Åke Edwardson - Death Angels

Beckman looked at Halders as if he were a comedian whose punch line hadn’t sunk in yet. “Is it about the murder?” he asked, turning to Djanali.

Halders stared at the far wall while Djanali returned Beckman’s gaze.

“The murder of the kid next door,” Beckman clarified.

“Yes,” Djanali said. “We have a couple of questions for you.”

“Okay.”

“Were you home around the time it happened? That would be about eleven-thirty at night.”

“I think so. But I had a flight to catch early the next morning.”

“When did you find out about the murder?”

“A few hours ago, as soon as I got back. It’s all over the place. Not that I watch much television, but they talk about it constantly. I’ve seen the headlines too.” He pointed at a pile of newspapers on the table.

Djanali walked over and saw the two most recent editions spread out on the floor. “So you just returned from a trip?”

“Early this morning.”

“Where did you go?”

“What difference does that make?”

“If it doesn’t make any difference,” Halders said, “you might as well answer the question.”

“I was on vacation in Grand Canary,” Beckman said. “Can’t you tell by my face?” All of a sudden he looked worried that he hadn’t gotten a suntan and had wasted all his money. He went out to the hallway, came back with a little tote bag and took out a ticket envelope. “Here’s the proof.”

“Do you remember ever seeing the kid?” Halders asked, not bothering to look at the envelope.

“What kind of question is that?”

“Did you ever see him go in or out of the building?”

“Sure.”

“You did?”

“We must have kept the same hours, because I caught sight of him a few times late at night. I’m a streetcar driver,” Beckman explained.

That makes a lot of sense, Djanali thought. Late hours are what I associate with streetcars-sometimes so late they don’t come at all. He looks more like a bank manager. She imagined Winter sitting calmly in a glass booth as his streetcar wound its way through the city. “Was he alone?” she asked, suppressing the image of Winter.

“What?”

“Was he by himself when you saw him?”

“Not every time.”

“No?” Halders asked.

“When was the last time you saw him with someone else?” Djanali asked.

Beckman seemed to be deep in thought. Suddenly the scene he was trying to conjure up appeared before his mind’s eye and the blood drained from his face. Taking a step to the side, he grabbed the table. “Gawd,” he said.

Halders stepped forward to support him. “What’s going on?”

He sees something very clearly, Djanali thought, and he’s wondering whether it was the devil himself. Don’t put words in his mouth. This is one of those precious moments you can’t afford to ruin. “When was the last time you saw him with someone else?” she repeated.

“It must have been that…” Beckman stammered.

“What did you say?”

He cleared his throat and got his voice back. “I saw him and a man together.” Then he fell to all fours. “Just a minute.” He leafed through the newspapers on the floor. “There was a date someplace.”

They could have told him the date but let him go on looking.

Beckman stood up with one of the newspapers in his hand. “Jesus Christ,” he said, examining his copy of the ticket. “It was the same night.”

“The same night as what?” Halders asked.

“The same night it happened,” Beckman said, looking from Halders to Djanali. “That must be when it was.”

“And you just figured that out?” Halders asked.

“My flight left early the next morning.”

“ Grand Canary?”

“Yes, Puerto Rico.”

“Are you telling me there’s a Puerto Rico in Grand Canary?”

“Yes, that’s the name of the resort, I think.” Beckman seemed to be second-guessing himself about where he had spent the past few weeks.

“Wherever you were, they sell Swedish newspapers,” Halders said.

“I didn’t read the papers,” Beckman said. He looked like someone had knocked the wind out of him.

Djanali made a sign to Halders to ease up.

“This is the first time I suspected anything,” Beckman continued.

“I understand,” Djanali said.

“The first time,” he repeated.

“Would you recognize the man who was with Jamie Robertson if you ran into him again?” Djanali asked.

Beckman threw out his hands. “I saw him mostly from the back.”

“But you’re sure it was a man, right?”

“Yes, and quite tall. They were going up the stairs when I passed by on the walkway. Or maybe they were waiting for the elevator.”

Halders looked at Djanali, then returned his gaze to Beckman. “We’d like you to come with us so we can discuss this in a little more detail.”

“More detail? Am I a suspect or something?”

“You have some very interesting information, and we want to give you the chance to remember as much as possible.”

“I’m awfully tired right now.”

Look, pal, Halders thought, don’t make me say that we can hold you for six hours and get an extension for another six.

“Okay, sure,” Beckman said after a slight hesitation. “If you’ll just excuse me for a minute.” He made a bolt for the bathroom, and they heard him vomit.

“What time does Winter’s plane take off?” Halders asked.

“Right now, I think.” Djanali glanced at her watch. “He said a quarter to eleven, and that’s in ten minutes.”

“Call him.” Halders pointed to the right pocket of Djanali’s jacket.

She took out her phone and dialed Winter’s number. “No answer.”

“He’s already turned off his phone and started to think about ordering a drink and flirting with the flight attendants.”

More retching from the bathroom.

“Call the airport,” Halders said.

“I don’t know the num-”

“ 941000.”

“You’re a walking phone book.”

“Just ask me anything.”

Djanali told the agent what she needed, and two minutes before the plane was scheduled to leave the gate, the woman who had just taken Winter’s boarding pass announced his name over the loudspeaker. Half an hour later he stepped out of his car in front of police headquarters.

BECKMAN HAD SPENT HlS VACATlON DRINKING ON THE TERRACEof the Altamar Aparthotel, gazing out at the northern horizon. He had been sober on the plane home. End of story.

He wasn’t the first person they’d brought in for questioning. But this was something different, Winter thought as he took the elevator up, briefcase in hand. His luggage would arrive later.

Beckman was suffering minor withdrawal symptoms, far from delirious but with an unsteady gait that made him look like he was listening to funk.

Winter sat across from Beckman: what a homecoming for him, and to think I never even got off the ground.

The tape recorder hummed, registering a short, clear laugh that echoed through the corridor outside.

“I don’t remember very much,” Beckman said after they had dealt with the formalities.

“What time did you get home from work the night you saw Jamie Robertson with this man?”

“A minute or two after midnight. But that’s not what actually happened.”

“What didn’t actually happen?”

“It’s like this. I went out, and then I came back and thought I saw the man again.”

“You saw him a second time?”

“I had dropped my scarf somewhere. It might sound weird, but I couldn’t find it and I thought it must have fallen off while I was buttoning up my coat in the doorway, so I went back and saw him from behind as he walked up the stairs.”