Frozen Moment

by Camilla Ceder

  She watched him in silence as he helped himself to some breakfast.

  'Is this going to be a problem for you, Christian?'

  'Probably,' he said, shrugging his shoulders. 'We can talk about it some other time. I really have to go.'

  By way of illustration he quickly took a couple of gulps of coffee and burned his tongue. He caught sight of his unshaven face in the mirror.

  'Bathroom?'

  'Outside toilet.'

  He laughed. 'You're just a woodland troll!'

  Her expression became serious. 'But you do want to see me again?'

  'Of course,' he heard himself saying as he stopped to kiss her. She took his face between her hands and gazed into his eyes as if trying to ascertain whether he was telling the truth. She seemed to decide he was as she caressed his rough cheek.

  'Good. I would have been very sad otherwise.'

  Honesty seemed to come naturally to her, and a disinclination to play the kind of games he was used to in his dealings with women. He found it liberating.

  * * *

  Chapter 23

  Bärneflod shook his head. There was something going on with his colleague, even if he couldn't quite work out what it was. Tell wasn't the type to give anything away about his life outside work - if he actually had a life outside work. But oversleeping, not being available by phone during the most important phase of a murder investigation, it wasn't like him, Bärneflod thought, even if it was quite satisfying to see his team leader for once letting go of his wearying performance anxiety. And for some unfathomable reason Tell's dip in performance had a stimulating effect on Bärneflod. It was a long time since he had regarded the job as anything other than exhausting, but right now he was feeling extremely positive.

  Was Tell in love? The thought was certainly amusing.

  There was no doubt Reino Edell was a paranoid bastard, but he was right about one thing - Zachariasson definitely was gay. It wasn't just the pale pink shirt hanging loosely over his jeans, despite the fact that the man must have been getting on for fifty, or the fact that his jeans were skin tight. Nor was it the fact that Zachariasson's manner was effeminate. He had met Bärneflod's eye when they shook hands, but he hadn't tried anything. No, it was just a feeling. Bärneflod had a well-developed gaydar, which he liked to boast about. He could spot a gay man in a group of people from twenty metres away. There was something about the way they moved, he would have claimed if anyone had asked him to define this particular talent in more detail. Gentle movements, like those of a woman.

  Bärneflod had been a copper for almost forty years. As he saw it, knowing about people was part of the job; it was just a shame the younger generation didn't have the sense to value experience. In terms of salary he was worse off than Beckman, for example, and he was well aware of it. It wasn't difficult to work out why Karin Beckman was shooting up the hierarchy with consummate ease, what with quotas and all this talk of equality.

  No, they would soon be extinct, the coppers who valued good old honest police work. Nowadays it was all about who was best at brown- nosing. Who was a happy little soul, changing their methods every other year to fit in with some astonishing new computer program that would no doubt be scrapped a couple of years later. He could certainly teach the management a thing or two about cost-effectiveness. And what would last in the long term: the old, tried and tested methods.

  In another situation Bärneflod would have assumed that a woman's hand was responsible for the kitchen in which he found himself. It was warm and cosy but tasteful, as his wife Ulla would say. He would never be able to create a pleasant home - not that anyone would entrust him with such a task - the way Ulla had. He had to give her credit for that.

  He was the first to admit that there were a number of areas in which women were superior to men. It was all about the details, something men generally missed. Ulla would sometimes accuse him of not appreciating such things, or not even noticing them, but she was wrong. He noticed the flowers at Easter. The butter dish and milk jug instead of the margarine tub and milk carton on the table. The children's birthdays. He could go on for ever. He even had a tear in his eye at the thought. And to think there were those who said he was an insensitive bastard.

  Bärneflod wiped his eyes discreetly with his shirt sleeve as he became aware of Zachariasson's enquiring expression.

  Pull yourself together.

  In order to be sure that his voice would hold, he barked out somewhat more fiercely than necessary, 'You know why I'm here?'

  'Yes,' said Zachariasson calmly. If he was surprised at Bärneflod's volatility, he chose to hide it.

  'I imagine it has something to do with Lasse's death.'

  A pet name - just what you'd expect.

  'Lise-Lott rang me not long after it happened. Lasse and I were quite close.'

  That was one way of putting it.

  'It's just terrible. It really upset me.'

  Bärneflod raised his eyebrows and made a great performance of taking out his notebook in order to jot down something. In fact he wrote Ulla-flowers on the top line because he was still thinking along the same lines as earlier.

  'What was your relationship with Ulla like?'

  'Ulla?'

  'Waltz. I mean Lars Waltz. You said you were close?'

  'Yes, we were. We grew up together. Went to the same school.'

  Bärneflod nodded, and this time he did actually write: Check school.

  'In Majorna. Our mothers spent time together too, at least when we were little. We went to the same nursery - we used to go together.

  Then, when we specialised in different subjects at grammar school, we carried on meeting up in our spare time.'

  'Did your relationship ever change, for example when you were adults?'

  Zachariasson wriggled out of the question by becoming philosophical.

  'Isn't a meaningful relationship always in a state of flux? I mean, it's affected by the current situation of both parties, wouldn't you say?'

  Bärneflod's expression was comment enough, and Zachariasson was quick to clarify his point.

  'I mean, there was a time when we didn't see much of each other - that was during the 8os when our lives were very different. Lasse was working a lot, and when he got together with his friends it was in a way I didn't particularly enjoy: lots of drinking and… well… Then, a few years later, when he was going through his divorce, he got in touch and we found a way back to our friendship.'

  Bärneflod gave an inward sigh. This was proving more difficult than he'd expected.

  'What did you do together, you and Lars Waltz?'

  'The same as most people, I suppose. We'd meet up, have a chat. We spoke on the telephone when we were both busy. Sometimes we'd go for a beer, but I've never been all that keen on pubs. I think Lasse had grown tired of that kind of life as well, towards the end.'

  'I thought your sort loved the party lifestyle,' Bärneflod spat out.

  Zachariasson immediately became more reserved.

  'I presume,' he said, a noticeable chill in his voice, 'that by "your sort" you are referring to the fact that I am a homosexual. As indeed I am. However, it is rather simplistic to assume that homosexuality is restricted to a certain type of person. We are all very different from one another, Constable. Just like those of you who are straight. Some like the good life; others live in a terraced house and play bingo. Some like going for long walks in the forest; others like to have sex with strangers in public places. Some are absolute geniuses; others are as thick as two short planks.'

  The latter phrase was emphasised quite deliberately, knocking Bärneflod completely off balance.

  'It's Inspector,' he said feebly. For simplicity's sake he decided to allow the possible slur on his intelligence to pass. After all, it was nearly lunchtime and he certainly didn't want to spend any longer than necessary in this man's house. Particularly as he hadn't even had the manners to offer him something to eat with his coffee.

  That was one thing that def
initely showed the lack of a woman's hand in this house. Ulla would never have let a guest sit there without the offer of a biscuit or a piece of cake.

  The thought of lunch suddenly made him tire of games.

  'Were you and Waltz having a relationship or not? I just want a yes or no.'

  'I wasn't aware you'd asked the question, Constable - forgive me - Inspector.'

  'I'm asking it now.'

  'Lasse lived with Lise-Lott, I thought you already knew that. He was married to a woman called Maria before that, but I presume you know that as well. I live alone, since I have yet to find a man to share my life with.'

  He smiled at Bärneflod, defiant rather than roguish. Bärneflod regarded him with distaste.

  'As you yourself just said, you gays are no different from straight people, and straight people sometimes stray. So I'm asking you again, as you still haven't answered my question: were you and Lars Waltz having a relationship?'

  'We were not having a relationship. And if we had been, what's that got to do with Lasses murder?'

  Bärneflod shrugged his shoulders. 'Well, say he refuses to leave his wife, and you, the jealous lover, have had enough. If you can't have him, no one will.'

  Bärneflod was pleased with himself but Zachariasson shook his head as if he couldn't believe his ears.

  'You're just being embarrassing now. You're also implying that a gay man can't be friends with a straight guy without trying to turn him. I don't even feel flattered that you're assuming I succeeded. One more time: we were not having a relationship.'

  'Someone else has a different view.'

  'A crazy farmer who wants to get his hands on Lise-Lott's land. Yes, I know. Lasse was pretty upset about it for a while. He even made a complaint when the whole thing started to get out of hand.'

  'Would you say Lars seemed frightened of Reino Edell?'

  Zachariasson got up and poured himself a cup of coffee. He didn't offer Bärneflod a top-up.

  Bärneflod pushed his empty cup away demonstratively. Mean bastard.

  'I wouldn't say frightened, exactly,' said Zachariasson. 'Angry, more like. The farmer had evidently threatened him at some stage. He made the complaint mostly to show him that enough was enough. To get him to come to his senses.' Zachariasson looked at his watch. 'I really do have to go. I start work in twenty minutes.'

  'OK. I'd just like to know when you last saw Lars Waltz.'

  Zachariasson thought it over.

  'It must have been a couple of days before Lucia. Lasse was doing some errand or other around Frölunda Torg. We bumped into one another and went for a coffee.'

  'Was there anything unusual about him? Anything you noticed? Anything he said?'

  'No. He was the same as always. Talked about a trip Lise-Lott was going on. He was worried about his finances, as usual, but not enough to let it destroy his good mood. Look, I really do have to go; I'm already late for work.'

  'Where were you on Monday night?'

  'Am I a suspect?'

  'Just answer the question. I'm sure you've seen enough detective shows on TV to know that I have to ask.'

  'After work I went to Göta's Café Bar on Mariaplan, along with three colleagues. After the others left I stayed on with a friend I met there, until about ten thirty, then I took a taxi home.'

  'Alone?'

  'Yes, alone.'

  'And these colleagues and this… friend?' He emphasised the last word meaningfully. 'Can they confirm they spent the evening with you?'

  'Of course. I'll give you their phone numbers. And the friend in question was actually a female friend, an old classmate from university.' He stood up with an expression of ill-concealed contempt. 'Right, I'm going to work now - if you want to talk to me again you can bring me in for questioning.' 'So you're working between Christmas and New Year? Where?' asked Bärneflod, out of curiosity.

  'Sheltered housing. I'm on the afternoon shift today.'

  * * *

  Chapter 24

  1995

  Her art tutor squinted into the sun as he packed his Volvo estate.

  'Are you coming back after the summer, Maya?' he asked, lowering his sunglasses from his forehead.

  Maya nodded.

  'In that case, keep painting until I see you again.'

  He stopped what he was doing.

  'You think I say that to everybody, but I don't.'

  Maya was balancing a piece of yellow mica on her bare foot, somewhat embarrassed. She'd handed her work in regularly, always leaving it in his pigeonhole in the staffroom, since she was too shy to hand it to him in person. They were mostly small quick pencil sketches of people on the move. She had also tried painting in oils, the result pictures with thick layers of colour, the surface satisfyingly rough. She liked being able to feel all the other layers beneath the top one.

  Caroline had posed for her, and would never know what was beneath the surface either. Maya had begun to take pleasure in that too. But the rapid sketching on her notepad was what gave her the most energy. Drawings done while she restlessly waited for something else, more focused on the movement and intentions of other people than on her own portrayal. This gave her the chance to be surprised by the final result, by what or who emerged from the melee of apparently insignificant events.

  The tutor's car was the last to leave a cloud of dust behind as it headed for the bend in the road. The sound of the engine died away, leaving a compact silence. Maya had longed to be alone with Caroline,

  had thought that some time together would cure the growing silence between them. Instead she was terrified.

  It was only a couple of days since most of the students had left for the summer, but the emptiness had already seeped into the walls. Maya was suddenly aware of how worn the wood panelling was. How the floor was covered with dirty ingrained marks, how the white paint in the window recesses had begun to flake. The emptiness was even in the smell of the place: dampness and old chalk.

  She had grown used to the fact that with Caroline fidelity was tested; love was subject to certain conditions, was portioned out, compared, constant proof demanded. Even if she could see how destructive it was to turn love into a power struggle, the form of the relationship was strangely familiar to her. Her mother had always struggled with the proximity and distance of other people, on the one hand terrified of being consumed, on the other of being alone. And what is familiar feels safe.

  * * *

  Chapter 25

  2006

  Tell felt the pang of a guilty conscience, painfully familiar. Seja hadn't said a word about him getting dressed up to go to the traditional police Christmas party, which covered several counties and was held every year in elegant and not particularly representative venues. This was the police showing its more generous, more positive side, and everyone's partner was supposed to be dragged around and introduced to colleagues. Food and drink, too much of both for some people - there was always someone who went too far, talking out of turn or kicking over the traces, always someone walking about the next day with their head down. It was just an ordinary office party, but on a grand scale.

  Not that Seja could reasonably have expected to go along as his date. The times they had met could still be counted on the fingers of one hand. In spite of this, and for the first time in ages - perhaps for the first time ever - Tell felt the desire to force the issue. He wanted her at this ridiculous party. While he was shaving he fantasised about introducing her to Ostergren. He wallowed in his martyrdom. She was like his secret mistress, even though neither of them was married. But this wasn't about taking Seja to a party; it was about the fact that he was acting contrary to his principles, that he had lost control, and as a consequence had lied to his employer. It was about a lack of self- discipline; he should have been able to control himself. He could have waited to embark on the relationship until they had finished with Seja and the enquiry had been concluded. Instead he had gone to bed with her while the investigation was ongoing.

  In addition, for as
long as he could remember his relationships with women, particularly the few he had managed to prolong, had been characterised by constant feelings of guilt. The sense of being inadequate was usually fed by accusations on the part of the woman that he was emotionally inaccessible, and the frustration aroused by these accusations made him even more closed in on himself, leading to a vicious circle which inevitably ended with the break-up of the relationship.

  With hindsight he could see that in every one of his longer relationships (there had been three) he had been well aware of his skewed priorities - of his tendency to bury himself in his work, both mentally and in practical terms, in order to avoid having to open up and run the risk of becoming vulnerable. And yet, clearly, he had chosen not to change. Not once had he decided to give the whole thing a real chance and try to make different choices. Instead he had carried on doing more of the same, grimly observing the journey towards the demise of each relationship.

  Carina had called him cold, lacking in empathy. Perhaps he was. But it was more likely he had simply never regarded himself as a man with a woman by his side. Managing to get a relationship to work was not part of the image he had of himself. He had never had any kind of counselling, although perhaps he should have done. So life just carried on as before, however many people he hurt along the way.

  'I won't be too late, if you want to wait here. I'll give you the spare key, and you can push it through the letter box if you go home during the evening.'

  'If I don't go home, I'll be here.'

  She was leaning against the door jamb, wearing his white shirt.

  'I'd really like you to be here when I get back,' he said honestly, meeting her eyes in the bathroom mirror as he knotted his tie.

  She slipped her arms around his waist and kissed the spot at the corner of his mouth where the razor blade had nicked the skin and a narrow strip of dried blood remained. For a moment she let the tip of her tongue rest just inside the corner of his mouth, and the heat electrified his body.