lock the houses at night. You ought to leave now.”
“Have you found any next of kin of the couple who lived here?”
“That’s exactly what I came to tell you. It doesn’t seem like Brita and August had any children of their own, nor any other relatives apart from the ones living in the village who are also dead. The list of victims will be made public tomorrow.”
“And then what will happen to them?”
“Maybe that’s something you ought to think about, as you are related to them.”
“I’m not actually related to them. But I care about them in any case.” They left the house. Sundberg locked the door and hung the key on a nail.
“We don’t expect anybody to break in,” she said. “Just now this village is as well guarded as the Swedish royal family.”
They said their good-byes on the road. Powerful searchlights illuminated some of the houses. Once again, Birgitta Roslin had the feeling of being on a stage in a theater.
“Will you be going back home tomorrow?” asked Vivi Sundberg.
“I suppose so. Have you thought any more about what I told you?”
“I shall pass on your information tomorrow when we have our morning meeting.”
“But you must agree that it seems possible, not to say probable, that there is a connection.”
“It’s too early to answer that question. But I think the best thing you can do now is to let it drop.”
Birgitta Roslin watched Vivi Sundberg get into her car and drive away. She doesn’t believe me, she said aloud to herself in the darkness. She doesn’t believe me—and, of course, I can understand that.
But then again, it annoyed her. If she had been a police officer, she would have given priority to information that suggested a link with a similar incident, even though it had taken place on another continent.
She decided to speak to the prosecutor who was in charge of the preliminary investigation.
She drove far too quickly to Delsbo and was still upset when she came to her hotel. The advertising executives’ ceremonial dinner was in full swing in the dining room, and she had to eat in the deserted bar. She ordered a glass of wine to accompany her meal. It was an Australian Shiraz, very tasty, but she couldn’t make up her mind if it had overtones of chocolate or licorice, or perhaps both.
After her meal she went up to her room. Her indignation had subsided.
She took one of her iron tablets and thought about the diary she had glanced at. She ought to have told Vivi Sundberg what she had discovered. But for whatever reason, she hadn’t. There was a risk that the diary would become yet another insignificant detail in a wide-ranging investigation overflowing with evidence.
Good police officers had a special gift
She returned to the living room, tiptoeing around as if afraid of disturbing somebody. The drawers in a writing desk were half open. One was full of tablecloths and napkins, another of dark-colored balls of wool. In the third drawer, the bottom one, were some bundles of letters and notebooks with brown covers. She took out one of the notebooks and opened it. There was no name in it. It was completely filled with tiny handwriting. She took out her glasses and tried to make sense of what looked to be a diary. The spelling was distinctly old-fashioned. The notes were about locomotives, coaches, railroad tracks.
Then she noticed a word that gave her a start: Nevada. She stood stock-still and held her breath. Something had suddenly begun to change. This mute, empty house had sent her a message. She tried to decipher what followed, but she heard the front door opening. She replaced the diary and closed the drawer. Vivi Sundberg came into the room.
“No doubt you’ve seen where the bodies were lying,” she said. “I don’t need to show you.”
Birgitta Roslin nodded.
“We lock the houses at night. You ought to leave now.”
“Have you found any next of kin of the couple who lived here?”
“That’s exactly what I came to tell you. It doesn’t seem like Brita and August had any children of their own, nor any other relatives apart from the ones living in the village who are also dead. The list of victims will be made public tomorrow.”
“And then what will happen to them?”
“Maybe that’s something you ought to think about, as you are related to them.”
“I’m not actually related to them. But I care about them in any case.” They left the house. Sundberg locked the door and hung the key on a nail.
“We don’t expect anybody to break in,” she said. “Just now this village is as well guarded as the Swedish royal family.”
They said their good-byes on the road. Powerful searchlights illuminated some of the houses. Once again, Birgitta Roslin had the feeling of being on a stage in a theater.
“Will you be going back home tomorrow?” asked Vivi Sundberg.
“I suppose so. Have you thought any more about what I told you?”
“I shall pass on your information tomorrow when we have our morning meeting.”
“But you must agree that it seems possible, not to say probable, that there is a connection.”
“It’s too early to answer that question. But I think the best thing you can do now is to let it drop.”
Birgitta Roslin watched Vivi Sundberg get into her car and drive away. She doesn’t believe me, she said aloud to herself in the darkness. She doesn’t believe me—and, of course, I can understand that.
But then again, it annoyed her. If she had been a police officer, she would have given priority to information that suggested a link with a similar incident, even though it had taken place on another continent.
She decided to speak to the prosecutor who was in charge of the preliminary investigation.
She drove far too quickly to Delsbo and was still upset when she came to her hotel. The advertising executives’ ceremonial dinner was in full swing in the dining room, and she had to eat in the deserted bar. She ordered a glass of wine to accompany her meal. It was an Australian Shiraz, very tasty, but she couldn’t make up her mind if it had overtones of chocolate or licorice, or perhaps both.
After her meal she went up to her room. Her indignation had subsided.
She took one of her iron tablets and thought about the diary she had glanced at. She ought to have told Vivi Sundberg what she had discovered. But for whatever reason, she hadn’t. There was a risk that the diary would become yet another insignificant detail in a wide-ranging investigation overflowing with evidence.
Good police officers had a special gift
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