Never End

by Ake Edwardson

  'Or to himself. Do you want to hear?'

  Winter nodded and sat down on the chair next to the biggest computer.

  The voice came over the loudspeaker. This isn't black metal, Winter thought. This is the real thing.

  NNAAAAIEIEIEYRRRRYY!

  RREIEIYYYY!!

  Winter looked at Yngvesson. His profile was sharp, calm, professional. God only knows what he was thinking.

  'He might be saying her name,' said Yngvesson without turning his head. 'She was called Anne. AAAIEIEIE ... that could be her name.'

  Winter listened.

  'Can you make it any clearer?'

  'I'm trying, I'm trying. Not yet. I need to do some more work on the high register, try to lower it. There's a lot of background stuff that needs washing out as well.'

  'Such as?'

  'Various hums and buzzes. The wind, presumably. Traffic noise.'

  'Traffic noise?'

  'Yes, traffic noise. A car goes past. About thirty metres away, perhaps fifty.'

  'It's several hundred metres to the main road.'

  'Not on this tape. I think it's a car, and it's close by, as I said.'

  'It's possible to drive a car along the cycle track there.'

  'There you are, then.'

  'So a car might have driven past while it was happening?'

  'It seems so.'

  'They ought to have seen the bike lying on the ground,' said Winter.

  'People pay no attention to such things,' said Yngvesson.

  'Somebody in the car ought to have seen something of what was happening,' Winter said.

  'In that case you'd better start looking for another witness.'

  'Can you tell what make of car it is?'

  'Of course,' said Yngvesson dryly. 'Hang on a minute and the computer will tell you its registration number as well.'

  Yngvesson played the sequence one more time.

  'There.' He rewound, then played it again. 'There. That's a sentence of some kind. Or a sequence of words, at least. Not just a mad burbling.'

  Winter could hear the burbling. It sounded worse every time he heard it. Like watching a snuff movie. People being killed for real. A snuff tape. A real murder.

  'I'll crack this, by God I will,' said Yngvesson.

  'Can you tell if he's young or old?' Winter asked.

  'One thing at a time.'

  'But will it be possible?'

  The technician shrugged, barely visibly, once again absorbed in his work.

  Ringmar went to fetch some coffee. He muttered something as he headed for the half-open door.

  'Come on, it's your turn,' Winter shouted after him.

  Ringmar came back, but had forgotten the milk. He had to go back again. Winter was at the window, smoking. Mercator weren't as good as Corps. You could import Corps yourself from Belgium. Maybe ask one of the thousands at EU headquarters who commute between Sweden and Brussels.

  A canoe passed by on the river. Winter watched the ripples from the paddle – the only movement out there this afternoon. No cars, no trams, no aeroplanes, no pedestrians; no sound, no wind, no smell, nothing except the man paddling eastwards with the sun like a spear in his back as rays found their way through the buildings at Drottningtorget.

  'OK?' said Ringmar from behind him, putting the cup of coffee on Winter's desk.

  'What do you say to putting a tail on Mr Samic, the club and restaurant king?' asked Winter without turning round. He took a last drag on his cigarillo before stubbing it in the ashtray on the window ledge.

  'Why not?' said Ringmar. 'If we're clever with it.'

  'I was thinking of Sara,' Winter said.

  Sara Helander. One of the new detectives, already an inspector and on her way to higher things. Relatively unknown about town. Good-looking, without being stunning. Nobody ought to look too stunning in this job, Winter thought. Except me. But that's in the past now.

  He glanced down at his khaki shirt, shorts and bare feet in deck shoes.

  'Have you spoken to her?' Ringmar asked.

  'Yes,' said Winter, turning to face him. 'She knows as much as the rest of us, and is keen to do it.'

  'When?'

  'As from now.' Winter checked his watch. 'Exactly now.'

  'Then why bother to ask me?'

  Winter shrugged.

  Ringmar drank his coffee.

  'Is she on her own?'

  'So far. Then we'll have to see.'

  'Put somebody else on it, Erik.'

  'I don't have anybody else just now.'

  'Find somebody else.'

  'OK, OK.'

  'Which car are you giving her?'

  'Yours,' said Winter.

  Ringmar choked and spat out half a mouthful of coffee over Winter's desk, thankfully missing all the papers.

  The shadows were long and stretched when he drove to the Bielkes'. The old houses were in the dark behind neatly trimmed hedges that held at bay the light trying to force its way into the gardens.

  The big verandah was deserted. Winter parked close by it. The gravel crunched under his feet as he walked from the car to the steps.

  Irma Bielke emerged from a door on the right before Winter got as far as the verandah. Just for a second he thought she looked very much like the girl in the photograph from Angelika's party. The same age. He looked again, but the similarity had gone.

  She was fifty, but looked younger. He'd have thought she was about his age.

  He hadn't phoned in advance, just gone there.

  'Jeanette's not at home,' she said. 'Nor is Kurt.'

  'I've come for a chat with you, as it happens,' Winter said.

  'With me? What about?'

  'Can we sit down for a few minutes?'

  'I'm on my way out.'

  On her way to the verandah, Winter thought. What she was wearing was equally suitable for lounging around at home, or for going out – the same as everybody else: shirt or blouse, shorts and bare feet in comfortable shoes.

  A candle was burning in the room behind her. Winter could see it through the door. It was on a little table near the window.

  'Are you allowed to just drop in on people like this?' she asked.

  'Can we sit down for a few minutes?' Winter asked again.

  'There's nothing else to be said,' she replied. 'Not to Jeanette, not to Kurt, and most of all not to me.'

  'I'm not going to lay down the law,' said Winter. 'I just want to ask a few questions.'

  'Are you suggesting there are any questions left to ask?' she said.

  'It won't take long.'

  She gestured towards the cane furniture further back on the verandah.

  'Please spare me all the crap about this being for Jeanette's sake,' she said. There was a sudden trace of steel in her voice. 'Going on about how the rapists, or whatever euphemism you might use, will be arrested more quickly, the sooner we help you by answering all the questions that come raining in from all sides.'

  Winter said nothing. He sat down. She remained standing, leaning against the wall. Her eyes were dead. Winter stood up, remained standing. There was a smell of trees and dry grass. The candle seemed brighter now.

  'How is she?'

  'How do you think?'

  OK, Winter thought. Let's stop beating about the bush.

  'She won't be going to university,' said Irma Bielke.

  'Really?'

  'The application had been sent, and she'd been accepted; but she's decided to turn it down.'

  'What's she going to do instead?'

  'Nothing, as far as I know.'

  'Go in for something else?'

  'I said nothing.'

  She sat down and looked at him.

  'Aren't you going to ask me how I feel?'

  'How do you feel?'

  She looked at the room where the candle was burning.

  'It wasn't the end of the world. There are worse things to worry about.' She looked up at Winter as he sat down. 'Aren't you going to ask me about what worse things?'
<
br />   'What worse things?'

  'HIV, for instance,' she said. 'We got the test results this morning.'

  Winter waited.

  'Negative,' she said. 'Thank God. I've never known it so positive to have a negative response.' Winter thought she gave a curt laugh. 'You've chosen a good time to visit. We're happy again.'

  She moved into half shadow. Winter wondered what to say next.

  'Where is Jeanette this evening?'

  'She's gone swimming with a friend,' she said. 'It's the first time ... since it happened.'

  'What about your husband?'

  'Kurt? Why do you ask?'

  Winter said nothing.

  'Why do you ask?' she said again.

  Here we go, Winter thought. The candle had gone out. There was a smell of sea, all the stronger now.

  She was looking past him, at something in the garden. Winter could hear the wind, sounding like something moving through the treetops. Her face was expressionless. 'I don't know where he is.' She seemed to give a laugh, or it might have been something else. 'I seldom do.'

  'Is he with Jeanette?'

  'I don't think so.'

  She stood up.

  'Is that all, then?'

  'Not really.'

  'I have no wish to talk to you any more.'

  'When did you last hear from Mattias?'

  She stopped in her tracks. Like freezing a video frame, Winter thought, but more sharply focused.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Mattias. He's evidently found it difficult to stay away from here.'

  'Are you referring to Jeanette's former boyfriend?'

  'Are there several Mattiases?'

  'Not that I know of.'

  'I'm referring to the boyfriend,' Winter said.

  'I've forgotten what you asked.'

  'When did you last hear from him?'

  'I ... I don't know.'

  'What happened between them?'

  'Why is that important?' She seemed surprised, her face had surprise written all over it. 'Why does that matter? Now?'

  'Don't you realise?' he asked.

  'No.'

  'Have you never thought about it?'

  She thought, thought.

  'Mattias? No. That's not possible.'

  Winter said nothing. She looked at him, straight at him.

  'Surely you can't think that? That Mattias ... that he might have done something to Jeanette?'

  No, Winter thought. Not him. But he didn't answer her question. Instead he commented on the sound of a car in the street.

  'Is that your husband coming home?' 'It's his car,' she said, going past him again.

  A car door opened and closed. Footsteps on the gravel, on the steps, a voice.

  'What's he doing here again?'

  Winter turned round. Kurt Bielke was standing at the top of the steps. He was wearing a white shirt, grey trousers and black loafers. There was sweat on his face. He came closer. Winter could smell the spirits on his breath. Bielke must realise he could smell it. He didn't care.

  'There's no time to turn before you or some other pi- CID character appears,' he said. He took a step forward, swayed for a tenth of a second, took another step, looked at his wife.

  'What's he said?'

  She didn't answer.

  Bielke looked at Winter.

  'What has she said?'

  'Where's Jeanette?' Winter said.

  Bielke turned to his wife. 'Can you fetch a beer?' She looked at Winter. 'I mean one beer,' said Bielke, nodding at Winter. 'The inspector can't have one. He's just leaving, and you shouldn't drink and drive.'

  Calm down, Winter thought. This is an important moment. It's telling me something. It's saying something about Bielke and his wife. Perhaps about Jeanette as well.

  Irma Bielke hadn't moved.

  'Am I going to have to go myself?' said Bielke. He smiled and turned towards Winter. Bielke had switched on an outside light on the verandah. His face was white in the glare. He nodded at Winter, raised his eyebrows and laughed, as if at a joke somebody had told him in his head.

  28

  Sara Helander was out walking through the warm evening. Two couples were sitting on the steps down to the canal, snuggled up close. The moon was reflected in the water, a band of gold. The outlines of surrounding buildings stood out sharply against the sky, like charcoal drawings. Scents wafted past her as she crossed over one of the harbour streets. A taxi glided slowly southwards, its sign leaving a streak of light behind it. A lot of people were sitting at pavement cafés. She could hear the sound of glasses and crockery and voices combining to form that special mixed language common to all pavement cafés in all countries all round the world.

  Cars came and went outside the entrance to the dance restaurant. It also had a pavement section, but nobody danced there. There wasn't an empty table. She sat down at the bar and ordered mineral water with lime.

  'May I treat you to that?' asked the man on the next chair. Her water was on the bar.

  She declined with a smile and took a sip. Then another: she realised she was thirsty after driving into town and walking from the multi-storey car park.

  The man looked at her. He was about her own age, thirty or so. Quite good-looking. But she wasn't here for pleasure.

  'Don't drink too quickly,' he said. 'It'll hit you afterwards.'

  'It's mineral water,' she said.

  'It's the ice you have to look out for – the cold upsetting your stomach.'

  'That's why I haven't got any.'

  'It shouldn't be too warm either,' he said with a smile.

  'It makes no difference what I say, is that it?'

  'No.'

  'If you'll excu—'