Åke Edwardson - Never End

"Well… we were going away when it happened… and it was a very long trip that lasted well into the school term," said the man. He looked at his son. "I was given permission to educate him myself while we were away." Perhaps that was a mistake, his eyes suggested. "Anyway… we eventually came back home, and there was nothing about that… murder that I would have linked with… us, as it were. Do you follow me?"

"But now there is," said Winter.

"Well… the articles about that murder five years ago seemed to be appealing directly to us."

"But I don't remember a thing," said the boy, speaking for the first time. "Except that it was hot that night. And I was tired."

"It was late," said the man. He looked around. "Anyway… what can we try to help you with?"

We'll see, Winter thought. Several studies of the psychology of memory suggested that people are especially good at remembering faces. Even after a long time. There is a separate system inside the brain for storing faces, for working on faces. Winter had often thought about that. It fitted in naturally with the way humans had developed: it was important to recognize other people and their faces if you were going to survive. You had to be able to read emotions in other people's faces.

It had been of help to him, a part of his work.

Children learn to recognize faces at an early age. It has nothing to do with language. I can talk to the man and his son until the cows come home, but it won't do any good, he thought. What he wanted from them was a specific memory, an identification memory.

Five years had passed. He'd like them to confront Kurt Bielke in a lineup, but it would be difficult to identify him conclusively, perhaps impossible. The passage of years was a big obstacle; now they'd be confronted with a face in a different light, at a different angle, with a different haircut. A different setting. Besides, had they even seen anybody that night?

"Did you see anybody?" Winter asked.

"Well…," said the man, "I've been thinking about that, obviously. It's not easy. But that was a memorable night… I remember it because I had a devil of a toothache and we were going to have to start our trip, later that same morning in fact, by looking for a dentist in Skane."

Winter waited.

"Anyway… it makes it easier to remember, if you know what I mean. I do actually remember somebody coming out of the park, because I'd put down a suitcase and thought maybe I ought to go into the trees and look for a lump of resin to chew, because my grandma always used to say that was good for toothache, and I was sort of looking right at the trees, and somebody came walking out." He looked at Winter. "I don't know what time it was.'

"We do," said Winter.

They had the lineup ready by three o'clock: a classic setup with the witnesses behind a two-way mirror and the suspected murderer on the other side together with various others who had been wandering around the police station with nothing important to do.

Bielke looks normal, but he's tired, thought Winter. Bertil looks chirpier. Chirpier and more dangerous. Ringmar was staring straight at the mirror, two places to the left of Bielke. There were eight of them on the podium.

The man and his son were standing next to Winter. The boy looked as if he thought he was in a movie.

Winter knew his forensic psychology: a witness who's seen the murderer should have it made as easy as possible for him to recognize the individual in the lineup, but at the same time it should be impossible for a witness who has never seen the suspect to work out who it is.

"Take your time," he said.

"Er…," said the man.

Bergenhem and Djanali were standing next to Winter.

"Er…," said the man again, "the light was sort of different then."

It was sort of a different time, thought Aneta Djanali. How many times had she seen Fredrik standing on that podium? Nine times out of ten, witnesses who were unsure would, after a brief pause, pick him out as the criminal. Witnesses who were sure would pick him out with no hesitation.

Winter gave a signal for the light to be dimmed. Let's imagine a warm summer night in a park in the center of a big city. Somebody emerges from the bushes. Dries his hands after committing murder. Returns home and goes to bed.

"It's got something to do with his hair," the man said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"His hair was standing up a bit just as he passed under the streetlight."

"Who?" said Winter. "Who was under the streetlight?"

"Er… he had his head bowed toward his chest, if you follow me, and that meant you could see his hair more, sort of."

"Who are you talking about?" Winter asked.

"Him over there," said the man, nodding toward the mirror as if his eyes were emitting a beam of light. "The guy who looks as if he isn't enjoying it very much."

Ringmar, thought Winter. He's playing his role too well. "The third from the left?"

The man hesitated.

"Er… no, not him. I mean the one on the other side. The third from the right."

"The third from the right?" Winter checked to make sure.

"Er…"

"Take all the time you need."

"I can't be a hundred…" The man looked at his son, at Winter, at Bergenhem, then back at the podium. At Bielke. He looked at Bielke. Bielke looked at Winter through his own reflection.

The witness nodded, as if to emphasize what he'd said.

It was a small step forward, useful for tomorrow morning when the application for the detainment was made in the cramped little courtroom across the hall. Remanded in custody, of course. Fourteen days in which to bring charges, with the possibility of an extension.

"I remember now," said the boy, whose voice seemed unnaturally deep for one so young.

The man turned to his son. They were the same height. Winter waited and felt his pulse racing.

"I remember what happened now," said the boy. He was still looking through the two-way mirror. "Funny, ain't it? I mean, it's funny. You shouldn't do something like that, should you?"

"Er…," said his father.

"What?" asked Winter. "What do you remember?"

"What happened. And that it could be the same guy as my dad said. Third from the right."

Maybe he just wants to show his father what a good boy he is, Winter thought.

"Anything special?" asked Winter, gently.

The boy didn't answer, couldn't take his eyes off Bielke.

"Is there anything special about him that you recognize?" Winter asked.

"What he doesn't have," said the boy.

"What he doesn't have." Winter echoed him, still speaking gently.

"I remember it crystal clear, actually," said the boy.

Winter smiled encouragingly.

"The dog leash."

Winter's heart skipped a beat.

"He had a dog leash, but he dropped it as he walked away, or ran, or whatever. I remember it sort of rattling on the gravel, and then he picked it up. I remember clearly standing there, thinking it was strange that there was no dog." The boy turned to Winter. "I thought it was sad that the dog didn't follow him. Where was his dog? Yep, I remember thinking that before. Afterward, I mean. Where was his dog?"

Winter was driven to the Bielkes' house because Irma Bielke had asked to see him-only him, nobody else would do. It was just as hot as before the thunderstorm. He played Halders's Julie Miller CD, just slipped it in, smelled the sea air after two kilometers, and heard a scratchy but clear voice, like low-grade sandpaper.

She was waiting on the familiar verandah. Winter held out his left hand for her to shake in greeting.

"What happened?" she asked, and broke down before he had chance to answer.

"How long is this going to go on for?" she asked ten minutes later. They were sitting on the tropical-looking furniture at the far end of the verandah. What? Winter thought. Tell me what.