Death Angels

by Ake Edwardson

  “What did he mean?”

  “As far as I could tell, he meant that the guy was big and had long, dark hair.”

  “That’s what we came up with too. Big and dark.”

  “He could be one of Per’s acquaintances and nothing more.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “No?”

  “Do you really believe that?” Winter asked.

  “No.”

  “The man who walked through the park with Per is the guy we’re looking for. Surely he would have contacted you otherwise.”

  “There are other possible reasons—if he’s a closet gay, for example.”

  “You mean he’s afraid that his family will find out?”

  Macdonald shrugged. “A few people have turned up of their own accord, but they’re the usual crackpots.”

  “I saw the notices you put up.”

  He couldn’t have missed the notices when Macdonald dropped him off at Clapham High Street Station the night before—the photo of Per they’d sent from Sweden, information about the murder, the scene of the crime, the park, the facts that the investigators wanted the public to know. An appeal to call the police if you had seen anything at all.

  The notices looked like zany posters, a parody out of a horror movie. Winter had felt a wave of nausea, which caught him by surprise.

  Frayed at the bottom, they had already acquired a pale veneer that said everything was too late. They were stapled to three different poles and were in identical condition, apparently put up at the same time. The trains came and went, and some people read the notices and called the Thornton Heath police, but that hadn’t yet led to any breakthroughs.

  When he’d reached Victoria Station, the lower right corner of a notice flapped from a pole by the exit as the trains passed—as if someone had torn off a map of London and left only the southeast side.

  It was an odd coincidence, like an encrypted message meant for Winter’s eyes.

  29

  BERGENHEM WAlTED OUTSlDE lN THE SHADOWS. MEN WALKED in and out. A bolt of electricity darted into the night every time the door opened.

  The trains rattled behind him, their hydraulics sighing after a long day out on the rails. The freight yard was lit by a handful of bulbs attached to posts that stuck up between the walls. A train pulled in somewhere and broke the somnolent mood. He heard a shout and a voice that answered, the squeaking of brakes followed by the impact of something blunt and heavy.

  The door opened again and she came out. She was alone. She hurried onto Odinsgatan Street toward Polhemsplatsen. He followed her. After waiting for a streetcar to pass, she crossed the street and the parking lot. He felt the cold air rising from Fattighusån Canal as they walked over the bridge. She continued along the moat. Nobody was coming from the opposite direction.

  The Horticultural Society’s park was on the other side of the moat. She didn’t look around, and he had to quicken his pace not to lose sight of her when she turned the corner at Bastionsplatsen Square.

  When he caught up, he saw her figure illuminated by the Kungsportsplatsen Square streetlights. She raised her arm at a right angle, apparently glancing at her watch. She crossed Kungsport Bridge, passed the Storan Theater and waited for the light to change at Nya Allén Street. He checked the time. It was just after midnight. He walked toward the crossing and waited with a group of four or five others. There was a lot of traffic for this time of night.

  She clung to the shadows of the Vasastaden district. The buildings blocked out the sky. He followed her around the Röhsska Museum, but suddenly she was gone.

  He turned and looked back. None of the cafés were open. He spotted a restaurant down the street, but she couldn’t have gotten that far. And it was obviously closed, lit up only by a fluorescent bulb above the menu on the wall next to the window.

  A car came to a halt fifteen yards away. Its inside lights went on when one door opened. Bergenhem glimpsed a blurred face above the steering wheel. The passenger got out, bowed his head through the open door and said something. Finally he closed the door and the car sped downhill toward Vasagatan Street. Turning around, the man seemed to disappear straight through the wall of the building before him.

  What the hell? Bergenhem walked over and saw a door in the base of an old manor house. It was coarse as stone, like the stairs to an earth cellar. It has to open inward, he thought. He hadn’t seen a light when the man went in. There weren’t any signs, nothing to attract the attention of a passerby. No sound came through the wall.

  Now he noticed a button on the right, almost indistinguishable from the hinge. He pushed it and waited. He pressed a second time and the door opened.

  “Can I help you?”

  He saw the outlines of a face and a body in the dim light from a stairwell ahead.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” the voice repeated.

  “Are you closed?”

  “What?”

  “Isn’t there a show tonight?” Are we going to stand here all night and ask each other questions? he wondered. She definitely went in here. Why didn’t Bolger say anything about this joint? Did it just open? Questions and more questions. “One of your clients mentioned this place. He said nonmembers were welcome.”

  “Nonmembers of what?”

  “Hell if I know. Can I come in and see the show, or is it some big secret?”

  The figure stepped out onto the sidewalk and Bergenhem finally saw a face.

  “What do you want, anyway?”

  “I just want to have a little fun.”

  “Are you drunk? We don’t let drunks in here.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  Another man appeared to Bergenhem’s right and the bouncer nodded to him. He walked inside. Bergenhem watched him go down the stairs.

  “Okay,” the bouncer said, “ but I’m going to keep an eye on you.”

  “What for?”

  “Our customers are all respectable citizens,” he answered, as if Bergenhem had shown up wearing a cardboard box.

  “May I come in now?”

  The bouncer looked around and took a step to the side so Bergenhem could squeeze by. He followed behind and closed the door. The light from the stairway grew brighter. Bergenhem heard soft music. It sounded Middle Eastern, or maybe the twists and turns of the cellar had distorted the tones.

  A woman sat at the foot of the stairs behind an old-fashioned cash box. “Two hundred fifty crowns,” she said.

  He paid and hung his jacket on a plastic hanger in a little nook to the right.

  “The cover charge includes one drink,” the woman said, handing him a tag, also plastic.

  She was dancing on one of the tables, and he sat down there. Her ribs were visible, but she was beautiful. Her breasts were bigger than he remembered from Riverside. She seemed to recognize him.

  Soul music was playing, but it wasn’t Tina Turner. Her movements followed the music upward. There were dark crescents under her black eyes.

  The other two men at the table drank and watched. Women were also dancing on three other tables. Bergenhem felt like he was sitting in a cave.

  He smelled alcohol, sweat, perfume, anxiety, fear and something inside himself that he couldn’t identify. It was what had brought him here.

  He didn’t know where the investigation ended and this other quest began.

  She stopped dancing as soon as the music died down, and her smile wilted to an even line. Suddenly she looked even more naked than before, as if the music had been her garment. He held out his hand and she gave a start.

  “I just wanted to help you down,” he said.

  She looked at him and stretched out her arm, and he supported her as she stepped onto the chair. She left the table without saying anything or looking at him. One of the other men made a comment but Bergenhem didn’t catch the words. Despite her high heels, she walked gracefully across the room and through a door behind the bar. The bouncer stood there looking at him. Bergenhem averted his eyes and sat ba
ck down.

  He waited for a long time. A woman approached from the bar. She lit a cigarette, and he suddenly noticed a dank soreness in his throat from all the smoke in the room.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?”

  Bergenhem stood up and pulled out the chair next to him. “Please.”

  The other men at his table had gone over to the bar.

  “You’re allowed to buy me a drink,” she said. She rested her chin on her right hand. Her wide face was hidden under the makeup, and her hair was blond.

  Bergenhem didn’t recognize her at first. “I didn’t realize it was you,” he said finally. “What do you want to drink?”

  “This,” she said, holding up the glass that a man from the bar had placed in front of her. “Obviously you don’t know the routine here.” She peered at him over the rim of her glass.

  “How much does it cost? A thousand crowns?”

  “Almost.” She put her glass down. “I can dance for you in a private room if you want.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you come for a private performance?”

  “No.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Want?”

  “From me. What do you want from me?”

  “From you? Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Don’t you think I recognize you? I don’t know how many times you’ve been down at Riverside now.”

  “Just a couple.”

  “I know your kind.” She released a billow of smoke from her mouth and extinguished her cigarette in a cup on the table. “And I don’t like it when people stalk me.”

  “Stalk you?”

  “I saw you wait for me outside Riverside and follow me here.”

  Bergenhem drank his beer slowly.

  “What do you want?” she pressed.

  “Nothing, I told you.”

  She lit another cigarette. “I know you’re a cop. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I haven’t done anything, and if you’re trying to bust this joint, be my guest, but they’ll open again in a few days.”

  “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “It’s not?”

  “We’re investigating a couple of murders.” Or more, he thought.

  She looked at him, smoking but not touching her drink. “I know.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been asking a bunch of questions at Riverside, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “They show movies here.”

  He held on to his glass, wishing he could lean toward her.

  “It’s no secret to our customers or people around town. But it’s not the kind of thing you’ll see at other places.”

  “What kind of movies?”

  “BDSM. If you know what that is.”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s not against the law.”

  He let that pass because he wasn’t really sure.

  “No child porn; otherwise I wouldn’t work here.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Where is what?”

  “The screening room.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I want to see it.”

  “It doesn’t start until later, and I’ll be gone by then.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Sweat trickled down Bergenhem’s back. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious on his forehead. His groin chafed and his boxer shorts felt like sandpaper. He drank some more beer and saw that his hand was trembling. He could tell she had noticed it too.

  “Do you even know what you’re investigating?” she asked.

  He put his glass down and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “It was important for me to follow you, but not for the reason you think. We’re trying to get a sense of what goes on at these clubs. If you’re so much in the know, you understand why.”

  “There’s something I want to tell you, but buy me another cocktail first. Otherwise I have to get up.”

  “Okay.”

  She must have made a sign that he missed, because the man from the bar brought her another glass and took away the old one, still untouched.

  “You strike me as a nice guy, so I want to warn you about something,” she said softly, her jaw clenched.

  He watched her through the smoke from her cigarette.

  “Both Riverside and this place seem peaceful enough, but looks are deceiving. They’re strictly business and they’ll smash anyone who pokes his nose in too far.”

  “Did anyone tell you to say this to me?”

  “Believe whatever you want,” she said, turning toward him and smiling for the sake of appearances.

  It’s like she’s talking about something else, he thought. “What is it that I shouldn’t poke my nose into?”

  “You’re a sweet boy. Stay away from me if you know what’s good for you.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know if you’re having problems with your wife or what it is.” She eyed his ring finger. “But I doubt that your boss is going to approve overtime for this little night shift of yours.”

  “I’m just doing my job.”

  “Am I your job?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you sitting here talking to me, then?”

  “I don’t know. What’s your name?”

  She didn’t answer.

  When he crawled into bed, Martina shifted in her sleep, then glanced up at him and murmured that it must be late. He didn’t respond, and she sank back into her deep breathing.

  The smell of smoke lingered in his hair and the pores of his face. The roof of his mouth against his tongue was like the wall of a cave. Martina lay on her back, her belly like a little tent above her. He longed to put his hand on top of it but held back.

  He heard the freezer rattle. Unable to sleep, he tried to concentrate on the night sounds in the air and walls.

  He slipped out of bed and walked downstairs to the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, he stood without closing the door and drank an entire carton of skim milk. It did nothing to quench his thirst. His gut was on fire. He poured a glass of orange juice. It tasted sweet and tangy after the milk.

  What’s with you? he thought.

  “Can’t you sleep?” Martina asked when he got back in bed.

  “I’ll be okay now.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Good night.”

  “Mmm.” She was already half asleep.

  He had scrubbed himself a second time with heavy-duty soap but the smell of smoke refused to go away. The scent of her perfume had made its way into the bedroom. It doesn’t matter what her name is, he thought. What made you ask her that?

  He listened to the gulls as they tore at the newspapers. It’s like they’re laughing at human folly, he thought. Every morning a helicopter division of gulls arrived at dawn from their base on the outskirts of the archipelago.

  30

  THEY WERE RIDING THE NORTHBOUND TRAIN. IT WAS EARLY afternoon, and nobody else was in their car. Winter saw someone jog across Wandsworth Common wearing shorts and a light sweatshirt that puffed out in the wind and flapped against his back. He thought he recognized the man from yesterday and from the morning train. Maybe he was a lunatic who ran back and forth hour after hour.

  The Hilliers had changed their minds at the last minute. Winston couldn’t handle talking to them. Maybe another day.

  The south side was flashing by again. He had become a commuter. “When does Jamie’s mother get back?” he asked, watching a station come and go.

  “In two weeks,” Macdonald answered.

  “And you can’t find his father?”

  “No. That’s quite common.”

  When they got off at Victoria Station, Winter pointed out the tattered notice. Macdonald tore it off and threw it in a trash container.

  “Are you going to put
up a new one?”

  Macdonald shrugged. “Probably. Worn-out pictures are like worn-out memories—nothing to go by.”

  “There’s a poet in you.”

  “The poet laureate of crime detection.”

  They took the underground to Green Park and made their way through the catacombs to the escalator. The daylight stunned their eyes.

  “The Queen lives over there.” Macdonald nodded toward the park. “The humble servant of all her subjects, the Scots as well as the English.”

  “What about the Irish and the Welsh?”

  “Them too.”

  They took a cab east, up Piccadilly and into Soho.

  Frankie sat in his office by a blank computer screen.

  “It crashed,” he said after Macdonald had introduced him to Winter.

  “Cheap crap,” Macdonald said. “Didn’t I tell you to steer clear of English hardware?”

  “As if the Scottish were any better.”

  “No doubt about it.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “Macintosh.”

  “I’ve heard that one before. May I offer you some exclusive Caribbean tea?”

  “Give me a break. Tea from the Caribbean? May as well make me some coffee grown in Sweden.”

  Frankie glanced over at Winter, who threw up his hands in disavowal. “I’ve asked around a little, as discreetly as I could.”

  Macdonald nodded.

  “I was amazed at how low people can stoop.”

  “Cut out the hypocrisy.”

  “Here I am, walking the straight and narrow, and I ask myself every now and then what happened to all those customers who used to beat down my door.”

  Winter heard a shout in the hallway, a plea for help. Someone else laughed and said something he couldn’t make out.

  “I’m not talking about child porn or anything like that,” Frankie continued.

  “Stop with the crap,” Macdonald said.

  “I’m talking about outright torture.”

  “Torture?”

  “Torture.”

  “What kind of torture?”

  Frankie started to rock back and forth as if listening to music.

  “Frankie,” Macdonald pleaded.

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”