Хеннинг Манкелль - The Man from Beijing

She gathered it was a live broadcast. When Tobias Ludwig had finished what he had to say, the third person — public prosecutor Robertsson — pulled the microphone towards him and said that the police badly needed any relevant information they could get from the general public. Nonlocal cars, strangers who had been noticed in the vicinity, anything that seemed unusual.

When the prosecutor had finished, it was Vivi Sundberg’s turn. She held up a plastic bag. The camera zoomed in on it. There was a red ribbon inside. Sundberg said the police would like to hear from anybody who recognised the ribbon.

Birgitta Roslin leaned towards the screen. Hadn’t she seen a silk ribbon like the one in the plastic bag? She knelt down in order to get a better view. The ribbon certainly reminded her of something. She racked her brains, but couldn’t place it.

The press conference proceeded to the stage where journalists started asking questions. The picture vanished from the screen. The room in police HQ was replaced by a weather map. Snow showers would drift into the east coast from the Gulf of Finland.

Birgitta Roslin decided to take the inland route. She paid at the front desk and told the girl on duty that she had enjoyed her stay. There was a bitterly cold wind as she made her way to the car. She placed her bag on the back seat, studied the map and decided to drive through the forest to Järvsö and continue south from there.

When she came out onto the main road, she pulled into the first parking bay. She couldn’t stop thinking about that red ribbon she had seen on television. She remembered having seen an identical ribbon, but couldn’t put her finger on when or where. She could almost identify it, but couldn’t take that final step. If I’ve come this far, surely I’ll be able to find out, she thought, and phoned police HQ. Timber trucks kept rumbling past, whipping up heavy clouds of snow that restricted her view. It was quite some time before the phone was answered. The operator who responded sounded harried. Roslin asked to speak to Erik Huddén.

‘It’s related to the investigation,’ she explained. ‘Hesjövallen.’

‘I think he’s busy. I’ll give him a buzz.’

By the time he came to the telephone, she was starting to have second thoughts. He also sounded impatient and under pressure.

‘Huddén.’

‘I don’t know if you remember me,’ she said. ‘I’m that judge who insisted on speaking to Vivi Sundberg.’

‘I remember.’

She wondered if Sundberg had said anything about what had happened that night. But she had the distinct impression that Huddén knew nothing about it. Perhaps Sundberg had in fact kept it to herself, as she’d promised? Perhaps I’m helped by the fact that she broke the rules by letting me into the house in the first place?

‘It’s about that red ribbon you showed on TV,’ she said.

‘Hmm, I’m afraid it seems to have been a big mistake to do that,’ said Huddén.

‘Why?’

‘Our switchboard has practically gone up in smoke thanks to all the people who claim to have seen it. Usually wrapped round Christmas presents.’

‘My memory tells me something quite different. I think I’ve seen it.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know. But it has nothing to do with Christmas presents.’

He was breathing heavily at the other end of the line, and seemed to have trouble making up his mind.

‘I can show you the ribbon,’ he said eventually. ‘If you come right away.’

‘Within half an hour?’

‘You can have two minutes, no longer.’

He met her in reception, coughing and sneezing. The plastic bag with the red ribbon was on the desk in his office. He took it out of the bag and laid it on a piece of white paper.

‘It’s exactly seven and a half inches long,’ he said. ‘Just under half an inch wide. There’s a hole at one end suggesting that it’s been fastened to something. It’s made of cotton and polyester, but gives the impression of being made of silk. We found it in the snow. One of the dogs sniffed it out.’

She was certain she recognised it, but still couldn’t remember where from.

‘I’ve seen it,’ she said. ‘I can swear to that. Maybe not this particular one, but something identical.’

‘Where?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘If you’ve seen a similar one in Skåne, that’s hardly going to help us.’

‘No,’ she said seriously. ‘It was somewhere up here.’

She stared at the ribbon while Erik Huddén leaned against the wall, waiting.

‘Still can’t place it?’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

He put the ribbon back into the plastic bag and accompanied her down to reception.

‘If your memory returns, you can call us,’ he said. ‘But if it turns out to be a ribbon round a Christmas present, don’t bother.’

Lars Emanuelsson was standing outside, waiting for her. He was wearing a threadbare fur hat pulled down over his forehead. He was annoyed when he realised she had unmasked him.

‘Why are you following me?’

‘I’m not. I’m circulating, as I said. I just happened to see you going into police HQ, and I thought I’d wait to see what developed. Right now I’m wondering what your very brief visit entailed.’

‘That’s something you’ll never know. Now leave me alone, before I get really annoyed.’

She turned on her heel and walked away, but heard him say behind her: ‘Don’t forget that I can write.’

She turned back angrily.

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Not at all.’

‘I’ve told you why I’m here. There’s absolutely no reason whatsoever to embroil me in what’s going on.’

‘The public reads what is written, whether it’s true or not.’

Now it was Lars Emanuelsson who turned on his heel and walked away. She looked on in disgust, and hoped she would never meet him again.

Birgitta Roslin returned to her car. She had only just settled down behind the wheel when the penny dropped, and she remembered where she had seen that red ribbon. It came out of the blue, without warning. Could she be mistaken? No, she could see everything in her mind’s eye, as clear as day.

She waited for two hours as the place she wanted to visit was closed. She killed time by wandering aimlessly around town, impatient because she couldn’t ascertain immediately what she thought she had discovered.

It was eleven o’clock when the Chinese restaurant opened. Birgitta Roslin went in and sat down in the same place as last time. She studied the lamps hanging over the tables. They were made of transparent material, thin plastic designed to give the impression of paper-covered lanterns. They were long and thin, cylinder-shaped. Four red ribbons hung down from the bottom.

After her visit to police HQ she knew that each of the ribbons was exactly seven and a half inches long. They were attached to the lampshade by a little hook that threaded in through a hole at the top of the ribbon.

The young woman who spoke bad Swedish came with the menu. She smiled when she recognised Birgitta Roslin. Roslin chose the buffet, despite the fact that she was not very hungry. The dishes laid out for her to choose from gave her the opportunity to scan the dining room. She soon found what she was looking for over a table for two in a corner at the back. The lamp hanging over the table was missing one of the red ribbons.

She stopped short and held her breath.

Somebody had been sitting there, she thought. At the back in the darkest corner. Then he had stood up, left the premises and made his way to Hesjövallen.

She looked around the restaurant. The young woman smiled. She could hear voices coming from the kitchen, speaking Chinese.

It struck her that neither she nor the police had the slightest idea what had happened. It was all much bigger, deeper and more mysterious than any of them could have imagined.