Never End

by Ake Edwardson

  Winter had driven westwards in the light of morning. Bengt and Lisen had had coffee waiting for him, which he'd drunk in the kitchen. There was a smell of freshly baked buns, and he accepted one from a tray, still warm. 'When Beatrice ... left us, I spent hours baking,' said Lisen Wägner, 'baked and baked away like a madwoman. Fruit cake in the middle of the night, croissants, bread rolls. I threw the lot away: while it was still hot I threw it all away,' she said, looking at the baking tray.

  Winter chewed the bun.

  How the hell was he going to put this?

  Was Beatrice a stripper in her spare time, as far as you know? Was that the in thing among high-school girls five years ago?

  He'd seen the looks on their faces and it was obvious they didn't know, hadn't known.

  Had he and his colleagues checked thoroughly enough with the other relatives? They hadn't paid house calls on everybody associated with Beatrice and her family. At that time they hadn't had the photograph of Beatrice, sitting in the same place as Angelika five years later.

  He'd finished chewing, swallowed and took out the photograph again.

  'We can't find this place,' he said. 'We've searched the whole of Gothenburg.'

  'Then it can't be here,' Bengt Wägner said.

  'I think it is,' Winter replied. He mentioned Angelika's name again and produced the photograph of her as well.

  'Hmm, I suppose that makes it more likely,' Wägner said.

  'It might be in a private house,' said Winter.

  'Whose?' asked Lisen Wägner.

  'I don't suppose it could be somebody you know?'

  'Eh? Who on earth would that be?' she wondered.

  'For God's sake,' her husband exclaimed. 'What sort of an answer is that?'

  She had turned away to look at the table with the tray of buns cooling down. He had looked at Winter.

  'If we'd recognised it we'd have said so straight away, of course. It doesn't matter whether it's in somebody's house, or where it is.'

  'No.'

  'Can I keep this photograph?'

  'Of course.'

  'You never know.'

  Winter handed over the copy. He'd intended doing that anyway.

  He'd been to see Lars-Olof and Ann Hansson late last night. That conversation had been a replica of this one.

  Sara Helander was sitting at the big table in the conference room. She was tanned, browner than he was.

  'And then came the river bus, just in time,' she said. 'I ran to catch it and it set off and I had them in view the entire journey.'

  'Well done, Sara.'

  'Their boat was moored ten metres from the river-bus stop, and when I got off I saw them leaving their boat.'

  Winter waited. Halders waited, Ringmar and Bergenhem waited, Aneta Djanali, Möllerström, everybody.

  Helander had told them about the woman; the pictures from Angelika's graduation party had done the rounds again. It's her all right, Helander had said. It's her.

  'And so I followed them,' she said. 'It wasn't very far. There were quite a lot of people going to and from the jetty and the river-bus stop, so it was no problem.'

  'There should never be any problem,' said Halders.

  'Then it was a bit more difficult ... but naturally no problem then either,' said Helander, glancing towards Halders. 'And then ... well, they went into a house on the other side of the road and I carried on walking past it.' She looked round. 'A pretty big house, timber built.'

  'Did they both go in?'

  'Yes.'

  'Could Samic be the Southern-European looking man on the party picture here?'

  'Could be,' said Ringmar. 'With a good toupee, it could be him. But we haven't been able to check all that thoroughly.'

  'Our toupee experts have said that it isn't a toupee,' said Halders with a sort of smile.

  I wonder what Fredrik would look like in a toupee, Djanali thought briefly. Bloody awful. A man in a toupee's nothing to go for. Nor a man with a comb-over.

  Samic hadn't been wearing a toupee on the boat or in the restaurant. Why should he be wearing one at that party, she wondered, assuming it was him? And if he had been there – why?

  'We'd better take a look at that mansion,' Winter said.

  'I'll go,' said Halders. He looked at the others.

  'He'll be suspicious if he sees you, won't he?' said Bergenhem.

  'He won't see me.'

  'Oh no?'

  'That's where my new toupee comes in handy.'

  Somebody chortled, but soon stopped.

  'Shouldn't there be several of us?' Helander asked.

  Winter thought about it. Caution. Yes. Either they marched in and brought Samic to the station for questioning – six hours minimum, because that is what the investigation needed – or they waited. They were looking for an unknown address and they had an unknown name and there might be a connection. Possibly. That's the way they worked. It was no coincidence that Helander had seen Samic and followed him. If the river bus hadn't turned up they'd have found the house even so, but it would have taken them longer.

  Samic was lying, but lots of other people were as well.

  He wanted to know what was inside the house before they reacted.

  'You and Fredrik,' he told Sara Helander.

  'When?'

  'Tonight.'

  'What should we d—'

  'That's enough now, Sara,' said Halders, getting to his feet. 'Let's do a bit of thinking for ourselves, OK?'

  Yngvesson phoned as Winter was on his way to his office. The ringtone echoed round the empty corridor.

  'I might have something for you,' the technician said.

  Winter was there within five minutes.

  'Listen to this,' said Yngvesson.

  He started the tape. Winter listened: there was less to listen to now. Yngvesson had filtered the sound image, taken away as much as he could of what he called 'the porridge'. Winter was reminded of the noise on the beach the previous evening, fragments of other voices.

  He looked at the tape. Where he had heard a park before, he now seemed to be hearing a room, a barren room.

  He heard the girl, Anne. 'Oh, oh, oh, no ... no, no, no NOOOOO, NOOOOOOO,' a scream, something from inside her throat, choking noises when ... something was squeezed round her neck.

  A mumbling now, like a prayer, like a devilish bloody prayer, a sort of mantra, loud, louder than when there had been other noises there, noises that came from that park and the traffic round about it. These sounds were different, they didn't belong, sounds that ought to be eradicated, Winter thought, nobody should be forced to listen to this.

  But he was here. The girl was there. He couldn't switch anything off.

  'Here it comes,' said Yngvesson.

  Winter listened. At first to what he'd heard before, but clearer, the same ... cries but as if they'd been trumpeted through a horn and down a long tunnel, straight at him, nnaaaaeieieierr, naaieieierrayy ... NAEEEIEIEE ... NEEEER ... NEEWAAIYGGEE. ... NEVER ... NEVERAGI!! NEVERAGI!!!

  Yngvesson switched off.

  'Neveragi?' said Winter.

  'Never again.'

  'Yes.'

  'I don't think I can get any closer than that.'

  'Never again,' Winter said.

  Yngvesson turned back to his computer. It was humming away merrily, totally unaware of how clever it was. It must be pretty good, being a computer at times, Winter thought. Efficient, and always merry and carefree.

  'It can't be her, I suppose?' Winter said.

  'What do you mean?'

  'She can't be the one speaking?'

  'No.'

  'Never again,' said Winter. 'Our murderer says "Never again".'

  'That was the last murder. For the time being, at least.'

  'That's not what it's about.'

  'I daren't speculate.'

  'He's not saying it to himself,' said Winter. 'He's ... showing her that it will never happen again.'

  'What won't ever happen again?' Yngvesson swung round in
his chair to face Winter. 'It won't happen again? Never again?'

  'What she's done. He's punishing her for what she's done.'

  'For what she's done ... to him?'

  Winter thought. He would listen to the tape again in a moment, he was thinking and preparing himself.

  'Yes. Either directly or ... indirectly.'

  'Indirectly? For what she's done to others?'

  Winter suddenly felt depressed, infinitely depressed. He wanted to sink down into the ocean and never rise up again. The sun could rise, but not him.

  'I don't know, Yngvesson. It's going round and round. I must sit down while it spins.' He sat on the other chair. 'What did we say? Indirect? She's done something he's punishing her for.'

  'Hmm.'

  'For God's sake, Yngvesson; I don't know what to say about this. We'll have to see later if anything I do say is relevant.'

  'But this isn't ... personal, is it? Not in that way? He didn't know her, did he?'

  'He knew her, or didn't know her. I don't know.'

  'It does make a bit of difference, surely?'

  Sara Helander and Halders were sitting in his car about seventy-five metres from the house that Samic and the woman had disappeared into.

  The house was timber built, as tall as a block of flats, Halders thought. Four or five storeys and no doubt a huge basement stretching under the whole thing.

  It was one of four similar houses, in a row. They blocked out the sun, but only to a degree. Some rays were shining directly into their faces. Sara Helander was squinting with one hand over her eyes. Halders was wearing sunglasses.

  'Perhaps we should have parked behind the house,' she said.

  'No.'

  'No, you're right. This side is where the traffic is.' There wasn't much traffic, but a few cars passed at regular intervals, on the way to the ferries and the new blocks of flats that were only a few metres from the water's edge.

  There was a car parked on the drive. The garage was out of keeping with the house. Seemed to have been built in a different century. Maybe even two centuries between them. Halders kept his eyes on the house, on all the windows that were almost invisible against the light.

  It was darker now. Helander had brought something to eat and drink. No sun in their eyes now. Nobody had entered or left the house. Halders was tucking into a sandwich that might have been egg and mayonnaise, or ham and cucumber, he couldn't taste anything. He checked his watch. Almost midnight.

  Two cars drove slowly by, but continued past the house. Then they came back from the other direction, despite the fact that it was a one-way street.

  'Down,' said Halders, and they both ducked out of sight. The headlights on the first of the cars were shining directly at them. They heard voices, but no words. Car doors were opened and closed carefully. The engines were still running. Then the cars set off again, their lights just a few centimetres over the two police officers' heads.

  'Exciting, eh?' Halders muttered.

  'Somebody went in.'

  They waited, then cautiously sat up again. Everything was as before, except that there was now a light on in a ground-floor window.

  'Were there lights in many of the rooms when you were here last night?' Halders asked.

  'No.'

  'More than this?'

  'Yes.'

  'Hmm.'

  'Do you think it was Samic who just went in?'

  'Doesn't he come by boat and Shanks's pony?'

  She didn't answer. They sat quiet for some minutes.

  It was getting darker all the time. It was a little darker now than it had been at the same time last night. Just as warm, but darker. The darkness for a new season was moving in. 'Do not step gently into the good night,' thought Halders.

  'Here comes another car,' Helander said.

  It was approaching from behind them.

  'Keep sitting up,' said Halders. He ducked down just a little bit.

  The car stopped outside the house. The door opened. A woman emerged.

  'Is that her?' asked Halders, speaking mainly to himself.

  'No.'

  The woman seemed young. She went into the house. No more lights were switched on. The car left.

  They waited. Halders drank some coffee, which steamed shyly as he poured it out from his Thermos.

  'Somebody's coming,' Helander said. 'On Shanks's pony.'

  Somebody emerged from the shadows below them, from the river. He climbed up the steps to the street. The steps were almost directly opposite the house. It was a man, and he looked round before crossing the empty street that was now lit up by the moon and the stars and the street lights, or was it the sky? He was wearing a light-coloured suit and his hair was the same colour as the street lights. He wasn't a young man. He turned right and seemed to be looking straight at them, as they sat hidden in the darkness of their car.

  'He can't see us,' said Halders. 'Sit still.' He'd placed a piece of paper over the steaming cups.

  The man turned towards the house and went in.

  'Kurt Bielke,' said Halders softly.

  31

  It was quiet again in the street. The man had disappeared into the remarkable house. Helander had never seen Kurt Bielke before.

  Night was starting to turn into day. She could see the lights from the night's last ferry from Denmark on its way to the dock on the other side of the river.

  Halders got out of the car.

  'What are you going to do?' she whispered.

  'Take a look at this place.'

  'Isn't that a bit risky?'

  'We'll soon find out.'

  'Shall I phone for backup?'

  'Good God no. I'm only going to take a little look.'

  'Don't do anything silly, Fredrik. I'll check on you every twenty minutes.' The mobile phone would vibrate in Halders' pocket, but there would be no sound.

  'I'll phone you,' said Halders. 'But if you do ring and I can't answer, I'll switch off to signal that all's OK.'

  'Twenty minutes.'

  He didn't reply, but left without a word. She never saw him cross the street, but shortly afterwards thought she might have seen a shadowy figure in the garden behind the house.