The Man from Beijing by Henning Mankell Page B

for weeding out links in a mass of evidence that to others might seem haphazard and chaotic. What type of police officer was Vivi Sundberg? An overweight middle-aged woman who didn’t give the impression of being all that quick-witted.
    She immediately withdrew that judgment. It was unfair. She knew nothing about Vivi Sundberg.
    She lay down on the bed, switched on the television, and heard the vibrations from the double basses in the dining room.
    Birgitta’s cell phone rang and woke her up. She glanced at the clock and saw that she had been asleep for more than an hour. It was Staffan.
    “Where in the world are you? Where am I calling?”
    “Delsbo.”
    “I barely know where that is.”
    “Hudiksvall, just to the west. If my memory isn’t playing tricks on me, people in the old days used to talk about brutal knife fights featuring farmhands in Delsbo.”
    She told him about her visit to Hesjövallen. She could hear jazz playing in the background. He most likely thinks it’s good to be on his own, she thought. He can listen as much as he wants to the jazz I don’t like at all.
    “What happens next?” he asked when she had finished.
    “I’ll decide that tomorrow. You can go back to your music now.”
    “It’s Charlie Mingus.”
    “Who?”
    “You mean you’ve forgotten who Charlie Mingus is?”
    “I sometimes think all your jazz musicians have the same name.”
    “Now you’re offending me.”
    “I didn’t mean to.”
    “Are you absolutely sure about that?”
    “Meaning what?”
    “All I mean is that you have nothing but contempt for the music I like so much.”
    “Why should I?”
    “That’s a question only you can answer.”
    The conversation came to an abrupt end. He slammed the phone down. That made her furious, so she rang him back, but he didn’t answer. She gave up. I’m not the only one who’s weary, she thought. He no doubt thinks I’m as cold and distant as I think he is.
    She got ready for bed. It was some time before she could fall asleep. Early in the morning, while it was still dark, she was woken up by a door slamming somewhere. She remained lying there in the dark, recalling what she had dreamed. She’d been in Brita and August’s house. They had been talking to her, both of them sitting on the dark red sofa, while she was standing on the floor in front of them. She had suddenly noticed that she was naked. She tried to cover herself up and leave, but couldn’t. Her legs seemed to be paralyzed. When she looked down she saw that her feet were enclosed by the floorboards.
    That was the moment she had woken up. She listened to the darkness. Loud, drunken voices approached and faded away. She glanced at her watch. A quarter to five. Still a long time to go before dawn. She settled down to try to go back to sleep, but a thought struck her.
    The key was hanging from a nail. She sat up in bed. Obviously, it was forbidden and preposterous. Going to get what was in the chest of drawers. Not waiting until some police officer might just possibly happen to take an interest in what was there.
    She got out of bed and stood by the window. Still, deserted. I can do it, she thought. If I’m lucky I might be able to ensure that this investigation doesn’t get stuck in the mud like the worst case I’ve ever come across, the murder of our prime minister. But I’d be taking the law into my own hands, some zealous prosecutor might be able to convince a stupid judge that I was interfering in a criminal investigation.
    Even worse was the wine she had drunk. It would be disastrous to be arrested for drunk driving. She worked out how many hours it was since she had dinner. The alcohol should be out of her system by now. But she wasn’t sure.
    I shouldn’t do this, she thought. Even if the police on duty there are asleep. I can’t do it.
    Then she dressed and left her room. The corridor was empty. She could hear noises from various rooms where afterparties were still carrying on. She even thought