Sun and Shadow (20 page)

“There might be tons of important things they want to ask you about.”

“Such as?”

“Are you stupid? Such as what he was wearing, for instance.” She’d picked up the pillow again, was holding it, thinking. “Do you remember what he was wearing?”

“He had on an overcoat.”

“Long? Short? Black? Brown? Beige?”

“Dark ... is this a cross-examination?” But Maria wasn’t smiling. “There was ... there’s something else as well. I’m trying to remember what it is.... It’s been at the back of my mind. It was something he had on ... under the overcoat, that I saw. But I can’t remember what it was.”

“You mean something you recognized?”

“I’m not sure. Yes, could be. Something that ... seemed familiar. But I can’t put my finger on it.”

The letter was third in the pile. The return address said “Dirección General de la Policía,” but Winter had no doubt about who had written it. He put the white envelope to one side. It was burning the light-colored wood of his desk in protest at the intrusion of his private life into the workplace. The Spanish police stamp was a symbol for the borderline between life and work: dangerous, shifting. The scorch marks on his desk were much the same as those made by Alicia’s business card on the dark table in his room at La Luna.

They had drunk another glass of wine—or was he the only one who had done so? His despair had intensified when he heard some people walking past in the Plaza Altamirano, speaking Swedish. The older man’s voice reminded him of his father. Alicia had understood. Just then, at that moment, he had sensed that she understood.

Hours later he had seen the sea from the window in a house overlooking the ocean. He had no idea of the name of the street, or how to get there. A dog had barked down below, then all was quiet. There was nobody else around.

Some hours later he had woken up in his room at La Luna, and could no longer remember. It had been morning. He’d taken a shower and driven to the airport.

Bergenhem knocked on the door and entered. Winter was holding the envelope in his hand.

Bergenhem looked thinner. He didn’t look at Winter to start with. He remained standing.

“You wanted me?”

“Sit down, Lars, please.”

Bergenhem sat down and ran his hand over his brow. His hair looked damp.

“I’m a bit late. Somebody had skidded off the road just after the bridge.”

“Nobody is ever prepared for winter.”

“Then again, we hardly ever have one.”

“How are things in general, Lars?” Winter kept his voice down.

“Fine. I took Ada to nursery school.”

“Have you managed to get ... a bit of rest?”

“I certainly have. I only needed a few days.”

“A week. Is there anything that we can talk about?”

“Meaning what?”

“Is something getting too much for you? Something to do with work?”

“Of course not.”

Winter took a deep breath and considered his next move. He leaned forward.

“Listen, Lars. I know that some of the things we do here are ... pretty difficult to put up with. We get bad memories. It’s hard to shake off some of the things we go through. And you have been subjected to worse things than a lot of others. No, not subjected to. That’s not a good way of putting it. You’ve had to ... survive things.”

“It was my fault after all,” Bergenhem said.

“Stop it.”

“But it was.”

“I said STOP IT.” Winter lowered his voice again. “What I’m saying is that we have to try to work as a team, and give it our best shot. Our best shot. Do you feel that you—”

“For God’s sake, Erik, I’ve been at home for a few days to get a bit of rest, and it sounds as if you’re trying to get me put away in a home. A mental home.”

“Did I say that?”

“No, but ...”

Bergenhem seemed to have fixed his gaze on a spot over Winter’s head.

“Look at me, Lars.” He did. “What I wanted to say is that you are perfectly normal. You’re a human being. But if a person feels ... if you feel that things are getting to be too much, it’s best to face up to it.”

“What do you know?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Bergenhem had risen to his feet.

“You don’t know the whole damn story,” he said. Winter could see his lower lip trembling slightly. Bergenhem started to sit down, but remained standing. “Just think if you‘d—” he said, then sat down. Winter waited. Bergenhem looked up. “For Christ’s sake, Erik, I’m sorry. I know of course ... your dad.”

“Maybe I said too much myself.” Winter reached out to grasp Bergenhem by the arm. “I’d just like you to know that you’re welcome to talk to me ... about what’s on your mind. I’ll try to listen. And I won’t call in any psychologists.”

Bergenhem breathed out. It sounded as if he’d spent the last half-hour collecting air.

“It’s just that there are a few little problems at home.”

“Hmm.”

“That’s the kind of thing you have to sort out yourself.”

Work and private life, thought Winter, glancing at the letter lying on the desk between them. That’s the kind of thing you have to sort out yourself. This is work. Private life is this evening. Tonight. He’d meant to ask Bergenhem about other things. About children. What it was like.

Some other time.

“Johan called in on you,” he said instead.

“Setter? Yes, he did.”

“But it wasn’t your thing?”

“Death metal? No thank you.”

“Or black metal. There seems to be a difference.”

“I’m not at all sure that I want to know what it is,” said Bergenhem, smiling for the first time.

“It might be necessary to know in this particular case,” Winter said. “Setter said this morning that there’s a distributor in Gothenburg who specializes in the genre, or genres. They have a couple of record companies as well. If they don’t know what this is, then nobody will, according to Setter.”

“Has he been there?”

“No. I thought you and I might pay them a visit.”

Their premises were in Kyrkogatan. Church Street—an appropriate name, Winter thought as they walked up the stairs. Posters with infernal and Satanist motifs covered the walls.

The poster to the left of the door of Desdemona Productions featured a naked woman at prayer: Fuck Me Jesus. Something new from the group Marduk. There was more: the rocking Dildos, Driller Killer, the Unkinds, Ritual Carnage. Necromantia. Dellamorte. Order from Chaos. Angelcorpse.

Winter paused and considered the name. Angelcorpse. They were proudly presenting a new disc:
Exterminate.

A man with long black hair and wearing a colorful T-shirt opened after the third ring. The T-shirt was black with a bright yellow sun setting behind mountains and a burning cross hovering above. The message was etched into space: Eternal Death.

Makes you feel at home, thought Bergenhem. Or rather, at work.

“Well?”

“Rickard Nordberg?”

“Yes. Are you Wester? The detective?” He eyed Bergenhem up and down. “Two murder hunters from the crime unit?”

“Winter, and this is Bergenhem. May we come in?” Winter could hear music coming from inside, guitars, drums. The singer was screeching in unspeakable horror. Death patrols were executing victims nonstop.

Rickard Nordberg ushered them in.

The place was a loft. Computers, paper, stereos, some guitars in one corner. CD covers wherever you looked, posters. The loft was light and clean, daylight poured in through skylights, a bright blue visible through all of them. Rickard Nordberg sat down at one of the desks. Winter noted that they were about the same age. Nordberg’s hair was waist-length, graying, thin at the temples. He was wearing tight black jeans and boots with chains. He lit a cigarette. Seemed content with life. On the wall behind him was a poster for his own record company, Dead Sun, on which somebody’s innards were being cut out. Nordberg was partially obscuring an armful of intestines. When he flicked the ash off his cigarette, Winter noted next to the ashtray a photograph of two little girls. Next to it was a card in a frame: “To the nicest dad in the world.” To the right of the frame was a pile of CDs. Winter read the title of the top one:
Tortura Insomnae.

“There’s a lot of death around here,” said Bergenhem, surveying the room.

“Well, yes. That’s my job.” Winter noticed the gleam in Nordberg’s eye. “I suspect the topic isn’t all that unfamiliar to you gentlemen either?” He spoke with a refined Gothenburg accent.

“Have you brought the tape with you?” Nordberg asked. He gestured with his hand and a man similarly dressed and of more or less the same age came up to introduce himself. Winter handed over the cassette, and Nordberg inserted it into a cassette player. The music started to play, and Winter was transported back to the room in Aschebergsgatan.

Nordberg and his colleague listened attentively.

“Low budget,” Nordberg said after ten seconds.

His colleague shook his head.

“I’ve never heard this before. Must be American. It’s not Norwegian, in any case.”

“Norwegian?”

“They’re biggest when it comes to black metal,” Nordberg said.

“So this is black metal?” Winter asked.

“No doubt about it.”

“How can you tell?”

“The drive, the speed. Just listen. A drum roll on every beat. At least.”

‘And the vocals,“ his colleague said. ”Pretty high-pitched.“ They listened to the screeching that had long since passed the limits of falsetto. ”This is GOOD.“

“I don’t agree,” Nordberg said.

“Why is it good?” asked Bergenhem, turning to the colleague.

“It’s straightforward and unpretentious. Straight to the point. Influenced by the early eighties.”

“Is it early eighties?” asked Winter.

“No way. Sounds as if it was made a couple of years ago. Rubbish production. A touch of Bathory, but it’s not them.”

“Why isn’t it good?” asked Winter, turning to Nordberg.

“It’s too uniform. Nothing that stands out. I prefer something with more of a tune.” He stopped the tape and started a CD. More guitars strumming away at full speed, drums everywhere. Vocals from the crypt. “Can you hear it? That’s what I mean.”

Bergenhem looked at Winter.

“I can hear the tune,” Winter said. “A touch of The Clash.”

Nordberg gave him an odd look.

“Funny you should say that, they’ve said themselves that they owe a lot to The Clash.”

“London Calling,
” said Winter.

“Sweden is very big in black metal,” Nordberg said.

“How big?” Bergenhem asked.

“Depends what you’re comparing it with. But it has its niche market. Let’s say that a big-name Swedish band sells five thousand CDs. There are a few that do better, such as giant companies like Music for Nations, Dimmu Borgir from Norway, and Cradle of Filth from England. There we’re talking about a hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Black metal?”

“Black metal.”

“Who listens to it?”

“Well, mainly young guys. Almost exclusively young guys. Ordinary people.”

Ordinary people, Winter thought. The nicest people in the world.

“Where does ... Satanism fit in?” he asked.

“That’s the basis of black metal,” Nordberg’s colleague said. “But it’s more Devil worship.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Devil worshippers like the Devil, but they jettison all the rest,” Nordberg said in his posh accent. “But I’m no expert. Nor a worshipper, actually.”

“And this is music for Devil worshippers,” said Winter, indicating the CD player. A new track had started, just as intense as the first one.

“Not necessarily,” said Nordberg’s colleague. “Not many of the people who listen to this stuff are really Devil worshippers, or Sa tanists. It’s more the packaging that counts.”

“Packaging?”

“The style just as much as the music. People want to look like KISS, but in spades.”

“Sverker knows all there is to know about KISS,” said Nordberg with a smile. “By the way, I haven’t gotten around to introducing you. Crime unit, Sverker. Sverker, crime unit.” He stopped waving his hand about. “Sverker works for a record company. Depression. Mainly metal punk. Knows all there is to know about punk. Just like you do,” said Nordberg, nodding at Winter. “He’s collared a few new bands only today.”

“Slaktmask and Skitsystem,” said Sverker modestly. ‘And Arse destroyer.“

“But neither of you recognizes the music on this cassette?” Winter said.

“Let’s do this,” Nordberg said. “We’ll post a sound file on the Net with one of the tracks from the cassette. I can say that I’ve discovered an unknown band from somewhere or other and I’m curious to know who they are.”

“Which is the truth anyway,” said Sverker, stroking back his long, wispy hair.

“Great idea,” said Winter.