Хеннинг Манкелль - The Man from Beijing

‘I think her enthusiasm was due to the fact that she wanted to understand how Englishmen work by studying their national sport. Hong Qiu was a very obstinate person.’

Ho checked her watch. ‘I have to go back to London from Copenhagen later today.’

Birgitta wondered whether she ought to ask the question that had been forming in the back of her mind.

‘You weren’t by chance in my house the night before last? In my study?’

‘I was staying in a hotel. Why should I have wanted to creep into your house like a thief?’ she said, bemused.

‘It was just a thought. I was woken up by a noise.’

‘Had somebody been there?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is anything missing?’

‘I thought somebody had disturbed my papers.’

‘No,’ said Ho. ‘I haven’t been there.’

‘And you are here on your own?’

‘Nobody knows I’m in Sweden. Not even my husband and children. They think I’m in Brussels. I often go there.’

Ho took out a business card and put it on the table in front of Birgitta. On it was her full name, Ho Mei Wan, her address and various telephone numbers.

‘Where exactly in London do you live?’

‘In Chinatown. In summer it can be very noisy in the streets all night long. But I like living there even so. It’s a little China in the middle of London.’

Birgitta tucked the business card into her purse. She accompanied Ho to the railway station to make sure she caught the right train.

‘My husband’s a conductor on the railway,’ Birgitta said. ‘What does your husband do?’

‘He’s a waiter,’ said Ho. ‘That’s why we live in Chinatown. He works in a restaurant on the ground floor.’

Birgitta watched the Copenhagen train disappear into a tunnel. She went home, prepared a meal and felt how tired she was. She decided to watch the news, but fell asleep soon after lying down on the sofa. She was woken up by the telephone ringing. It was Staffan calling from Funchal. It was a bad connection. He had to shout in order to make himself heard over all the crackling. She gathered that all was well and they were enjoying themselves. Then they were cut off. She waited for him to call again, but nothing happened. She lay down on the sofa again. She had difficulty taking in the fact that Hong Qiu was dead. But even when Ho told her what had happened, she had the feeling that something didn’t add up.

She began to regret not having asked Ho more questions. But she had simply been too tired after the complicated trial and hadn’t felt up to it. And now it was too late. Ho was on her way home to her English Chinatown.

Birgitta lit a candle for Hong Qiu and searched through maps in the bookcase before finding one of London. Ho’s husband’s restaurant was adjacent to Leicester Square. Birgitta had once sat with Staffan in the little park there, watching people come and go. It was late autumn, and they had made the journey on the spur of the moment. Looking back, they had often talked about that trip as a one-off but very precious memory.

She went to bed early, as she had to be in court the following day. The case, concerning a woman who had beaten up her mother, was not as complicated as the one involving the four Vietnamese, but she couldn’t afford to be tired when she took her place on the bench. Her self-respect wouldn’t allow that. To make sure that she didn’t spend the night awake, she took half a sleeping pill before switching off the lights.

The case turned out to be simpler than she had expected. The accused woman suddenly changed her plea and admitted all the charges against her. And the defence did not produce any surprises that would have extended proceedings. As early as a quarter to four Birgitta Roslin was able to sum up and announce that the sentence would be made public on 1 June.

When she returned to her office, she called the police in Hudiksvall, off the top of her head. She thought she recognised the voice of the young woman who answered. She sounded less nervous and overworked than last winter.

‘I’m looking for Vivi Sundberg. Is she in today?’

‘I saw her walk past only a few minutes ago. Who’s calling?’

‘The judge in Helsingborg. That’ll be sufficient.’

Vivi Sundberg came to the phone almost immediately. ‘Birgitta Roslin. Long time no hear.’

‘I just thought I’d check in.’

‘Some new Chinamen? New theories?’

Birgitta could hear the irony in Vivi’s voice and was very tempted to reply that she had lots of new Chinamen to pull out of her hat. But she merely said that she was curious to know how things were going.

‘We still think the man who unfortunately managed to take his own life is the murderer,’ Vivi said. ‘But even though he’s dead, the investigation is continuing. We can’t sentence a dead man, but we can give those who are still alive an explanation of what happened and, not least, why.’

‘Will you succeed?’

‘It’s too early to say

Any new leads?’

‘I can’t comment on that.’

‘No other suspects? No other possible explanations?’

‘I can’t comment on that either. We are still embroiled in a large-scale investigation with lots of complicated details.’

‘But you still think it was the man you arrested? And that he really had a motive for killing nineteen people?’

‘That’s what it looks like. What I can tell you is that we’ve had help from every kind of expert you can think of — criminologists, profile makers, psychologists, and the most experienced detectives and technicians in the country. Needless to say, Professor Persson is extremely doubtful. But when isn’t he? There’s still a long way to go, though.’

‘What about the boy?’ Birgitta asked. ‘The victim who died, but didn’t fit the pattern. How do you explain that?’

‘We don’t have an explanation per se. But of course we do have a picture of how it all happened.’

‘There’s one thing I’ve been wondering about,’ said Birgitta. ‘Did any of the dead seem to be more important than the other victims?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Anybody who was exposed to especially brutal treatment? Or maybe the one who was killed first? Or last?’

‘Those are questions I can’t comment on.’

‘Just tell me if my questions come as a surprise.’

‘No.’

‘Have you found an explanation for the red ribbon?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve been in China,’ said Birgitta. ‘I saw the Great Wall of China. I was mugged and spent an entire day with some very intense police officers.’

‘Really?’ said Vivi. ‘Were you hurt?’

‘No, only scared. But I got back the bag they stole from me.’

‘So perhaps you were lucky after all?’

‘Yes,’ said Birgitta. ‘I was lucky. Thanks for your time.’

Birgitta remained at her desk after replacing the receiver. She had no doubt that the specialists who had been brought in would have had something to say if they’d felt the investigation was going nowhere.

That evening she went for a long walk, and spent a few hours leafing through wine brochures. She made a note of several from Italy that she wanted to order, then watched an old film on TV that she had seen with Staffan when they first started going out together. Jane Fonda played a prostitute, the colours were pale and faded, the plot peculiar, and she couldn’t help but smile at the strange clothes, especially the vulgar platform shoes that had been highly fashionable at the time.

She had almost dozed off when the telephone rang. The clock on the bedside table said a quarter to midnight. The ringing stopped. If it had been Staffan or one of the children they would have called her mobile phone. She switched off the light. Then the telephone rang again. She jumped up and answered using the phone on her desk.