Sun and Shadow (36 page)

“Nevertheless, we’re trying to cope with the normal level of public holiday staffing,” their colleague from Support Services had said a long time ago. That meant restrictions on leave, more standby duty, more cover for mealtimes and other breaks. Everybody was well prepared, and there would be no panic if panic were to erupt.

“But why should it?” the officer from the administration unit had asked. Yes indeed, why?

Bartram and Morelius were sitting by their lockers with Ivarsson.

“That damn procession is going to bring Gothenburg to a standstill,” Ivarsson said.

“The Goddess of Light leading us into a new millennium,” said Bartram. “Just think about that.”

“I suppose that’s all right for people who can’t see beyond the end of their noses, but I can manage on my own, thank you very much,” said Ivarsson. “The center of town will be constipated. Much worse than when the damn students are mucking things up on rag day.” He adjusted his holster and his SIG-Sauer gleamed. “Söderskog’s merry men were going on about panic when they were here. What’ll happen if there is panic? It’s obvious some people won’t be able to cope with the pressure from the crowds, and there could be panic when we carry them away.” He adjusted his belt. “Nobody will be able to move an inch.”

“But where should it go, to make it safer?” Bartram asked. “The procession, I mean? Should they stick to the park out at Upper Hisingen?”

Iversson snorted with laughter: “That would be great as far as I’m concerned. But that’s where the problem lies. This long procession with the Goddess of Light leading the way.” He looked at Morelius. “I mean, we’ve already had the Lucia procession earlier this month, welcoming the light. What more do they want?”

“More than that,” Morelius said.

“Where are you allocated to?”

“I’ll be at Heden to start with, until they’ve finished building the Tower of Babel.”

“What a damned crazy idea that is!”

“At least it’ll be standing still.”

“The hell it will,” Ivarsson said. “It’ll be moving upward!”

“Speaking of moving upward,” Bartram said, “who’s going to look after all the wounded after the fireworks display?”

“Let’s not get too negative now,” said Ivarsson.

“Look who’s talking.”

“I’ll be making my way to Skansen Kronan as midnight approaches,” Ivarsson said.

“I’ll see you there, then,” said Bartram.

“I thought at first that we ought to think special thoughts when the clock strikes twelve, but I don’t think we’ll have time for that,” Ivarsson said. “We’ll be too busy calming down the youngsters.”

“Not only the youngsters, I’ll bet,” Bartram said.

 

Louise Valker’s mother was alone in the house, which was lit up on the outside but dark inside.

“She didn’t have an enemy in the world,” she said as soon as Winter had introduced himself.

No. Perhaps what had happened to her wasn’t personal. He could see her in his mind’s eye. Her face. Her body. The writing on the wall, which looked fainter at the bottom where the blood had dribbled. The light from Vasaplatsen was not far away. The same light as in his own apartment.

Louise’s mother was tall, powerfully built, leaned forward when she walked—back trouble? She might have been around sixty-five, seventy at most. She showed him into a living room that was mainly in shadow. There were two framed photographs on the low coffee table. Louise when she was about twenty, and when she was some ten years older.

“She should have stayed here,” her mother said. “But I suppose that wouldn’t have worked.” She looked at one of the photographs, spoke to it. “She was good at her job, and there aren’t so many ladies’ hairdressers in Kungsbacka.”

“Did she have a lot of friends?”

“Well ... she had quite a few when she was a teenager, I suppose.”

“Did she have a best friend?”

“I’ve answered that before, surely? I told the man who was here ... after it had happened.”

“Yes, I’ve read what you said then. But I was thinking more specifically about the idea of a best friend. You didn’t seem to have discussed that.”

“Really? Oh. Maybe because I couldn’t recall one then.” She was looking Winter in the eye, but the room was so dark that he couldn’t make out her features. Just the shape of her head.

“My husband died five years ago,” she said. “Louise’s dad.”

Winter said nothing.

“He was her best—best friend,” she said, and Winter could hear from her voice that she was crying. “She missed him so much.”

“They were pretty close, were they?”

“Very close.”

Winter waited a few seconds.

“But she had quite a few other friends?”

“They came and went. It’s not easy to remember them all.”

‘And then Christian came along.“

“Yes, then he came.”

Winter noticed an altered tone of voice now.

“Did you see them often?”

“No.”

“What did you think of Christian Valker?”

She didn’t answer. Winter could see part of her face, now that he’d become used to the gloom.

“Christian Valker. What did you think of him?”

“They hardly ever came here. I don’t think he wanted to come here, and Louise did whatever he said.” She looked at the photographs again. “She listened to him more than she did to me.” Winter heard a deep sigh, as if she were gulping for breath.

“I never liked him.” Now she was looking straight at Winter, and he could see her eyes. “I don’t think Louise liked him much either.” She shifted on her chair. “She might never have.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“More or less.”

“Meaning what?”

“I don’t think he treated her well.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“She was thinking of leaving him.”

“Did she say that?”

“It was only a question of time.”

Winter repeated his question yet again, but didn’t get an answer. In the end she said that a mother knows things like that.

Winter continued questioning her about Louise’s life. He received vague answers regarding her boyfriends, evasive answers, just as when he’d asked about her friends, and best friend.

He stayed for an hour. When he returned to his car he switched on his mobile phone and found that he had several messages. The first was from Ringmar. The boy had been trying to contact him, Patrik. He didn’t want to say what it was about. Ringmar had the kid’s phone number, in case Winter didn’t have it handy. Ringmar didn’t know if he’d been phoning from home, as he’d hung up so abruptly.

Winter rang Ringmar, but there was no reply. In the bathroom, perhaps. Winter found the road home not too bad. It was still snowing, but more gently now. Traffic was moving faster than it had been when he’d driven south earlier. It was starting to get dark. The day was giving up the ghost, and he sympathized.

The piled-up snow at the side of the road was sometimes high, but in places the wind had blown it into the fields. It was like a wall, a hundred yards long. The Wall. Wall. His mind was wandering as he drove back toward the metropolis. Wall. He’d thought about it briefly, for the first time in days, while in the dark house at Kungsbacka. Wall. Vall. Vallgatan. Desdemona wasn’t in Vallgatan, but it wasn’t far away. Those middle-aged men dressed in black, among all those piles of CDs and all those computers, posters. Wasn’t there a shop selling CDs in Vallgatan? Had it closed down? There was nothing in the case notes about a record shop in Vallgatan. It must have closed down. He remembered passing by a shop selling music in Vallgatan, years ago. He thought of Patrik, and his friend who’d had the Sacrament CD. Where had he bought it? Didn’t he say Haga? But that wasn’t certain. Had Winter been too excited to ask the right questions? Did he have any more questions?

He came to the industrial district and turned off toward the docks. He phoned Ringmar and was given Patrik’s address.

“Is he going to call back?”

“He didn’t say.”

“What did he sound like?”

“Hard to say. It was so funn—”

“Did he sound upset? Scared? Calm?”

“A bit ... upset. Maybe.”

“Surely he could have told you what it was about.”

“Don’t think I didn’t try.”

“This isn’t my personal case.”

“The kid didn’t say anything. He hung up the moment I said you were out. He didn’t ask for your mobile number, and I didn’t have a chance to say anything else before he slammed the receiver down.”

“All right, all right.”

“What are you going to do now? Call in on him?”

“I’m already on my way. I’m at Linnéplatsen now.”

Ringmar mumbled a good-bye and Winter continued driving northward. Ringmar was the last person he wanted to fall out with. It was Winter’s own fault if Patrik was not keen to talk to anybody else. He must have given off the wrong signals, given the impression that this was Winter’s case and nobody else’s ... that it was essential for him, Winter, to be the one contacted first. This sort of thing could cause problems, delays.

He parked illegally on the other side of the road and walked up the three flights of stairs. There was an aroma of cooking. The walls were painted, but a long time ago. Somebody somewhere was playing music, and the bass echoed around the stairwell. There was a bicycle on the second floor, and a plastic shopping bag full of empty bottles outside one of the doors on the third. Winter rang the bell, but could hear nothing from inside. He rang again. Still no response. He knocked on the door several times. There was a scraping noise from inside. Somebody opened the door slightly. The man was between fifty and sixty and looked like an alcoholic. Winter could smell the telltale old wine plus some more recent fuel. The man was drunk, possibly dead drunk.

“Who ish it?” A woman’s voice could be heard from inside the apartment. “Ish it Perrer?” The voice was slurred. “Ish it the quack?”

“Who are you?” the man snarled. “Wodduyawant?”

“I’m looking for Patrik,” Winter said.

“What the fu—Wotsie done?” the man asked, glaring at Winter and his ID.

“He’s been trying to get in touch with us,” said Winter.

“He‘sh not well,” the man said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“He‘sh got nothing to shay,” the man said.

“Is Patrik at home?” Winter said, raising his voice. He could see the woman now, in the hall. As she staggered toward the door, he could see the fear in her eyes, perhaps something else.

“He‘sh got nothing to shay,” said the man again. Winter decided to act, entered the apartment, pushed the man out of his way and against the wall, and continued into the hall.

Patrik’s father collapsed in a heap behind Winter, and the woman had fallen into a doorway on the left. Winter went quickly through the long, narrow apartment. He could find no sign of the boy, so went back into the hall and looked down at the man, who didn’t raise his head.

“Where’s Patrik?” Winter asked. “Where’s the boy?”

“Eesh ... out.” Saliva was hanging from the side of his mouth. He seemed to be more drunk than ever and on the verge of passing out. “Eesh out.” He waved his hand in the direction of the door.

“What’s the matter with him? Is he injured?” Winter took hold of his arm, but could feel only bone under the coarse shirt. “What have you done to him, you bastard?” Winter squeezed harder, had the feeling he was in danger of losing control. He let go of the arm, sank down on one knee, and tried to make eye contact with Patrik’s father, but it was no longer possible.

The woman had reappeared, leaning against the wall, gaping at the intruder.

Winter stood up.

“When did Patrik leave here?”

She shook her head, refused to answer such an obnoxious jerk who had broken into their lovely apartment. People couldn’t just burst into ...

“I’ll be back,” Winter said, dashing down the stairs and into the street, at the same time dialing on his mobile phone the number he’d looked up in his address book.

“Is that Hanne? Erik Winter here. Have you seen Patrik? In the last couple of hours or so?”

“No. I can ask Maria. She’s just come home.”

“I’ll wait.”

He could hear the conversation in the background. Hanne returned to the phone.

“No,” she said. “She was out with another friend. But they’re supposed to meet tomorrow afternoon.” There was a pause. “Here, I hope.”

“Can I have a word with her?” Winter said, and waited until Hanne had handed over the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Maria. This is Erik Winter, from the police.”

But she didn’t know what Patrik had wanted to say, didn’t know where he was at the moment. He might be at Java or one of the other cafés in Vasagatan. Or round at Jimmo’s. She had Jimmo’s number. Yes, she’d tell him to get in touch with Winter the moment she heard from him. And a happy New Year to you as well.

Winter ended the call and tried the number he’d been given, but there was no reply.

He drove home, parked in the garage, and went to Java. All the tables were occupied, but none by Patrik. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke. There was a strong smell of coffee and hot chocolate, damp clothes, and perhaps perfume. The average age was eighteen at most. There were handbags or shoulder bags on every table. Young men even carry handbags nowadays, Winter thought. Practical, no doubt, but not for him. He’d suggest to Halders that he should get one.

He walked among the tables and felt like an alien.

It was similar in some of the other places along the street, and still no sign of Patrik.

He would call again but Winter was worried, and it was not primarily because of the investigation. He tried Patrik’s home number one last time, but nobody answered. The boy would phone again.

 

The procession flowed through the center of town. The Goddess of Light was at the front, on a float. It’s like a catafalque, thought Winter, observing from his living room window. Habakkuk’s daughter. The procession wriggled like a glowworm down below in the early evening, continued eastward over the crossroads. The mass of spectators was a black sea, filling all the streets and choking all the buildings.