Sun and Shadow (9 page)

“That can be strenuous.”

“Yes. I start imagining all the horrible things that might be going on in this building.”

“Old Mrs. Malmer?”

“Why mention her by name?” she asked, noting the tone of suspicion in her own voice. Good Lord!

“That was silly of me. I don’t want to scare you—”

“Stop now and tell me about your father. It sounds as if you’ve been able to relax a bit.”

“Maybe. He was critical again for a while and they did something new to his blood vessels, adjusted something. He’s resting now in the recovery ward.”

“Have you managed to talk to the doctors yet?”

“Are you kidding? You ought to know better than anybody how impossible that is. The world over.”

She thought about the complaints that had been directed at her earlier that day. About her never being there.

“Don’t be too hard on us,” she said.

“Dad isn’t complaining, and that’s the main thing,” he said. “How are things otherwise?”

“I had the classic longing for anchovies and rushed out into the rain and was shadowed by your colleagues.”

“Shadowed? By the crime unit? They can’t have been all that discreet, then.”

“What are you saying? Is it something that you’re behind?”

“Eh? I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Being shadowed. By the crime unit.”

“Do you really feel you’re being shadowed by the crime unit?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You said precisely that just now.”

“I said I was being shadowed by your colleagues. I meant the police.”

She could hear the sigh all the way from the Costa del Sol.

“Let’s start again from the beginning,” he said. “Tell me again. I’ll listen and I won’t say a word.”

“I went out shopping and a police car followed me. Slowly. All the way. When I stopped to see if that really was what it was doing it flashed its headlights and turned off down a side street.”

Winter said nothing.

“When I came back and was about to go through the main door a police car appeared again and drove slowly past, in the same way,” Angela went on. ‘And after it had passed, it flashed its lights again. The taillights this time.“

“Was that all?”

“Yes. For God’s sake, I expect they were keeping somewhere under observation, or whatever you say. It must have been a coincidence. I said it mainly as a joke.”

“Ha, ha.”

“Yes, funny, wasn’t it?”

“Did you get the license plate number? Or numbers if there were two cars?”

“Of course. I noted everything down right away on the inside of my eyelid.” She laughed. “I’m afraid not. I didn’t go to police academy.”

“Well ... I don’t know what to say.”

“Forget it. It was a coincidence, of course. Always assuming that you haven’t ... haven’t put somebody on to keeping a discreet watch on me, to make sure I’m all right while you’re away.”

“It doesn’t seem to be all that discreet.”

“Well, have you?”

“Are you joking?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I don’t have the power to do anything like that. Not yet, at least.”

“But soon, perhaps?”

“What do you mean?”

“If something happens to your boss? The chief of police. What’s his name?”

“Birgersson. What are you talking about, Angela?”

“Nothing.” She laughed again. “I’m just talking in my sleep, as it were. Or in my daydreams.” Not a sound from the Costa del Sol. “Hello? Are you still there, Erik?”

“This is a very odd conversation.”

“It’s my fault. I’m sorry. I still feel an outsider in this building, even though I’ve been here so often for so many years. But it’s different now. And I suppose it’s really to do with me wanting you back at home again. As quickly as possible. As soon as your dad’s better.”

“We must keep hoping.”

“It might take time.”

“If he has any time left.”

“It sounds as if he has.”

“Now you’d better fix those anchovies.”

“I suppose you get a lot of that kind of thing down there.”

“I haven’t tried any yet.”

“No tapas?”

“There hasn’t been any ... time. I stayed at the hospital last night.”

“What was it like?”

“Better than being somewhere else. Anyway, make sure you get some salt down you, so that you don’t think so much about ghosts.”

“Mrs. Malmer?”

“Police cars.”

“I’ve bought some cola sweets as well.”

“Eat them with mashed anchovies and Parmesan cheese.”

“I’ve made a note of that,” Angela said.

The car drove around the town center, then returned to Vasaplatsen. The driver was listening to the emergency call-outs. A traffic jam near the Tingstad Tunnel. A mugging in Kortedala. Somebody who ran away from a tram in Majorna without paying.

He parked at the newspaper stand and bought a paper, any paper. Maybe he’d read it, or just leave it on one of the seats. Maybe he’d just drop it in the trash bin.

Lights were on in most of the apartments. He knew which block, but not which apartment. It would be easy to check the names on the intercom on the front door, but what would be the point of that? He asked himself that question as he got back into the car and fastened his seat belt. What-would-be-the-point-of-that? He had a question but no answer. When he knew why he was going to go up to that door and check the address and the floor, he would also know the answer to several other questions. Things that had happened. That were going to happen. Going-to-happen.

Had he flashed his lights? If he had, there would have been a point. It would have been a start. He looked down at the newspaper on his knee. He didn’t know which one it was:
Göteborgs Tidningen
or Ex
pressen
or
Aftonbladet,
only that there would be things in it, and in the others, that he could have told them about himself, but they hadn’t asked and it was the same as it always was because nobody ever asked him anything, anything with a POINT to it, but that was all over now, ALL OVER NOW He squeezed his hand around the newspaper and tugged at it, and afterward, after a minute, or a year, while he was still sitting in front of the newspaper stand, he looked down again and saw that he had torn the paper in two.

Winter was up before eight. The strip of sky he could see through the bathroom window at La Luna was blue today. There was a smell of sun outside already, tinged with the soft soap that Salvador, the landlord, had been using to scrub the patio. Winter could hear blows from a hammer, and a woman’s voice.

He could feel the heat seeping into his room through the wrought-iron grille in the window. This could become the hottest day since he’d arrived. Salvador pointed up at the sky and rolled his eyes as Winter walked past. Summer was hanging on.

He had coffee at Gaspar’s café and smoked a Corps. He was already a familiar face to the staff and to the lung patient, who was at his usual table coughing his way through the morning at Plaza Puente de Málaga, and calmed down briefly when the waiter brought him his glass of gin. The man nodded politely at Winter as he raised his glass.

Winter felt stiff. He would soon be driving out to the hospital again, but decided on a brisk walk first, to stretch his legs. He drained his coffee, stubbed out his cigarillo, and paid his bill. Before leaving he made a quick call to his mother, who was sitting by his father’s bed in the recovery room. No change.

He consulted his tourist map of town. He could walk up the hill to the bus station and back. About an hour, he thought. The exercise would do him good.

Calle de las Peñuelas ran north from the plaza, and he followed it for a few hundred yards before turning left at Calle San Antonio, which the map suggested would wind its way gently up the hillside toward the mountains.

After only a block or so he found himself in a very different Marbella, not at all like the residential area in which he was staying. Here were bars and shops for the locals; women lined up outside their front doors, men in cafés, children on the way to and from school.
Heladeia, panaderías
,
carnecerías
. The smell of fresh meat outside butchers’ shops. A young girl with a loaf under her arm. Sun and shadow already playing games despite the early hour. He passed by the enormous Caja Ahorros Ronda, Bar Pepe Duna, Colegio Público Garcia Lorca over the road, voices from schoolchildren at playtime. A newsstand at the crossroads with a large sign advertising
Sur,
the local newspaper.

He continued northward and came to the main road, Avenida Arias de Velasco, glanced at his map and turned left.

He soon passed the police station on his left, Comisaria de Policia Nacional. It was small, built of gray marble, with some of the walls made entirely of glass; there were wide steps leading up to the entrance, where two notices indicated: OFICINA DE DENUNCIAS and PAS-APORTES EXTRANJEROS. He felt sorry for his colleagues. There must be a lot to do in Marbella, especially during the holiday season. Pickpockets. Lost passports. More pickpockets. Winter had no time for pickpockets, almost as little as he had for the poor devils who couldn’t manage to protect themselves from them.

The Mafia. Rumor had it that Marbella had become a favorite center for organized crime. He recalled reading something to that effect in some report or other. Tax exiles and the Mafia. Villas in the mountains. Tapas at Paseo Maritimo in the evenings, where deals were done.

Two colleagues in uniform came down the steps from the police station and Winter automatically nodded to them as they passed him, crossed the street and went into the Bar del Enfrente on the other side. A late-morning glass of gin to bolster their strength. Winter felt thirsty and wanted a beer, but continued up the steps. One of the police officers left the bar and went into a motorcycle showroom.

Winter had reached the plateau by now. He took the footbridge over the highway and turned left toward the bus station. He turned around to gaze down at the town below, with the sea and the horizon in the distance. No sign of any clouds. It had been worth the walk. He could see for miles, as far as Nueva Andalucia, and to the east, in the far distance, was the outline of what might well be the Hospital Costa del Sol.

He was closer to the mountains. He could see them through the glass doors of the bus station, and went inside. A crowd of people came surging out, forcing their way past him and down the steps. He could smell sweat and sun lotion, an elbow poked into his ribs and he tried to dodge out of the way.

Half a minute later all was calm again, and Winter was inside the building. He got his bearings and went in to a large cafeteria where he ordered a coffee and a small bottle of mineral water. He put his hand into the inside pocket of his linen jacket and ... and ... what the he—. He tried his other inside pocket: also empty. His hand slid straight through, meeting no resistance. What the HELL? The man behind the counter was waiting to be paid, and seemed to see the panic in Winter’s eyes. He pointed at Winter, at his jacket. Winter raised his left arm and examined the side of the jacket. A neat cut had been made through all the layers of cloth and through to his inside pocket where his wallet had been. HIS WALLET. What had been in it? Ten thousand pesetas, perhaps. Addresses. Driver’s license. Credit card—oh, shit! His credit cards, Visa, MasterCard. He took out his mobile phone, dialed, and waited impatiently for an answer.

“Angela here.”

“It’s Erik. I hoped you wouldn’t have left already. I’ve just been robbed and I don’t have the number I need to block my credit cards. First Card, or Nordbanken, and the Savings Bank.”

“Were you mugged? Are you hurt?”

“No, no. It was a pickpocket. But I can tell you the details later. Can you ring them? I think the phone numbers are on the bulletin board in the hall. Over the bureau, yes, I’m sure. Two cards. No, just phone them. They have all the details. What? It was just now, less than five minutes ago. Seven o‘clock, maybe. I’m on a hillside some way above Marbella and the bastard will have to make his way down to an ATM in town. If we can stop them now he won’t have time.”

“I’ll fix it.”

“Phone me back when you’ve done it.”

He switched off and turned to the man behind the counter, who had been following the conversation. Winter still hadn’t touched his coffee, or the water.

“Un ladrón, eh
?
”

Winter didn’t understand what he meant, but made a gesture in response.

“
Ha robado la cartera
,
eh
?” He pointed at Winter’s sleeve. “
La cartera
.
Hijo de puta.
” He shook his head, as if regretting the existence of all the world’s riffraff. “
Hijo de puta
.”

“Yes,” Winter said. “The sonofabitch stole my wallet.” He looked at the cup of coffee. Steam was still rising from it. He’d have loved to take a sip, but he couldn’t pay for it.

“
Sírvase
,” said the man, gesturing sympathetically toward the cup. “Please. It’s on the house.”

She laughed at him. It was like the first time ... when it had all started. She, the other one, and he ... they’d both laughed.

She’d accused him of not being a real man. Just look at yourself, she’d said.

Now he did exactly what he wanted to do in this room, which had turned completely white in his eyes. He hardly noticed them as he walked over to the stereo and switched on the cassette that the other one had switched off with a curse only seconds after he’d started it.

“Do-not-switch-off-that-music,” he said.

“You’re out of your fucking mind.”

“Do-not-switch-it-off.”

“We want you to get out.”

‘Just fuck off,“ she said. ”We don’t want you here.“

“I-am-staying-here,” he said, turning the sound up and starting to react to the bass, to the guitars. The room was white. He closed his eyes tightly. He had stopped seeing. There was no darkness. He felt something hit his stomach, like a punch, or a kick, but he didn’t open his eyes. The white was still out there. He didn’t want to see it. The music was everywhere, WOAHWAOHWHAAWHOAWHAAWHO, he felt another blow and somebody was pulling his hair and he opened his eyes. The other guy hit him again, knocking him to the floor. This cretin was trying to get to the music, but he was in charge now. He was in charge. If he lay still and allowed him to turn off the music it would all be over, but that was impossible. He was in charge now. The real man. He stood up, opened his eyes and peered at them through the whiteness, and he no longer knew if it was quiet. He heard nothing as he grabbed hold of her, felt nothing, nothing as he groped after him as well, after his body. The white glow was still there, but at a distance now, as if waiting. He grabbed at her again, at him again.