Winter had driven back in his own car, where there were no traces at all. He’d phoned Hanne Ostergaard and asked her to come in. She looked tortured, as if she’d turned into a mirror. They’d sat in Winter’s office, and he’d suddenly told her what had happened to the people who had been murdered. What had happened. For three seconds he lost his composure, let his hell rain down upon her.
She answered after the first ring.
“I was awake,” she said. There was something urgent about her voice.
“When Maria... was taken care of...” Winter said, and asked some more questions as she described what had happened, who had been there. The urgency was still in her voice, as if she were waiting for her turn.
Then she said it. Broke her silence, you might say. One duty superseded another. Simon had not poured out his memories while in confession. She knew she wasn’t bound to silence.
“I don’t know what it signifies,” she said, “but when you told me what had happened ...”
Winter could feel the lava again, on its way upstream, just as cold.
“Has he told you about it several times? The accident? The bodies?”
“Yes.”
“Erik?”
Winter looked up. He was alone in his office. Ringmar had appeared in the doorway.
“We ran through the addresses again,” Ringmar said, transcripts in hand. “The pornography list. There’s something ...” He came into the room, sat down, and spread out the papers on Winter’s desk.
“What?”
“It’s not close to Krokens Livs. But this responder has given an address in one of the apartment buildings down in Askim and we compared it like you said and, well, there is a link.”
“A link? What did I say?” Just now his mind was a blank, as white and blank as the sky and the ground had been in the middle of January.
“Somebody from the force lives in that area. A police officer.”
“Well?”
“It’s a very long shot,” Ringmar said. “We must keep calm about it.”
“Who is it?” Winter asked.
“Morelius. Simon Morelius. He’s a pol—”
“I know who he is,” Winter said.
“Keep calm now.”
He was calm. God was holding his hand.
“Do you know where Morelius comes from?” he asked.
“No.”
“Is he on duty at the moment?”
“I checked that. He’s free.”
“Is he at home?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t try to phone him. I didn’t know what to say.”
“Have you got the number there?”
Winter called but there was no reply
He asked the switchboard to put him through to the Lorensberg police station.
“Hello, Winter here. Yes... I know... there’s somethi... yes, exactly ...”
He asked about Morelius, as Bertil had just done. Back tomorrow. In Ivarsson’s group. A bit of extra time off after New Year. Do you need to get hold of him?
“Yes.”
“He might be at home.”
“No.”
“Have you tried Kungsbacka?”
“Eh? No.”
“That’s where he’s from, you see.”
“Kungsbacka?”
“Yes. Somebody mentioned it only the other day. I think it was him himself, come to think of it.” Winter could hear the sound of conversation in the background at the station in Chalmersgatan, telephones, boots clomping over hard floors. “It came up in connection with that murder. She was from Kungsbacka, wasn’t she? The woman who was murdered?”
“Yes,” Winter said, and looked at Ringmar, who was listening with bated breath. Winter concluded the call, then took the telephone directory from one of the bookshelves.
There was just one Morelius in Kungsbacka. Elna Morelius. Mrs. She answered after the third ring. No, her son wasn’t at home. What was it about? Something to do with work? Of course she would tell him to get in touch, but she hadn’t heard from him for a while. He ought to contact her more often. Yes, that’s the way it is. When was the last time? Well, not too long ago. He wasn’t feeling well. He wasn’t too good.
Winter tried to think.
“What does your husband do, Mrs. Morelius?”
“My husband? What kind of question is that? My husband’s dead.” Silence. Winter waited. “My husband was a vicar,” she said eventually.
Morelius. Winter could picture his face, hovering over his uniform. In a squad car on patrol up and down Vasaplatsen.
A real police officer. Patrik. Maria. Always at hand when something happened.
When Winter arrived at the Valkers’ apartment Morelius had been standing inside it. The silhouette. Pointing at the wall.
Winter thought about Lareda Veitz, what she’d said. She’d phoned the other day but he didn’t have the strength, not just now.
Winter turned to Ringmar.
“Let’s go there,” Winter said. “Now.” He stood up and checked his gun, which was pressing against his ribs.
“To Morelius’s place? Askim?”
“Where else, for Christ’s sake?”
“Erik ...”
“You can stay here if you like,” Winter said, taking his overcoat from its hanger. He felt like running through the corridors, running like a madman, flying.
Ringmar phoned again, but nobody answered.
“Should we ask them to send a car from Frölunda?”
“Yes, but nobody goes in until we get there.”
Winter’s hands were shaking, he’d checked his SIG-Sauer again. They were running now, both of them.
“I’ll drive,” Ringmar said.
It was evening now. Ringmar drove fast through the homebound traffic. Winter put the flashing light on the roof when they were caught in a line of cars near Liseberg and Ringmar switched on the siren as they came to the highway.
Two feet of mist were creeping over the fields on either side of the road. Ringmar turned off before coming to the Järnbrott intersection. Winter thought of the Elfvegrens in their pretty estate on the other side of the junction. They hadn’t said anything else about the man Louise Valker had spoken about. Louise Valker from Kungsbacka. He glanced at Ringmar. If there was nobody in, the next stop this evening would be the Elfvegrens’ house.
They saw the flashing light on the radio car from the Frölunda station. A group of young boys had already gathered. The light was illuminating their faces.
“Switch it off,” Winter said when he reached the car.
“Number seven,” said Ringmar behind him, and Winter turned around. Ringmar was pointing at the entrance to 7D. The apartment buildings were in brick, possibly red. Three or four stories, it didn’t matter.
“He lives on the second floor,” Ringmar said.
The entrance door was open, fastened to the wall by a chain. A man carrying a box emerged from the basement as they went in. He nodded at them, and released the chain.
Nobody answered when they rang the bell. The name MORELIUS was in white letters against a black background on the flap of the mail slot. Winter rang again and heard the sound echoing through the apartment, but he could hear no footsteps, no voices. He shouted through the mail slot, listened. Then he drew his pistol and fired a shot through the wooden door, next to the lock.
56
Winter put his hand through the hole he’d made in the door and unlocked it. He flung the door open. His brain was detached from his body now, everything was animal instinct. The cordite was irritating his nose. He regretted nothing.
There was mail on the hall floor, an envelope, a newspaper.
The apartment was lit up by lights from the main road and the estate. All was silent. No guitars, no drums, no hissing.
No Angela. They went from room to room. Everything was neat and tidy. The sink was clean and glinted in the light from the kitchen window. Nothing on the table.
There were two men’s magazines on the bedside tabl
e, next to an alarm clock. Aktuell Rapport. In the living room was a bookcase filled with stacks of paperbacks, an imitation leather sofa, two armchairs facing a large television set. Neat and tidy. Total control.
“Hmm,” said Ringmar, seeming disappointed as he looked, first around the room and then at Winter.
Winter could feel his face starting to twitch, and the shock and tension gradually ebbed away. Ringmar’s disappointed face. The empty apartment. The shot. The feeling of confusion, disappointment, and infinite relief. Infinite relief. He was twitching, shaking; he gave vent to a sound that could have been a sob or a laugh and what came first was laughter, loud and abandoned: You should see your face, Bertil! He noticed that Ringmar took a step toward him, like a nurse, and he had another attack and then it was over and he held up the hand that wasn’t holding his pistol and said, “Let’s get out of here, Bertil,” and he set off through the hall.
Winter gave instructions to the two police officers from Frölunda, a man and a woman.
“I’ll drive this time,” Winter said.
“How are you feeling, Erik?”
“Better,” he said as he drove through the Järnbrott intersection.
“Where are we going?”
“To the Elfvegrens.”
“It’s nearly midnight.”
Winter didn’t reply, but drove through the little streets and Ringmar asked yet again for the address. All small houses looked the same. It was like entering another age, the 1950s. Small houses, big gardens.
The Elfvegrens’ house was in darkness. Winter rang the bell. Ringmar stood behind him, waiting to see what happened, as if expecting to draw another blank.
Nobody opened the door, nobody switched on a light. Winter pounded on the door then turned on his heel and went down the stairs.
“She’s not here at least,” he said, and Ringmar understood who Winter was referring to.
They drove past Radiotorget. Winter’s mobile phone rang.
“Hello?”
“You were looking for Morelius ... at Lorensberg ...” The reception deteriorated, then improved again.
“Hello?”
“You were look—”
“I’m listening,” Winter said. “Have you found him?”
“He’s here at the station,” said the duty officer at the Lorensberg police station, the man Winter had spoken to before. “He came in with Ivarsson, who’d bumped into him in town. He’s not on duty—”
“Make sure he stays there,” Winter said.
“That won’t be a problem. He says he wants to talk to you.”
Morelius was in the television room. He stood up when they came in. He was wearing jeans, a black leather jacket, and black boots.
“I think I might be able to help you,” he said. “I don’t know.” He looked at Winter, who didn’t reply. An hour ago Winter had been ready to ... to ... Now he could grab hold of him, demand answers. He ought to get started.
“I understand that it’s urgent,” said Morelius, heading for the sink.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Ringmar said.
“What the... ?” Morelius said. He stared at them, first at Ringmar, then at Winter. Something gave way in his face. “But, for Christ’s sake, surely you don’t think I did it?”
“The advertisement,” Winter said.
“Eh? What advertisement?”
“We talked to your neighbor. He admitted that he’d been your ... agent,” Ringmar said.
“But, for Christ’s sake, that’s got nothing to do ... I haven’t even ...” He turned to Winter. “Nothing came of it.”
Winter took a step toward him.
“In that case you have kept from us important information—”
“We can deal with that later,” Morelius said. “But is this urgent or not, Winter?”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s evidence to suggest a police officer is involved. The uniforms and all that. Even we know that, the public order police. I’ve thought about it a lot. It has to do with the fact that I’ve been considering my position in the force. I’m packing it in, but I have a colleague. He wants to become a detective. He’s got it into his head that it’s a posher job.” Morelius looked again at Winter. “I’m talking about Bartram. Greger Bartram.”
“And?”
“You haven’t heard what he’s been saying lately. Haven’t listened to him. Seen him. There’s something funny about him. I don’t know... I’ve thought a lot about it. Walked the streets. Took an extra day’s leave. Thought about his right to play—” He turned to Winter again. “But then that business with your woman happened.” He turned to Ringmar. “I tried to get hold of him at home, but he wasn’t there. That’s because he doesn’t live there anymore. He moved out over a year ago, but he hasn’t submitted his new address.” Now he was looking at Ivarsson. “We’ve had his old address all the time.”
“Where does he live now, then?” asked Ivarsson.
“It’s called Tolsegårdsgatan. In Mölndal. I haven’t been there, but—”
“How do you know?” asked Ringmar. “The new address, I mean?”
“Directory inquiries,” Morelius said. “It was as simple as that.”
“What is there about Tolsegårdsgatan,” Winter said. “I recognize the name.”
“It’s at the end of Hagåkersgatan,” Morelius said. ‘And that’s close to where that couple was murdered. Or him ... if she survives. Häradsgatan it was.“
He didn’t mention Kroken, Winter thought. Nor Manhattan Livs. Nobody outside my inner circle knows about Manhattan Livs. If he’d mentioned the shop, we’d have nailed him.
“Where did he live before?” Winter asked.
“Not far away,” Morelius said. “Even closer to the building where the couple were killed.” He paused. “There’s a minimarket on the ground floor of the block, I think.”
Before Winter had time to comment, Morelius held up his hand.
“Let me show you his computer.”
“His computer?”
“This way,” Morelius said. They went down the stairs and into the newly built extension on the other side of the courtyard. Nobody spoke. Morelius sat down in front of a computer and logged in. Waited, then tapped in a few commands. Waited again.
“You know what you’re doing,” Ivarsson said, who’d tagged along as well.
“Yes,” Morelius said. “Computer knowhow isn’t linked exclusively with crooked cops.”
He keyed in another command, and turned to look at his audience. Then he turned back to the screen.
“What’s that?” Winter asked.
“It’s the list of names and addresses of those film extras who are making that television series.” He looked at Winter, then back at the screen. “They all seem to be there. He’s hacked into your files and stolen them.”
They all stared at the screen.
‘And there’s more,“ Morelius said. ”He seems to have access to more or less everything. He’s either conducting some kind of investigation of his own, or else ...“
“Has he never said anything about all this?”
“No.” Morelius keyed in another command. “Look at this.” Winter moved closer. “We have had his old address, not far from the scene of the crime, but he’s hacked into the official files and changed it. According to what it says here, he lives in Hisingen.”
Winter thought about all the police addresses they’d had for purposes of comparison. If he’d seen Bartram’s address then—
Bartram had changed the official lists.
Always assuming they could trust Morelius.
“Is he off duty?” Winter asked.
“Yes,” Ivarsson said.
“I’ll drive,” Ringmar said.
They drove past Krokens Livs, Manhattan. The film posters were still there. City of Angels. The Avengers. Ringmar parked in the street and they were out of the car even before it had stopped moving. Morelius was with them.
Winter had glanced
at his watch. Past one. Happy birthday to you.
They passed the children’s playground and some Dumpsters. The apartments were some fifty yards away, with the main entrance on the other side. A group of birch trees at the back of the building seemed to have been sprayed with silver. “Thirty-six,” Morelius said. There was a light on in a second-floor window.
Winter tried the front door. It opened without his needing to shoot out the lock. Ringmar switched on the light. The stairwell walls were sky blue with a pattern in a darker shade. Lilac, Winter thought. Every detail was clear.
The front door of the apartment seemed to be of mock teak.
A police officer, Winter thought. How can you foresee that? The world has come to an end if police officers defect to the other side.
The stair light went out. They could see a light through the gap under the door. Winter rang the bell. Keep calm, Erik. We’ll just ask him a few questions because we want to know. We want to know because there’s no time left.
An image of Angela’s face hovered in his mind’s eye, but he knocked it aside with his knuckles as he pounded on the door.
“Who’s that?” said a voice from inside.
Winter looked at Morelius and gave him the go-ahead.
“It’s me, Greger, Simon. There’s something I need your help with.”
“Eh? Now?”
“It’s urgent, Greger. Please let me in.”
Not a sound from inside. Winter could feel his pistol rubbing against his chest, but left it where it was. He was calmer now, better prepared for what might be in store.
“You might have phoned,” said the voice on the other side of the door.
“Why won’t you let me in?” Morelius asked.
Winter announced his name. He knew that Bartram knew he was there.
He could hear noises on the other side of the door now. Ringmar looked at Winter. The noise grew louder. Winter could hear the music. Morelius looked confused, in the faint light on the landing. Winter could hear the guitars, the drums, the voice hissing and gurgling though the door. He was incapable of moving now. Ringmar did the shooting. Second time lucky, Winter thought. Morelius and Ringmar kicked in the door, forced their hands through the shattered plywood. Blood was pouring from Ringmar’s hands. Morelius shouted something he couldn’t make out. Ringmar’s yell seemed to come from another planet.
Sun and Shadow Page 38
