Sun and Shadow (32 page)

“Not much,” Winter said. “Not much at all.”

Ringmar held up the now straight paper clip.

“Well done, Bertil. You can start picking a few locks now.”

“Was that how he got in?”

“We haven’t found a single scratch. Either he had a key or they let him in. He was known to them.”

“We’ve interviewed all their friends and acquaintances that we know about.”

“He was a secret acquaintance.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Secrets. People’s secrets.”

“Hmm.”

“He was a part of the secret. Something was going to take place there and he was going to be involved. But they never got that far. It didn’t happen. Not that last time.”

“He had other intentions.”

“Yes.”

“Did he have other intentions from the moment he arrived?” asked Ringmar, now trying to restore the paper clip to its original shape.

“That’s an important question. Had he made up his mind when he went there, or did it... did something happen that led to the murders?”

“Or to what happened
after
the murders?”

“Yes. Was he a stranger when he was invited, or was he somebody who’d known them for a long time?” For a long time, Winter thought. His job had become a sort of criminal archaeology. He was digging backward in time in order to find answers. Climbing down into the shadows of the past. He was tired of it. He had enough to do with the present. “Had he known them for a long time,” he said again.

“Did he know her? Him? Both of them?”

“Hmm. Her. I think it has to do with the woman. Louise. I think so even more now, after my conversation with Lareda.”

“Lareda gets carried away sometimes,” Ringmar said.

“But it makes sense, even so,” Winter said.

“If we assume that he was let in, the next question is how they made contact,” Ringmar said. “If they were acquaintances from some time in the past, or not known to one another at all but had arranged to meet in the Valkers’ apartment, how did they get into contact?”

‘An advertisement.“

“Do you think so?”

“Lonely hearts.”

“Do you know how many lonely hearts ads appear in the daily papers every day? Or even just on the weekend?”

“No, I don’t. Do you?”

“No sir. But you only need to take one glance to know that there are lots of them. Lonely hearts.”

“Do you read them, Bertil?”

“They are very entertaining. But to start searching through them all would be like searching for a needle in a haystack,” Ringmar said, studying the paper clip that had turned into two steel needles.

“Pornographic contacts,” said Winter. “Contact ads in the porno magazines.”

“More needles, more haystacks.”

“Hmm.”

‘Are you thinking of the sperm? Are you wondering if it was that kind of acquaintance?“

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s one theory. They got in touch via an advertisement.”

“It’s not impossible. It evidently happens more and more often.”

“People need tenderness and affection,” Ringmar said. “It’s a growing need.”

“And they find new ways of getting it.”

“We haven’t found any pornography in the Valkers’ apartment,” Ringmar said.

“Films,” said Winter. “We could start there. Talk to the local video stores.”

“And then what? Even if they did rent a porn flick now and then, I don’t see how that would help us. I suspect we’d be surprised by the statistics on the renting of porno.”

“What do you mean?”

“Practically everybody rents one at some point. Chairmen of the local council. Clergymen. Sture Birgersson.” Winter couldn’t help smiling when he thought of the crime unit boss. Birgersson had performed his annual disappearing trick and Winter had no intention of talking to him.

“Or they buy one on the Net,” Ringmar said. “Nice and discreet.”

“Yes, no doubt.”

“Have you ever thought about doing it?”

“Renting a pornographic film? I haven‘t, in fact. It wouldn’t be ... me.”

“Not your style?”

“No style at all.”

When Angela closed the door and he heard her boots dropping onto the floor, he opened the oven and took out the two small stuffed woodcocks that needed a short time to rest. It was nine-thirty.

“What’s that?” asked Angela, going straight to the kitchen, perhaps tempted by the smells. “Doves of peace?”

“Just a bit to eat.”

“Yeah, right.”

Winter was busy with the salad dressing, whipping a teaspoonful of French mustard into some olive oil and three drops of honey vinegar.

“I suspect there’s a hidden meaning here,” Angela said. ‘A subtext.“

“You could have a guess,” he said, tearing up salad leaves of various types; he nodded toward the woodcocks as if everything depended on them.

She went over to the work surface and sniffed. The birds certainly looked tasty.

“Guinea fowl?”

“No.”

“I give up.”

“Already?”

“I’m tired.”

She sat down and massaged the toes on her left foot. Her stomach was quite a mound now. There was a little hole in the heel of her tights. In the light from the stove lamp and the two candles on the table, he could see that she had dark circles under her eyes, but that her face was still flushed from the wintry climate outside. Her hair seemed to be flattened, as if dried out after an afternoon and evening at the clinic, where the air-conditioning left much to be desired.

She looked up, her hair fell away to the sides and the shadows had gone. Her face looked young again. “It’s nothing new. Tired. The nurses probably feel much worse.” She held her hand cautiously over the nearest candle flame. “We had a scandal at the clinic today. A king-size one.” She continued waving her hand to and fro over the flame, without looking at him. “The boss resigned. Made a hullabaloo about it.” She looked at him again. “Just left his desk and cleared off.” She smiled. “Our beloved chief executive was in with Olsén discussing the latest cutback proposals... no, decisions. I was with a patient and didn’t hear anything of it, but they said there was a sort of bellowing from inside Olsén’s room and then Olsén emerged without his coat and Boersma followed him, looking embarrassed.”

‘About time.“

“Meaning what?”

“About time the director was embarrassed.”

“To him that’s like water off a du—” she said, looking hard at the little bird nearest to her, which was still giving off a bit of steam and smelling delicious. “Surely these aren’t ducks?”

She seemed to have forgotten her question, took her hand away from the candle, and massaged her right foot.

“Olsén didn’t come back. He phoned half an hour later and said he wouldn’t be coming back today. Or ever. He’d quit.”

“So there’ll be even fewer of you doing what has to be done.”

“Yes. But some good may come of it.”

“I’ve brought something good home with me,” Winter said, indicating the woodcocks as he opened the oven door to check the potatoes.

“Doctors can command a bit of respect,” Angela said, following her train of thought. “If they shout loudly enough, they can shake the foundations a bit.”

I’ve noticed that, he thought, but he didn’t say anything.

“They can stir up the administration, I mean,” she said, and walked over to the counter again. He embraced her, and noticed the smell of winter that was still clinging to her hair and clothes. He held her tightly, and felt her stomach. She moved closer.

“Have you burned the letter?” she asked, barely audibly, addressing his neck, or the birds on the work surface.

“It’s all gone,” he said. “Everything that never existed is no more.”

‘All right,“ she said, pulling away. ’All right, all right.” She looked at the table, which still wasn’t set.

“Do you think I might have time for a shower before dinner?”

“You have five minutes,” he said. “Max. I’ll put some foil around these beauties, and the sauce will be ready in a couple of minutes.”

“But what are they? Could they be woodcocks? They’re in season now, aren’t they?”

She recalled the French word for them as she turned on the taps in the shower.
Bécasse.
She knew that because she’d worked in a French vineyard a couple of late summers and one autumn when she was a student—although she wasn’t studying at the time—and the vintner hunted woodcock. One or two would often be hanging on the porch as she set out to tend the vines in the morning.

They’d been in the office that Hanne generally used at the police station. It was a quiet room, well lit.

She always put freshly cut flowers on the little table by the chairs that had to serve as armchairs. They were just like she was, she’d often thought: inadequate, a bit different from what they would be like on other occasions, under different circumstances.

“I can’t shake off those dreams,” Morelius had said. “Like last night again.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“It was the same as the night before last, and the one before that. Somebody laughing as I stood there, but I didn’t know... which one of them.”

“Was it during that traffic accident?”

“It’s always then,” he said. “Now it crops up as a sort of flash when I’m in the car, for instance. Working.”

“What’s it like then?”

“A sort of memory. It just crops up, then disappears.”

“What does the image look like?” she asked.

“The same image. From the accident.”

“Go on.”

“It’s as if it’s haunting me,” he said. ‘And not only when I’m working.“

She was listening. Waiting.

“I think about it even when I’m not on duty.”

“I understand.”

“And then there’s going to sleep.” He was twisting his head from side to side, as if to avoid getting a stiff neck. “That’s the worst, I suppose.” He twisted his head again. “You need to get some sleep. If you don‘t, you can’t work properly.” Then he said something that Hanne didn’t really understand, and that would give her food for thought later. Much later. “I mean, you have to show people who you are,” Morelius said.

 

Patrik and Maria were in the center of town, wandering around the shops that were open late, browsing the CDs in music stores, rummaging through shelves of books, touching the clothes hanging on long racks. Street musicians were wearing Santa Claus hats and singing songs about Christmas in English and in Swedish.

In the southeast corner of Femman was a Peruvian band: small, dark men, ponchos in earth colors, songs that smelled of sorrow and high winds. Patrik and Maria joined the semicircle of twenty or so listeners, swaying in time to the rhythm. In front of the musicians was a battered suitcase full of CDs.

“Maybe I should buy one for Mom,” Maria said. “I haven’t found a good Christmas present for her yet.” She gestured toward the CDs. “One of those, and something else as well.”

“A bit of black metal,” Patrik suggested.

“No, thank you.” She looked at him. “You haven’t found anything yourself yet, have you?”

“For Dad, you mean? No.”

“Aren’t you going to get anything for ... her?”

“Ulla? No.”

“I think I saw her on the tram near Haga Church the day before yesterday.”

“Was she drunk?”

“If it was her. No, not as far as I could tell. But she had a shopping bag with some bottles.”

“She’d been to the booze shop, no doubt. Too heavy for her to walk home with, I suppose.”

“I never want to get drunk like that again,” Maria said.

“Like what? Like Ulla?”

“You know what I mean, Patrik.”

‘All right.“

“Don’t you think?”

“Straight edge,” he said. “That’s the thing from now on.” He was watching the musicians, all of whom seemed to be playing panpipes at the same time as they strummed open chords on their guitars. They sounded like birds circling over mountain peaks. Get away from all this. “Well, are you going to buy some music from the Andes?”

“I need a bit more time to think.”

“It’s Christmas Eve the day after tomorrow.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“It’s all right for you.”

“You can spend Christmas with us.”

Patrik made no reply. He turned and saw Winter approaching from Brunnsparken, at the edge of the mass of people making their way to the shops. He hadn’t noticed them. Christmas shopping. No parcels yet, but he seemed to know where he was going, unless he was just being carried along by the tide of people.

Patrik looked away, but it was too late. Gothenburg was a small place.

“How are things?”

He was standing close, but not too close. Maria looked up.

“All right, I suppose.”

Winter eyed the band. The song had finished, and some of the onlookers applauded. He turned to the youngsters again. Patrik’s cheek was almost back to normal now. Winter didn’t know whether the investigation had started and he didn’t want to ask, but the boy had been beaten up for the last time.