to her, yesterday afternoon. He had spoken with her husband, Paula’s father. Mario. He had come to Sweden at a very young age and found work at SKF, the ball bearing factory. Many Italians had found work there.
Mario Ney, Paula Ney. Her purse had been on the bed in the hotel room. Until now, Öberg and his colleagues had not found out whether anyone had gone through the contents in the purse. There was a wallet with a debit card and some cash. No driver’s license, but a gym membership card from Friskis & Svettis. Other little things.
And a pocket with four photographs, the kind that are taken in photo booths. They looked recent.
Everything in that bag indicated that it belonged to Paula Ney, and that it was Paula Ney who had been hanged in the dark hotel room that only let in a thin streak of sun at a time.
“When would Paula have moved back to the apartment?” Winter asked.
“Sometime in the future, as she put it.”
“Did she say that? Did her parents say that she said that?”
“It was the dad who said it, I guess. I asked the mom.”
Winter held up the letter, a copy of the letter. The words were thesame as in the original. Those ten lines. Above them: “To Mario and Elisabeth.”
“Why did she write this? And why to her parents?”
“She didn’t have a husband,” said Ringmar.
“Answer the first question first,” said Winter.
“I don’t have an answer.”
“Was she forced to?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do we know that she wrote this letter after she disappeared, or whatever we should call it? After she left her friend at Grönsakstorget?”
“No. But we’re assuming it.”
“We’re linking the letter to the murder,” said Winter. “But maybe it’s about something else.”
“What would that be?”
They were into one of their routines, methods, questions and answers, and questions again in a stream of consciousness that might move forward or backward, any direction at all, as long as it didn’t stand still.
“Maybe she needed to get something off her chest,” said Winter. “She couldn’t say it face-to-face. Face-to-faces. Something had happened. She wanted to explain herself, or find reconciliation. Or just contact them. She wanted to leave home, for a little while. She didn’t want to be with her parents.”
“That’s wishful thinking,” said Ringmar.
“Sorry?”
“The alternative is just too horrible.”
Winter didn’t answer. Ringmar was right, of course. He had tried to see the scene in front of him because it was part of his work, and he had closed his eyes when he saw it: Paula in front of a piece of paper, someone behind her, above her. A pen in her hand. Write. Write!
“Are those her words?” Ringmar asked.
“Was she taking dictation?” Winter asked.
“Or was she allowed to write what she wanted?”
“I think so,” Winter said, reading the first sentences again.
“Why?” Ringmar asked.
“It’s too personal.”
“Maybe it’s the murderer’s personality.”
“You mean that it’s his message to the parents?”
Ringmar shrugged.
“I don’t think so,” said Winter. “They’re her words.”
“Her last words,” Ringmar said.
“If more letters don’t show up.”
“Oh, hell.”
“What does she mean by saying she wants to ask forgiveness?” Winter said, reading the words again.
“What she writes,” said Ringmar. “That she wants to ask forgiveness if she made her parents angry.”
“Is that the first thing a person thinks of in a letter like this? Would she think of that?”
“Would a person think at all?” said Ringmar. “She knows that she’s in a bad situation. She’s ordered to write a suicide note.” Ringmar fidgeted in his chair again but didn’t move it. “Yes. It’s possible that thoughts of guilt would pop up then. Same with thoughts of reconciliation.”
“Was there any guilt? I mean, real guilt?”
“Not according to her parents. Nothing that was . . . well, anything more than the usual