Death Angels

by Ake Edwardson

  The back of Winter’s head felt numb.

  “Frankie,” Macdonald said again.

  “I’m just telling you what I heard, that somebody in London sells movies that contain torture scenes, and they’re the real thing.”

  “Any names?”

  “Forget it.”

  “You could be in danger here. Keep that in mind.”

  “I realize that. But that makes it even more important for me to ask questions. You’ve been around the block a few times, Steve. You know I can’t reveal my sources to you and this pretty Swedish boy of yours. They don’t know any more than I do, and they’d never breathe a word to you if they did.”

  “But you can’t go back to your sources and ask more questions? Or start poking around somewhere else?”

  “If we’re going to do this, it will have to be my way.”

  Winter heard sounds all around him again, as if the world could no longer hold its breath.

  “Believe me,” Frankie said. “This isn’t anything I want to see in my city or my industry. But people start getting nervous when the police barge in and disturb our peaceful lives, not to mention the lives of our law-abiding customers.”

  “And someone can die in the meantime,” Macdonald said.

  “That’s less likely to happen if you let me take care of it.”

  “I need some cold facts by tomorrow.”

  “As soon as I can.”

  “Tomorrow.” Macdonald turned to Winter. “Any questions, Erik?”

  “These movies you were just talking about—they aren’t shown in Soho theaters, I assume.”

  Frankie didn’t answer.

  “They’re for private consumption,” Winter said.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Just be careful.”

  “Thank you, O Great White Savior.” Frankie’s teeth sparkled. “Your assistance is humbly appreciated.”

  Macdonald saw the embarrassed look on Winter’s face, but Frankie held his smile.

  “How about some of that tea you mentioned?” Macdonald said.

  “I have the Scottish kind, extract of dried oats.”

  “Yummy.”

  They separated at Piccadilly. Macdonald walked down to the underground and Winter looped back west past Charing Cross Road and continued half a block to 180 Shaftesbury Avenue, Ray’s Jazz Shop. He’d been coming here since he was a teenager. If there was an album you couldn’t find anywhere else, it would definitely be here.

  Winter took in the walls, the old LP covers—dust, ink, brittle paper—a wispy, sweet-and-sour odor from the vinyl inside.

  There were more CD racks than the last time he had been here, but the place was identical otherwise. The young black clerk behind the counter in the middle of the room put on an album. It was New York Eye and Ear Control again, sweeping back over him like an erotic memory.

  He had also heard it in the walls of the hotel room where Per was killed. Not the kind of music you run across every day, he told the clerk.

  “There aren’t many copies left.” The clerk straightened his dark glasses. “We sell them as fast as they come in.”

  “I seem to have lost mine.”

  “Then you’re in luck.”

  “I’m here all the way from Sweden, and this is my reward.”

  “As far as I can remember, we’ve had only one other copy the past few weeks, and somebody else from Scandinavia snapped it up.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s hard to mistake the accent. I actually lived in Stockholm for a while, so I always recognize it straightaway. I had a girlfriend there.” He smiled. “But it doesn’t really show when you talk.”

  “That’s because I’m a perfectionist,” Winter said. It’s because you’re such a damn snob, he told himself.

  “Sounds like you’ve come to the right place. Scandinavians are all in love with this album.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s what the other guy said, anyway.”

  “He did?”

  “If a blue-eyed Scandinavian walks in, play it for him and you’ve got yourself a sale, he said.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Or he’ll just come in and ask for it right off the bat, he said.”

  Winter decided to buy the album, plus the Julian Argüelles Quartet’s latest, Django Bates’s Human Chain and some other modern British jazz. The CDs became heavier as he carried them around the store.

  31

  WlNTER HAD OPENED HlS POWERBOOK ON THE ROUND TABLE in the kitchenette and was leaning over it. The light was better by the window in the living room, but the table wasn’t high enough. He had tried for fifteen minutes and decided he didn’t want his back to permanently warp into the shape of a bow—a hazard of being tall and thirty-seven, he thought, listening to his tendons and ligaments crack as he stood up.

  He summed up the day, his impressions. The city was exhausting, overwhelming in its heaviness. He had to let it die down in his brain before he could think about why he had come to London in the first place.

  As he stared at the screen, he saw the faces of the victims. As long as he was able to do that, he could still accomplish something. After that there was nothing but fatigue. He drank his tea. London murmured from beyond the courtyard outside the window, but he had managed to narrow the city down to this suite on Knaresborough Place.

  He had created a little diagram consisting of three poles, each of which represented a face. He added a brief account of the final minutes in each victim’s life. He was thinking about Frankie—and his Swedish counterpart, Bolger—when the cell phone on the counter behind him rang.

  “Winter.”

  “Are you in your hotel room?” It was Bolger.

  “I’m in my suite.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you find your way around the city these days?”

  “Some of my old hangouts are still here.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I was there.”

  “Didn’t you have an aunt in Manchester?”

  “Bolton. Dad borrowed the first syllable of the name. No doubt you’re on the prowl for rare jazz albums?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you know which stores to go to?”

  “Ray’s Jazz Shop, and a new little place in Soho.”

  “Back when I used to go to London, there was a good store in Brixton called Red Records.”

  “Brixton?”

  “Yeah, give it a try.”

  Winter saved his document. The screen stood out more distinctly as the dusk descended on the back courtyard. Darkness slowly invaded the suite, starting in the far corner where Winter sat.

  He heard the clatter of suitcases going up the stairs outside his door.

  “I didn’t want to bother you,” Bolger said finally, “but I wasn’t sure when you’d be coming back.”

  “I don’t really know either. Maybe in a couple of days.”

  “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Ringmar is running the investigation while I’m gone.”

  “I don’t know Ringmar, and you can think of this as a call from an old friend if you prefer it that way.”

  Winter reached back and turned on the light over the stove. The splash guard and fluorescent lamp were reflected in the computer screen.

  “Erik?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Somebody called me and was a little concerned.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “It was about that young inspector of yours.”

  “Bergenhem?”

  “The guy you sent to get some leads from me. Bergenhem, that’s the one.”

  “Somebody called you?”

  “An old contact. He thought your guy was being too nosy.”

  “Too nosy about what?”

  “Too nosy about a legal, well-run business.”

  “The whole idea is for him to be nosy. That’s his job, for Christ’s sake.”


  “Customers have started to ask questions about what’s going on, why the police keep showing up and that kind of thing.”

  “This is a murder investigation, not a high school prom.”

  “I know.”

  “Bergenhem wasn’t in uniform, was he?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “He’s got a stubborn streak, and that’s fine with me as long as he makes some progress. I can’t worry about the sensitivities of customers at a strip joint.”

  “It seems that Bergenhem has gotten a little too interested.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “He’s been following one of the women around.”

  “Women?”

  “One of the strippers.”

  “Who says that? The customers or whatever you call them? Or your old contact, whoever the hell he is?”

  “I’m just repeating what I’ve heard.”

  “Why are you telling me all this, Johan?”

  “Dammit, Erik, you know me. I’m the one who put him onto this trail. Of course I’m going to be nervous.”

  “Bergenhem knows what he’s doing. If he’s hanging out with one of the women, there’s a reason for it.”

  “There usually is.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “I think the kid has lost his bearings.”

  “He knows what he’s doing.”

  “He may be wandering into dangerous territory.”

  “Wasn’t it a legal, well-run business we were talking about here?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Then he’s in safe territory, right?”

  “You know what I’m getting at. If there’s any truth to your suspicions, it’s plenty dangerous.”

  Danger is the name of the game, Winter thought. Bergenhem’s job is to get as close to danger as he can and then pull back. That’s exactly what he’s going to do, and it will make him a top-notch inspector. “I appreciate your keeping an eye on all this,” he said.

  “That’s an overstatement. I’m just telling you what’s come my way.”

  “Let me know if you hear anything more.”

  “You do realize this is serious business?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “So what’s on the docket for tonight?”

  Winter looked at the diagram. Would it be his night out? Or would he spend it dozing in front of the TV? He hadn’t turned it on once. He checked his watch. The news was starting just about now.

  “Aren’t the London police wining and dining you?” Bolger asked.

  “I needed to be alone tonight.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’ll go out and grab a bite to eat in a little while.”

  “An Indian restaurant?”

  “Something nearby. Chinese, I think. There’s an old place I like on one of the side streets.”

  Winter watched the news. The picture quality was just as impersonal as in Sweden, flat and depthless as if the color had been added as an afterthought.

  The local news featured the same garrulous reporters, a windblown face at the scene of a crime or an accident or a conference. An outdoor market had been robbed; a car was upside down in the river; MPs were shouting at each other again; Princess Diana was on her way out of Kensington Palace, not far from where Winter sat with his feet on the table in a hotel suite lit up by a television screen.

  The skies would be clear for the rest of the week. The weather girl’s face shone as brightly as the sun on the chart behind her.

  Nothing about a murder. What did you expect? Winter asked himself. A big photo of Per? A tattered notice like the one on the pillar that holds up the ceiling at Victoria Station?

  His cell phone rang again. He was about to let the caller leave a message but remembered Macdonald. “Winter.”

  “With a simple tulip on your special day . . .”

  “Thanks for the musical greeting, Mom.”

  “Happy birthday!”

  “Nice of you to call.”

  “What kind of mother wouldn’t call her son on his birthday?”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Dad sends his best.”

  “Tell him I’m thinking of him too.”

  “What’s the weather like in that horrid city?”

  “Sunny.”

  “That’s a lie. You can’t fool your old mother.”

  A new program had started. Two people were poking fun at each other on a stage. It was hard to hear what they were saying because the audience was laughing so loudly. Winter picked up the remote and turned down the volume.

  “It was a beautiful day here,” she said.

  “Naturally.”

  “Have you solved the case yet?”

  “Almost.”

  Winter heard another voice close to the phone.

  “Dad wants to know if you bought any cigars.”

  “Yep.”

  “Your sister is dying to hear from you.”

  “I know.”

  “I talked to her the other day, Erik. She’s having a rough time.”

  “I realize that.”

  “So how are you celebrating your big day?”

  “I’m drinking tea and making some notes on my laptop here in the hotel.”

  “That must be dreadfully boring.”

  “It’s the life I chose for myself.”

  “Are you staying at the same place?”

  “Yes, the same old place.”

  “Then you have a suite, at least.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “The traffic is horrible on that street.”

  “I’m expecting a call from the London investigator, Mom.”

  “On your birthday?”

  “That’s what I’m here for—to work.”

  “You need to relax once in a while too, Erik.”

  He heard water gushing through the pipes behind the wall. Someone in the suite above him had flushed the toilet. It’s like they’ve been eavesdropping on the phone call and they’re trying to hint that I’ve talked long enough, he mused. “Thanks for calling, Mom.”

  “Have some fun tonight, dear.”

  “Bye.” Winter hung up.

  He picked up the remote again and turned up the sound. The stage show was still on. There were more people now—two couples competing to put soccer uniforms on their partners while keeping a ball inside their own jerseys. The contestants were laughing like lunatics. Nor were the audience and host to be outdone. The longer Winter watched, the louder he laughed too, as if he’d been waiting forever for this chance. Tears ran down his cheeks and his gut ached. Your face muscles are out of shape, he thought.

  He went over to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of Cava that he had bought at the Oddbins liquor store on Marloes Road, just a few blocks away. The bottle popped when he opened it. He poured a little of the sparkling wine into a regular drinking glass.

  It’s pretty seedy but it’s the life you chose for yourself, he thought, the bubbles rolling down his tongue.

  He carried the glass back toward the couch, but the computer screen glared at him like a stern reminder of the world’s evil. He walked by the couch and opened the window. The night was yellow and grimy from the light behind the buildings. He heard the echo of traffic on Cromwell Road, then a siren that howled to the north and stopped abruptly.

  The city’s own riff, he thought. The sky was a long stretch of indigo when he looked up. A night for jazz. He lit a Cocinero Liga Especial cigar and savored it—the leather, the dried tropical fruit—and then exhaled through the open window into the night air. The smoke swirled upward.

  Just before it vanished, he saw the face of a murderer. The features were indistinct but their cold-bloodedness was plain.

  You’ve got to get that idea out of your head, Winter told himself. Murderers may have learned to shut themselves off, to push away what they can’t handle, but there’s always a wellspring of feeling deep down. That’s whe
re we’ve got to look. All we do is reinforce our own preconceptions when we chase the evidence that mounts afterward, rather than diving down and exploring the murderer’s first intent.

  Murder is traumatic for everyone involved. It’s got to be that way. Otherwise we’re doomed, he thought, taking another puff on the cigar.

  A face appeared before him again, clearer than before, but it dissipated with the wisps of smoke. Memories, he thought. There’s a memory somewhere that can help you with this case. What is it? Something in your own past? Lost memories? What had Macdonald said? Worn-out pictures are like worn-out memories. Someone else told you something too. Memory, he thought, clutching his forehead. You have an answer, but that’s not good enough. You’re not even capable of asking a real question.

  He walked over to the table and poured another glass of Cava. It tasted like carbonated vinegar. I won’t be able to live with myself if we don’t solve this, he thought, shoving the glass aside. He turned off the television and dialed Ringmar’s home number.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s Erik.”

  “Möllerström’s computer crashed yesterday.”

  “What happened then?”

  “What happened then was that he had the chance to show us how far he’s gotten and how clever he was to back everything up all over the place.”

  “His big day, in other words.”

  “But it was a warning sign. Our computers are literally bursting with extraneous information.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that.”

  “We’re under enormous pressure now, especially when you’re not around to talk to the British reporters who keep descending on Gothenburg.”

  “I’ve managed to avoid them so far over here, but Macdonald says my luck is about to run out.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Smart.”

  “Are you getting anywhere?”

  “I think so. I’m going to question a few witnesses tomorrow.”

  “We’ve got some new witnesses ourselves.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Nothing we’ve had the chance to confirm,” Ringmar said, “but one of them seems worth following up on.”

  The cigar went out in Winter’s hand and he placed it in an ashtray. The window scraped shut of its own accord.

  “The underworld is rising to the occasion,” Ringmar said.