Sun and Shadow (35 page)

“Things shooting off in all possible directions, is that what you mean?”

“You think well when you’re at home, Erik. I’ve no doubt you’ll be doing that while Gothenburg celebrates the party of the century.”

“Of the millennium.”

“Yes. I can hardly wait to celebrate it along with the chief constable of the province, that very dear lady.”

“You won’t be on your own,” Winter said. He could see them now in his mind’s eye, the nine senior officers from the various units with the task of supporting the communications HQ on this exceptional night that was drawing ever closer. It was a sacrifice by those in high places, proof that the top brass put duty before partying.

“It’ll be interesting,” said Birgersson. “I’ll be able to say afterward that I was there.”

“I’ll think about you when midnight comes,” said Winter. “I hope all the electronics can cope.”

“That’s why we’ll be there.”

Winter laughed.

“What will you be doing at the magical moment? Any special plans?”

“Yes ... we’ll be eating at home. My mother’s visiting us. Angela and Mom and me. Nice and quiet.”

“I suppose a bit of peace and quiet is what’s called for, in view of the coming addition to the family. And all’s well with Angela?”

“She’s working away and getting more annoyed about the goings on in the hospital than ever. So, yes, all is well.”

“Anyway. Now you know where to find me when the carnival explodes in a riotous crescendo.”

“Let’s hope that everybody can handle their jubilation,” Winter said.

“To be honest, I think it’s going to be a hard night for the boys on the ground,” said Birgersson.

“There are quite a few gals in the cars as well,” Winter said. ‘And in the street patrols.“

“Yes, yes, but you know what I mean.” Birgersson lit his second cigarette since Winter had come to his office. Winter was reminded of the chain-smoking caretaker. Perhaps Birgersson was cutting down? He looked up: “We’ve said it a thousand times before, but it’s still true that what holds us back in this job is a lack of imagination. But, in a way, the reverse is true with regard to this case. Are you with me? There’s so much imagination floating around that we have to make an effort to keep it in check. The material is somehow ... so comprehensive. All these trails that could be leading us in the same direction but don’t necessarily do so.” Birgersson’s face suddenly looked heavier, older. “This is an imaginative sonofabitch we’re dealing with here. The bastard. He’s building up a façade that takes up more space than the deed itself. Are you with me?”

“I’m with you. It sounds interesting.” It was interesting. This was Sture Birgersson the detective speaking.

“Just for a second you think it hasn’t happened. That feeling. You have to go back to an earlier feeling in order to proceed. Try to think under and over these tracks. Messages.”

“I’m with you.”

“Do you think he’s making fun of us, Erik? In the sense that all those messages are really fakes?”

“Fakes?”

“That they are fantasies and nothing to do with the deed. Something that happened afterward ... consciously. Intentional misinformation.”

“No.”

“Nor do I really. But what we’ve got is not enough.” Birgersson looked down at the pile of papers again. “There are marks and stains and fingerprints but nothing to compare them with. Beier’s team found some sperm stains, but that’s not enough.”

“I’m afraid I can’t present you with a suspect yet.”

“I’d be happy with somebody to interrogate.”

“Not even that.”

“Perhaps AFIS could be of help,” Birgersson said.

Yes. That had helped in the past. The automated fingerprint identification systems contained the prints of everybody who had been arrested for any crime or misdemeanor, so they could insert the prints they had and see if there were matches. The case could be solved.

“What does the team say?” asked Birgersson. “Is anybody complaining about how long it’s taking you to get anywhere?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I don’t suppose we’re landed with a serial murderer, or ... ?”

“We’ll know that if we have a series.”

“We don’t have serial murderers in Sweden anymore.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. And I’m prepared to repeat it.”

“Hmm.”

“Get somebody linked with the scene,” said Birgersson. “That’s where we have to start. Those other couples. Can’t you bring ‘em in and shine a light into their eyes? There are several things that aren’t clear.”

“It’s more like vagueness in the way they act,” said Winter. “That can be due to all kinds of things. General uncertainty when it comes to facing the police, for instance. Fear, simply.”

“Exploit it.”

“I am, in my own way.”

“They seemed to have a pretty vague past. The Valkers.”

“Well ...”

“A few semi-indecent possibilities, but there’s nothing substantial to work on.”

“We shall see.”

“You said you were going to pay her mother a visit yourself. Louise. In Kungsbacka. You’re not satisfied with the interviews the team’s had with her so far.”

“I’m going there on Thursday.”

 

Bergenhem was building a snow lantern in the garden. He was building it, and Ada was demolishing it.

“We have to leave an opening to put the candle through,” he said. More snow had fallen during the night, and it was workable. One more night, though, and it would freeze. The snow lantern might survive.

Martina came out with hot juice.

“Ooce!” Ada said.

FBergenhem stroked his hair back.

“Has the headache gone?” she asked.

“I didn’t feel anything last night.”

“What about now?”

“Only a little bit when I bend down.”

She didn’t say any more, but he knew she wanted him to go to a doctor. No. It would get better of its own accord. It’s just that he was ... under stress. Now it was almost New Year’s Eve. The mother of all celebrations. He was on emergency call. Just as well. He would stay sober and watch the biggest fireworks display in the history of Gothenburg. They’d all be standing near the bridge, watching the display on the other side of the river, and he’d be among them. Unless he was needed somewhere else.

Ada was tired, and they went indoors. Darkness fell quickly. Ada went to sleep.

When she woke up he went out and lit the lantern and they sat by the window. There was a breeze, but it didn’t blow out the candle. Then came a stronger gust and he had to go out and relight it. It had grown noticeably colder during the last hour.

That night he dreamed about faces whirling around him in a circle. He recognized two of them. There was music he’d never heard before. He was angry with somebody, and the antagonism wouldn’t go away. Somebody was approaching his head.

He woke up, and it was worse than ever. He went to the bathroom and took three painkillers in half a glass of water, then went back to bed and waited for them to work.

 

The lights were out and there was nobody to blame. He’d have to go down to the cellar and test his way through the fuses.

As he went in, the police officer came out. He nodded. Looked as if he was going out to dinner. Elegant. He smiled and inhaled deeply. Did crooks work over the Christmas and New Year holidays? Surely your normal criminal had a break like everybody else? Maybe it wasn’t an attractive idea to plan something when you’d rather be at home having a good time. He’d had a good time, when he eventually got there.

Now the light was on in his cubbyhole. It was no more than a cubbyhole, even though he called it his office. The fact that his light was on meant that at least a third of the floors up above also had lights working. He checked the staircase but there was no light there. He kept on testing. Now his light went out, but it came right back on again.

He detected a funny smell.

He went further into his cubbyhole, which was big enough for him to be able to see into the shadows. The light had never been good in this office. Then again, he wasn’t there all that often. It didn’t really feel like his apartment building. It was in his own building that it was all at, as you might say.

This block was where the detective lived, so nothing could happen here.

On a bench, behind a few clamps, was a box from McDonald’s and an empty soda bottle. He poked at the hamburger carton and saw a few lettuce leaves, some ketchup stains, and some of that disgusting mayonnaise stuff. There was, in fact, a bit of soda left in the bottle, but no-thank-you.

Who the hell had been down here for a meal? It was a pleasant-enough cubbyhole, but not exactly a restaurant.

He’d never experienced this before, not anywhere. To start with, the door was locked. He checked the door, but there were no marks. Somebody had got in using either a key or a damn good pick, or a piece of steel wire. That was possible, of course.

Some youngster? Why the hell should some youngster come down here to eat a hamburger? Was it more fun than the school cafeteria? School dinners weren’t much fun, but even so. This was odd.

He poured the remains of the soda down the sink and put the bottle underneath. You didn’t throw bottles away where there was a deposit on them, but you threw away empty hamburger boxes, and he dropped it into the half-full bin next to the door.

It started snowing again as she waited at the tram stop. The piles of snow in the park were ten feet high, and it seemed they would never melt away.

She felt a movement, then another. Three months to go. They still didn’t have a nursery in the apartment. No clothes, no crib. Nothing that could tempt fate. There was such a thing as fate. Why did she think so? What fate was that? How could it be tempted?

It wasn’t something she wanted to talk to Erik about. He had a different attitude to life, but she wasn’t sure that you could direct everything yourself.

The tram was late. It was a means of transportation that relied heavily on dry weather, without much precipitation. Trams are made for southern California, she thought, and read the electronic screen in the shelter, red letters on a black background: Now had been changed to 15 MINUTES.

The baby kicked again. The movements had become a part of her body, of course. It would feel strange to be one again. Or suddenly two. That was a better way of putting it. Becoming two.

She was going to be late and there was no excuse. Sensible people took into account the fact that trams would be running late when it was snowing. She left the shelter and looked for a taxi, but they were never around when you needed them. That’s simply how it was. When you needed to arrive on time, public transportation wasn’t working, and when you turned to Plan B, there was no taxi in sight.

She walked to the road junction, but there were no trams approaching and no sign of a taxi. She looked around. This is what people look like when they need a taxi, she thought. The others still have faith and are waiting in the shelter. If a tram comes, it comes. That’s fate.

A police car stopped on the other side of the street next to the bakery just as she was crossing the road. The driver’s door opened and a police officer got out and raised his arm in greeting. His colleague remained in the passenger seat, behind the windshield wipers. The officer shouted something and she paused when she reached the pavement. He was shouting to her. She approached him.

“We’re heading for Wavrinskys Plats,” he said. “Excuse my asking, but could we offer you a lift?”

She didn’t know what to say. He was around her own age, fair-haired, maybe a bit on the small side for a public order officer. Open face. He seemed familiar.

“I recognized you, that’s why.” He looked slightly embarrassed. “I know Erik a little, so ...” he said, gesturing as if to indicate the weather and the lack of public transport. “You work up at the Sahlgren Hospital, don’t you? We noticed you at the tram stop before, so if you’d like a lift, then ...”

She glanced at her watch.

‘All right,“ she said with a smile. The other officer got out and opened the rear door for her, and she looked around before getting in. Caught red-handed outside her own front door. What would people say?

The other officer was more heavily built and older. He said his name, but she didn’t catch it.

Neither of them was the type to indulge in small talk, and she appreciated that. A couple of messages over the radio sounded almost like advertisements. It was warm inside the car, pleasant. They dropped her outside the main entrance to the hospital.

“Give our greetings to Erik,” said the driver as she was closing the car door. “And a happy New Year.”

 

Winter hesitated halfway to Kungsbacka, but continued even so. The road ought to be still passable when he drove back home as well. He’d seen two snow plows with lines of traffic behind them.

It was Thursday, December 30, 1999. Tomorrow all hell would break loose. He’d barely given it a thought. He felt that he needed to get out, leave his office, his desk, the investigation reports that he’d read from beginning to end three times, as one of the contributors. Get out into the world, the wide world. It was around about him, everywhere.

He turned off the E6 and found his way into Västra Villastaden. Traffic grew denser as he approached the town center and people were walking through the snow like faintly drawn cartoon figures.

He passed the Fyran House of Culture and stopped to look at the map. He turned southward, passed a school, didn’t see the street sign until it was too late, and had to stop and reverse when the road was free.

 

The run-through of police plans took somewhat longer than usual. This was going to be the biggest party ever, and Chief of Police Söder skog and his support services had been working hard on the preparations for a whole year. The Millennium Celebration was a very special event. On the scale from catching a petty thief to war, the Millennium Celebration was closer to war, or at least civil war.