“Yes, we’d established that. Good, isn’t it?”
“In a way. Möllerström has been working with the addresses of the film extras, and with this lot as well. Sture gave the green light for a few more officers. When he smells something in the air he smells something in the air, as he put it.”
“And?”
“It’s the uniforms ...” Winter thought of Vennerhag, but he wasn’t a hundred percent convinced that there was somebody dressing up as a police officer.
Bartram was tapping away at the computer. It was clicking and swishing. He could see a manual hanging on the notice board and smiled. Some people never learned. Some used to come to him, because he was best. Especially this last year when there was panic as the millennium approached. All the files not properly tucked away, the back ups, security, copies everywhere out there in the electronic night.
He didn’t want to show how good he really was. That could cause problems. He would have to answer all the idiotic questions.
If only he’d been in the crime unit, or the new city squad. But he’d never been asked. Never.
Bartram was a hacker. It wasn’t difficult for anybody who knew what he was doing. He liked the word. Hacker. Hack into wherever you like, then withdraw, discreetly, with knowledge.
Morelius emerged from the toilet. Pale. Perhaps he was having stomach problems again. The kid should be doing something else. Maybe that’s what he was planning.
Bartram continued tapping away.
He changed files and then he was inside his home computer. It was still interesting suddenly to find yourself in your own computer while you were still at work, gliding around all the software.
The lists with the forty film extras flickered on his screen, borrowed from the internal network. Disappeared the moment he saw anybody in the corner of his eye. He’d take a closer look at them tonight. Detective Inspector Greger Bartram. Or Detective Chief Inspector, like Winter, who thought he was somebody. Or his registrar. Greger Bartram was a better registrar. Just wait and see.
Halders stopped at the late-night supermarket.
“This is where I had my car stolen,” he said to Djanali in the passenger seat. “I just popped in for a couple of seconds and he got my car.”
“I know, Fredrik.”
Halders got out.
“I must get some chewing tobacco. Guard the car.”
Djanali rolled down the window and breathed in the smell of exhaust fumes and dry, late winter, or early spring. The sun glinted on the Tower of Babel, which was still standing after New Year’s Eve, at the north end of Heden, like a symbol of something she didn’t understand. Were they going to use it for some other occasion? It was only a hovel on a hill, after all. There probably wasn’t enough money to pull the pile of crap down. The hangover always kicks in afterward.
She could see Halders talking to the man at the counter. Halders turned to look at her, as if to make sure that she hadn’t let anybody steal the car.
“He was telling me about the problems they’ve been having with goddamn shoplifters,” Halders said as he sat behind the wheel and pulled out into Södra Vägen. “Somebody came in this morning and stole a bag of chips.”
“Maybe they shouldn’t stock chips,” Djanali said.
“Maybe they shouldn’t stock anything at all,” Halders said. “That’s the way things are going.”
“Toward empty late-night supermarkets, you mean?”
“Yes. The big void. All those damned minimarkets and so on are signs of the times, they reflect the approaching death of society,” Halders said, turning right again at Lorensberg. “Nothing but chips and tobacco and other shit, and videos.”
“I gather you’re their best customer,” Djanali said.
“I’m a victim. Take the films. People do their best to deaden their senses in front of the VCR.” They were in the Avenue now. “Harry Martinson was right. Films are temples for those who can’t cope with life.”
“Harry Martinson?” said Djanali, sounding confused.
“Swedish author. Unknown in Ouagadougou.”
“No, I don’t remember him from school,” she said.
“‘Ello, ’ello, ‘ello! I spy a police constable,” Halders said. “In civvies, but you can tell by the way he walks.”
“It’s Morelius.”
“Do you know him?”
“Not really, but don’t you know everybody in the force?”
“I’m afraid I probably do.”
Halders pulled up at the taxi rank outside the Park Hotel, as they had business to see to there. Morelius was on his own, staring down at the ground. He was wearing earphones. Halders got out just as Morelius came level with the car.
“Do you patrol here in your free time too?” said Halders. Morelius saw him, but couldn’t hear him. He removed the earphones and they could both hear the music.
“God that’s loud. Sounds terrible, whatever it is.”
Morelius took his Walkman from his pocket and switched off.
“Hello, Halders.”
“Don’t you get enough of the Avenue when you’re on duty?”
“I’m on an errand, unfortunately.”
“Same here.”
Djanali waved from the car window.
“I’m quitting,” Morelius said out of the blue.
“Eh?”
“I’m leaving the force.”
Angela could feel the weariness now. When she described the fate of her latest patient for the cassette recorder, exhaustion hit her like a lump of stone, a large block.
I’m quitting after today, she thought. It was fun as long as it lasted. Now my head can’t keep up anymore.
She stood up, went to the sink and splashed some water on her forehead. There was a knock at the door and Hildur peeped around it. The nurse looked worried.
“Another broken bone,” she said. “It seems—”
“I’m coming,” Angela said.
The new multistory car park was not pretty, but it served its purpose. She took the elevator up to the third floor and studied her pale features in the mirror. But now it was over.
Everybody was full of understanding. I wondered how long you would last, Hildur had said. Until now, she’d replied.
Tomorrow she could attend the parent group meeting as a full-time mom. In her thoughts everything was ready, prepared.
She used the remote control to unlock the car and noticed the uniform. A police officer was walking up the exit ramp, hesitantly, perhaps slightly embarrassed. Okay, she thought. I’ll be staying at home in future, without a guard. You can take time off, Constable.
The police officer had almost reached her. She waited, with the ignition key in her hand. A car from the level above was approaching and the officer stood on the other side as it drove past and then disappeared from view down the ramp.
He came up to her, still looking embarrassed. Only doing his duty. Surely she recognized him? He was somebody Erik knew.
“Mrs. Winter?”
She nodded, as it was the easy way out. She wasn’t Mrs., not yet at least.
“I’m supposed to make sure you get home safely.”
“I’m already on my way,” she said, gesturing toward the car. “This was my last day at work. But thanks anyway.”
“Let me drive,” he said. He wasn’t looking her in the eye. Another car drove past. There was an unpleasant smell. She didn’t want to stand inhaling these poisonous fumes any longer than necessary. She had responsibilities. “Let me drive you home, Mrs. Winter,” he said again, holding out his hand for the keys. She noticed his belt, the gleam from his breast pocket, his cap. Everything was gleaming. It was somehow reassuring. His face was familiar.
“It’s really not necessary,” she said.
“I know the way,” he said. “It’s my job to help you.”
She was dog-tired. She could feel it now, even more thanks to the foul, fume-filled air. She felt a movement in her stomach. Squeeze her way in behind the wheel? Squeeze th
eir way in? No, thank you.
“All right,” she said, handing him the keys.
54
Winter was reading the transcripts of the interviews with the film extras. They all had different motives for their exhibitionism. None seemed more interesting than any other. He was short a few.
Five of the addresses were in Mölndal. Three were within reasonable walking distance of Krokens Livs, which was a starting point for a line of thought.
He phoned Möllerström.
“Have you spoken to Bertil about the addresses in Mölndal?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t track him down at the moment. Do you know if anybody’s been there?”
“Hasn’t he mentioned it to you?”
“Mentioned what?”
“Two didn’t answer.”
“The first attempt?”
“Twice at one of the addresses.”
“I have them here,” Winter said, scanning them from the bottom up. “We’ll call around later tonight.”
“Perhaps they’ll be filming until late,” Möllerström said.
“I don’t know.”
“I suppose you know they’ll be finished next week, if they stick to the schedule?”
“So I heard.”
He concluded the call, glanced at his watch, then phoned home. No reply. He looked again at his watch.
Ringmar called just after he’d put the phone down.
“The boy seems to be a bit better.”
“Who’s that?”
“Patrik. The boy in the hospital.”
“Ah, yes.” His father had been released and was drifting around Skanstorget. That case was crawling along at a snail’s pace. Winter had driven past the apartment, thought about going in. “I’m pleased to hear it. I must have a word with him, if possible.”
“They rang a few minutes ago. Said you were on the phone.”
“What did they want?”
“He wanted to speak to you.”
Winter arranged a car to take him to the Sahlgren Hospital. He was spending more and more time there. He phoned home again on his mobile, but there was no reply and he left a brief message on the answering machine.
Patrik’s face was the same color as his surroundings. A chameleon. His eyes were black, sunken.
“I dreamed that I recognized him,” Patrik said.
“Recognized him? The man who went down in the elevator?”
“There was something about his face when he turned round.” Patrik looked up at Winter, then at something to the side of him. “If I saw him again, I’d recognize him.” Patrik closed his eyes and mumbled something.
“What did you say?” Winter asked.
The boy mumbled again.
“Patrik?” Winter bent down even closer, but couldn’t distinguish any words.
Winter phoned home again from outside the ward, but there was still no answer. He made his way to where Angela worked, but they said she’d left hours ago.
He requested a car to take him home.
The apartment was empty and silent. It was clear that she’d not been home. There were always things lying around if she’d come in before going off to do some shopping, or to take a walk. He took the elevator down to the basement garage, but the car wasn’t there.
He went out into the street and looked around. The Mercedes was on the other side of the street, one of three in a row. He walked quickly over to it and saw the parking ticket fixed to the windshield. He opened the envelope. Two hours ago. The ticket had been issued two hours ago. He checked his watch again. It was ages since she’d left work. Why had she driven here so late and left the car in the street instead of in the garage? Was she scared of going down there?
Bergenhem had stopped being her bodyguard without Angela ever having noticed him. He was now involved in the investigation again. Winter and Angela had looked at each other and laughed, perhaps shrugged at the thought of worrying about it. Over the top. So much was going on now.
One of the cars from Lorensberg checked up on her now and again, but that was more or less it. Waited outside sometimes when she finished work, but not every day.
He took the elevator back up. Didn’t know what to do next. He could feel something in his stomach, rising up like lava.
He phoned his sister. Lotta answered after the second ring.
“Is Angela with you?” Winter asked.
“No ... why are you ...”
“She’s not here, and her car has been in the street with a parking ‘ticket for a couple of hours.”
“Have you phoned the hospital?”
“I’ve even been there.”
Bartram kicked off his shoes and went in to his computer, which was glowing like a face looking forward to his arrival.
Only a couple of minutes, and he was in there. He explored, checked. Printed out. Spread the pages out on his kitchen table, then went to the kitchen to get some water. He wasn’t hungry. He hadn’t washed up for several days, but nobody would complain. Who will complain if I don’t? he asked himself.
He was back. The screen lit up the room softly, combined with the desk lamp that was pointed downward.
He used his finger to follow the column down.
He had his notebook at hand. It was the same one as then, shabbier now, but in decent condition even so. He was a man of few words. Concentration. Concentrate.
Coincidence or not? He’d forced his telephone number out of him, but nobody answered when he called. The shoplifter. His address was still there.
Bartram compared the name and address in his notebook with the film extras on the list. You didn’t need to be a genius to see that they were the same. It was enough to be able to read, and to be in the right place at the right time. If he’d been in charge of the investigation, he’d have been able to show them how an investigation ought to be conducted. He knew more than the others.
Winter had searched the car, but found nothing. He didn’t touch the wheel. Beier’s boys were on their way.
He phoned Ringmar, who answered with his mouth full.
“Hang on a minute. I was just having a bite of supper—”
“Angela’s disappeared,” Winter said.
“What the hell ... ?”
“Something’s happened.”
“Have you raised the alarm?”
“Yes.” Winter felt his body going cold, the flow of lava solidifying. He felt sick. “No point in holding back.”
Ringmar didn’t ask what Winter thought.
Right now he was thinking about the parent group. Him and Angela busy asking about how to minimize the pain. The smell of coffee.
“Where are you?” Ringmar asked.
“Here,” Winter said. “At home.”
“I’m on my way.”
MARCH
55
Ringmar had set off immediately. He was there within half an hour, they’d spoken, quickly and briefly. Winter was like a talking and thinking copy of his alter ego. He’d nodded, made notes, spoken. Ringmar had yelled into the telephone. They’d received a barrage of calls.
He had always been bad at putting work behind him. Going in an entirely different direction once he’d finished for the day, or the night. Always found it difficult to do. Difficult to become hardened. He’d avoided the coldness but not been able to become inured.
God. I’ve always believed in you. Give me the strength to think now, let me retain that strength. You can take it away from me later, but not now. Divide me up now. Two beings, one heart. No panic now.
“Erik?”
Ringmar was there. Had he been standing there all the time? He was in the doorway, but his voice seemed to be next to Winter’s ear.
Winter changed his position and tried to be there again, with his own strength and with God’s help.
“There’s one of your contacts on the phone.”
“Who?”
“Benny.”
Winter reached for the receiver.
“What the he
ll’s going on?” Vennerhag said.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”
“So I gathered. I’ve been out of town. But what the hell’s going on? Has she—”
“The help I asked you for. It’s more important now than ever.”
“Is that really you I’m talking to, Winter? Your voice sounds—”
“Make an effort, Benny.”
“Is this really connected with—”
“Yes.”
“Jesus.”
“Make an effort, Benny.”
“If only I knew what to do. But I’ll do ... continue to do whatever I can. Find out what people have to say.”
“Make an effort,” Winter said yet again.
They’d put more officers to work on the interviews with the lonely hearts—better to think of them like that. Halders had more names. Names, names.
Winter wasn’t sleeping at all now. If he needed drugs, he’d take some.
He knew that all this was interconnected. Ringmar knew, everybody knew. Angela hadn’t just vanished into thin air...
He scratched his head. Ringmar was in the doorway again. Was it the third day in hell? The fourth?
Tomorrow he’d be forty. He’d noticed that when he’d gone home to collect the mail and some clean clothes. He wanted to make the journey alone. Nodded to Bergenhem, who was standing guard in the dark in Vasaplatsen. There would be others there as well. If...
Forty years old. He’d forgotten all about it. Angela had drawn a red lipstick line around the date on the calendar hanging above the stove. Six inches up from the work surface and some four feet up from the floor. As he stood there looking, he’d thought of getting a tape measure and checking the distances, anything that kept him in touch with everyday things. But total control was bordering on lunacy.
During the night he’d thought about the boy again, in the hospital.
The boy had recognized somebody. When had he first come into the picture? There was a parallel story here—but it was linked to himself, with the murders.
Sun and Shadow Page 37
