Frozen Moment

by Camilla Ceder

  'What about later on?' Karin Beckman interjected. 'When they were teenagers.'

  Dagny Molin seemed put out.

  'Well, I don't really know what to say. What mother knows exactly what her teenagers get up to? They had mopeds, they used to go around on those. There were more lads hanging around by that time, from different villages, and God knows I can't remember all their names. When you get to my age you're pleased if you can remember the important things.'

  She fell silent and glanced at her husband. He had switched on the television, with the sound off. A parliamentary debate filled the screen, and the leader of the moderate party was reflected in the tinted glass of the mahogany bookcase. Dagny Molin's hands moved restlessly for a moment, then she leaned over and made sure the radiator was on. She turned it up to maximum then sat back in her armchair with a sigh of relief.

  'He was a bit difficult, was Thomas. I won't pretend otherwise. Sven was always a sweet boy, but easily led. Sometimes I worried that Sven would get into trouble with Thomas, I don't mind admitting that now. Not that there was any bad in him, absolutely not. Nor in Reino. But boys will be boys and they got a bit carried away sometimes. They wanted to experience everything, try everything. I'm sure you know what I mean, officer. You're not too old to have forgotten that sort of thing?'

  The heated dust was spreading a suffocating smell of burning. Karlberg felt panic creeping up on him as he discovered that he had lost the ability to blink. His eyelids appeared to have dried on to his eyeballs.

  Beckman was quick to take over the reins.

  'Exactly what do you mean, fru Molin? Drinking? Fighting? Could you be more specific?'

  Dagny Molin squirmed, pursing her mouth.

  'Well, there might have been drinking and a certain amount of violence, but they were only young. And Thomas is dead,' she said censoriously. 'He inherited the farm and he got married before bad luck caught up with him. He turned into a really good man. Sven too.'

  She brightened up.

  'Sven has made a fresh start: he's met someone, and he's bought a business. A mink farm, up Dalsland way. And he's got two children into the bargain, a boy and a girl.'

  She pointed over towards the piano, which was visible through the doorway of the next room. Between mother and father in a porcelain family of Christmas goblins stood a framed photograph of a boy and a girl. They looked Asian.

  'She's from Thailand, apparently, this woman Sven's met. I can't remember her name. We've never met, but Sven sent that photo last winter. I'm glad Sven's found a woman. He needs someone to look after him and he isn't getting any younger. He's a good boy. They were good boys, all of them.'

  A mantra, thought Beckman. Good boys. She kept having to rub her hand across her forehead to stop her fringe sticking to the skin. Without any idea of what was waiting for them, she had put on a cashmere sweater over a much too revealing camisole, and now she could neither take it off nor stand the heat any longer. She got the idea that Dagny Molin was well aware of her torment and was secretly smiling to herself. Every breath she took hurt, as if she were sitting in a sauna, and she could barely keep her thoughts in order.

  'What do you know about Reino Edell's relationship with Lise-Lott?' she asked.

  Without taking her eyes off Molin she could sense Karlberg's muted surprise. Perhaps he had been thinking of a different approach, but right now she couldn't have cared less. Just as long as she could get out of this suffocating heat, out into the damp December morning and the fresh air before she expired.

  Bertil Molin took his eyes off the TV screen for a second and met Beckman's gaze over the cake stand.

  'He couldn't stand the woman.'

  Then he turned up the volume and gave his attention to Rosenbad once again.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  He wasn't looking forward to Christmas; as usual it would be too much. Too much food, definitely too much drink, and above all far, far too much time spent with the family.

  When Bärneflod set off from his home in Floda to the town hall in Lerum, he had just seen his wife naked, on top of everything else. By mistake he had walked into the bedroom as she was getting changed and had seen her stark naked. It didn't really do much for him.

  Fifteen years ago she had started sleeping in a full-length nightdress in a vain attempt to keep the decline of her body to herself. Not that they lacked a conjugal sex life. It did happen, although not that often, that he would tap her on the shoulder once they had finished watching TV, and then shuffle upstairs, brush his teeth and possibly splash a little aftershave on his face. It was just that Ulla seemed to think her body was in some way exceptional, which it most definitely wasn't. It looked neither better nor worse than the bodies of sixty- year-old women usually do. A little bit droopy here, the odd hollow there, a few wrinkles. But what could you expect? As long as there were no younger, prettier models to turn to, and there weren't for a man of Bärneflod's age and energy, he didn't think it was worth complaining.

  But it was different for women. For men their self-esteem was bound up with their professional status but for women it was all to do with appearance. Particularly women like Ulla, whose contribution to the household economy was no more than pocket money. And she'd always been unsure of herself. Afraid of not being appreciated. He didn't see things that way. He'd always taken the view that anybody who didn't like him could leave him alone. Usually the dislike was mutual.

  Bärneflod drove past the Solkatten shopping mall and the square, which exuded a 1950s air in beige and pale green, the shop names dating from a time when illuminated signs were something new.

  Lerum's handful of alcoholics had already settled in the winners' enclosure: four benches in a half-moon shape, the off-licence within easy reach.

  A certain satisfaction came over him as he parked his car. He had no intention of paying the parking fee. A handwritten note, Police Business, lay in full view on the dashboard. That should scare off the jobsworths.

  'Per-Erik Stahre will see you as soon as possible.'

  The secretary, or receptionist maybe, had forgotten to take off her knitted scarf, which, appropriately for the season, was red. She had a spiky appearance. Presumably she, like Stahre, had had to break her holiday in order to be available to the police.

  It irritated Bärneflod, sitting in this shabby town hall corridor waiting for some stroppy little clerk who no doubt felt the need to restore the balance of power. He tapped his fingers impatiently. For a moment he considered heading off to the ironmonger's in the mall across the road to buy the hinges he had been thinking about for the new gate. The last storm had torn the old one right off, which was just as well, since it was completely rotten. There wasn't really any need to have a gate in the pathetic little fence between the garden of their semi and the road, but Ulla wanted a gate, so a gate there had to be. In certain matters she was implacable.

  The secretary was surfing the net, he could see that clearly from where he was sitting. Chatting with boys online, no doubt, even pretty girls did that nowadays. In his day it had only been the ugly ones who put an ad in the paper or rang hotlines.

  There was a large clock above the receptionist's head. The second hand was driving Bärneflod mad. In the end he stood up and took his wallet out of his jacket pocket.

  'This is a police matter, as I said. Could you please tell me where Per-Erik Stahre's office is?'

  Several seconds passed as the girl's fingers flew over the keyboard. She clicked on 'Send' then finally turned to Bärneflod.

  'As I said, he's busy at the moment.'

  Bitch.

  'And as I said, that's not my problem.'

  She rolled her eyes. Then she got up and walked past Bärneflod and down the corridor, her heels clicking on the lino floor. He was right behind her, and the next moment he was standing in front of Stahre, who was sitting at a round table opposite a woman with bright red hair that didn't suit her at all. Stahre was surprisingly young. Bärneflod had expected some o
ld fogey.

  'I'm busy at the-'

  'Bengt Bärneflod, police. This is a murder investigation.'

  He shoved his ID card under Stahre's nose.

  Stahre looked at his watch for the tenth time in half an hour, drumming his fingers on his open Filofax.

  'I don't know what to say. It's all very upsetting, but I still don't understand how you think I can help.'

  'Me neither. You had dealings with Lars Waltz, and I'm trying to get to know Lars Waltz. There are some people who claim you'd fallen out with him.'

  'But that's ridiculous!'

  Bärneflod's mobile started vibrating in his pocket, but he ignored it.

  'I was in touch with Waltz with regard to some photographic jobs for a while, that's all.'

  'For quite a long while, if I've understood correctly.'

  'For a few years, yes. It was just a handful of jobs. It may well be that Lars got upset the last few times we were in touch, but I think to say we'd fallen out would be overstating the case.'

  Bärneflod nodded thoughtfully.

  'Why did Waltz get upset?'

  Stahre clamped his lips together and gazed out of the window. 'I'd broken off our arrangement in favour of another photographer.'

  'He got the sack?'

  'No!' Stahre slammed the palm of his hand down angrily on the desk. 'He was freelance. He wasn't employed. We had no agreement to use him exclusively for the kind of job we're talking about. I was perfectly within my rights to choose another photographer.'

  'But this wasn't just about one job. You said you'd broken off your arrangement.'

  Stahre sighed and ran his hand through his hair a couple of times. It stood up on his head like a plume.

  'If I'm going to be honest…'

  'It surprises me that you've only just realised you have to be.'

  'Lars Waltz wasn't a good enough photographer to be worth so much trouble.'

  'Trouble?'

  'He was pretty fond of himself. I hope you understand it goes against the grain to speak ill of the dead, otherwise I would have mentioned this right at the start.'

  'If everybody followed your line of reasoning, herr Stahre, we wouldn't be able to do our job. So let's hear it. I haven't got all day, and nor have you.'

  'He was impulsive. He referred to his difficulty in working with other people as artistic freedom, and he was usually in a bad mood. In a work context, that is. I have no idea how he behaved in his private life.'

  'Go on.'

  'The type of job we're talking about had to fit within a particular framework. Community information. No room for diversions. Waltz found it difficult to accept that. He wanted everything his own way.'

  'And when he couldn't have things his own way?'

  'Then he'd get very angry.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'Yelling and slamming doors, I suppose he thought he was eccentric, but he made it impossible. And he was overcharging. There was no reason to carry on using him. As I said, we only hired him as a freelance, we had no obligations. But to say we'd fallen out, I think that's-'

  'OK, I get it.'

  Bärneflod got to his feet and zipped up his suede jacket. In his mind he was bemoaning the fact that people in general, and murder victims in particular, were rarely as obligingly straightforward as you might think at the beginning of an investigation. Some tosser always came along and went against the prevailing view.

  'Thank you for your time. I'll find my own way out.'

  He still had time to go and buy the hinges.

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  The strains of a familiar Christmas song. The Christmas holiday would once again be a disappointment to the children, with the rain drearily pouring over the pavements and gushing down into the grids. Tell changed the radio station to avoid 'O Holy Night'.

  The car park at the police station was lit up like a stage, the street lamps reflected in the wet sheen of the cars. The story behind this completely over-the-top lighting was to do with vandalism and break- ins in the staff car park. A couple of locks had been forced, but it was mainly a case of some kind of symbolic vandalism: slogans sprayed in red, along with dents and scratches arbitrarily inflicted with a baseball bat or a bunch of keys.

  It was pretty brave, he supposed, for them to venture inside the police station compound. Skånegatan was manned more or less 24/7. And given that the entire city was full of cars, presumably the fact that these vehicles were owned by police officers had some particular significance.

  On one occasion Tell had brought in a sixteen-year-old boy for throwing cobblestones at the police during a violent anti-racist demonstration. He had been amazed at the boy's conviction. He had thought back to his own confused teenage years and realised that he had never in his whole life felt so sure of anything, whereas these kids were willing to fight for what they believed in. Tell was secretly quite impressed.

  At least they believe in something,' he had said in the staffroom in the aftermath of 30 November, when the city had been ravaged by demonstrations and counter-demonstrations. The statement wasn't directed at anyone in particular, but had certainly been provoked by Bärneflod's narrow-minded comments about a 'communist rabble'.

  It wasn't only Bärneflod who was horrified at young people's lack of respect for social institutions financed by their parents' generation. The media also leapt on the bandwagon of blackening the political viewpoint inaccurately linked to the destruction. Suddenly the entire basis of socialism was synonymous with a gang of aggressive masked lunatics.

  'They're the ones we're paying for,' Bärneflod snorted angrily, 'working our backsides off day in and day out. First of all they're on benefits because the bastards don't want to work, then we're supposed to support the buggers when they decide to smash up half the town. I get angry too sometimes, but I don't start smashing bloody windows, do I?'

  Beckman had sighed deeply.

  'These kids aren't likely to be on benefits, Bengt. They're middle class with politically correct, intellectual parents, the kids of tree- huggers who've grown up and got good jobs. These anarchists will get an education too, and eventually they'll end up sitting there in a nice terraced house - just not yet. How are they supposed to rebel if not by being even worse than Mummy and Daddy?'

  'You seem to be speaking from personal experience,' muttered Bärneflod. 'I bet you were one of the ones I carted off in the 70s. In a kaftan and sandals. Or perhaps you're too young. Sorry.'

  He laughed loudly, trying to smooth things over when he realised he'd gone too far.

  'All I'm saying is we can't afford to cosset these people. They don't contribute anything to society. Evidently there isn't enough money for schools or nurseries or care homes for the elderly. It's as if you have to be a foreigner or a criminal to get any help. I mean, I've got a lad of twenty-five living in the basement at home, still with no prospect of getting a flat of his own. I'm bloody certain he'd have been provided with a place to live and all the rest of it if he'd been a bit less conscientious. Where are the ordinary decent Swedish kids supposed to go?'

  Beckman had stalked off into her office. Tell couldn't remember if he'd carried on arguing with Bärneflod or if he'd just allowed the irritation to chafe at him for a while before it gradually faded away, as he usually did. Sometimes an exchange of views cost a great deal more than it was worth in terms of time and energy. At least he convinced himself that was the case.

  Now he heard footsteps outside his office and automatically glanced at his watch. Twenty past six. Because his thoughts had been with

  Bärneflod, he almost expected to see him standing in the doorway, but it was Karlberg who appeared, which seemed only logical. It was the evening before Christmas Eve. What normal man with a wife and children, even if they were grown up, would choose to stay on at work going through reports? Tell had encouraged his colleagues to go home and start celebrating several hours ago.

  'What are you doing here?' he said. Karlberg shrugged his shoulders.

  Tel
l pretended to look stern. 'Get out of here. And merry Christmas.'

  'Same to you.'

  Karlberg disappeared. Tell realised he hadn't given any thought to how he was going to spend Christmas Eve.

  Of course he had a standing invitation to his older sister Ingrid's enormous house in Onsala, but they had little contact. The main reason for this was the man Ingrid had married. In Tell's eyes he was an unpleasant boastful stockbroker who didn't always take a strictly legal approach to his share dealings. And then there was Ingrid herself. Tell didn't know what he feared most: whether she knew about her husband's underhand deals but didn't feel that she was in a position to get involved since he supported her, or whether she was just too gullible to notice what was going on.

  Whatever the case, Tell felt sufficiently uncomfortable to avoid his sister's house except on Christmas Eve, when he and his father, an increasingly confused widower, were invited to sit on ridiculously expensive furniture as a symbol of the host couple's generosity and goodwill. Tell couldn't stand it. He suddenly realised this was why he was glued to his desk as the lights in the station went out room by room.

  He reached for the telephone, keyed in a number and waited for the high slightly strained voice.

  'Krook.'

  'Hi sis, it's me. How are you coping?'

  'Not too bad. But there's such a lot to do. Are you coming tomorrow? I rang you the other day, and Dad, but there was no reply.'

  'No, I should have called and let you know, but I'm right in the middle of a complicated murder investigation. I was waiting to see if there might be a window when I could get away, but…'

  'It's not looking good?'

  'No, I'm sorry. It looks as if I'm going to have to work right through

  Christmas. Unfortunately. I was looking forward to seeing you.'