“What?”
“There’s an expression for those who journey from country to country without ever being allowed into any of the paradises. They’re known as space refugees.”
“That’s a nice expression,” Ringmar said. “Sort of romantic. But that’s not true of Aneta.”
“No, but once you’ve made it into paradise? What happens then?” He killed his cigarillo in the ashtray he’d suddenly spied behind the curtain.
The sun was high, the blaze heavy out on the square in front of the district police headquarters. Winter had misread the shade from the trees, and the heat in the front seat was nearly unbearable. He adjusted the air-conditioning.
He drove eastward past New Ullevi Stadium and pulled over next to a big house in Lunden. A dog barked like crazy from next door, rattling its running chain.
The entrance to the house was in the shade. Winter rang the doorbell and waited, then pressed it again. But no one opened the door. He headed back down the front steps and turned left and started walking along the stucco wall.
Round the back of the house, the sun glittered in a swimming pool. Winter took in the smell of chlorine and tanning oil. At the pool’s edge was a deck chair with a naked man sitting in it. His body was heavy and evenly tanned, a vivid color that shimmered mutedly against the Turkish towel protecting the chair from sweat and oil. Winter coughed gently, and the naked man opened his eyes.
“I thought I heard something,” he said.
“Then why didn’t you come to the door?” Winter asked.
“You came in anyway.”
“I could have been somebody else.”
“That would’ve been nice.” The man remained lying there in the same position.
His penis lay shriveled up against a muscular thigh.
“Get dressed and offer me something to drink, Benny.”
“In that order? Have you become homophobic, Erik?”
“It’s a question of aesthetics.” Winter looked around for a chair.
The man, whose name was Benny Vennerhag, got up and grabbed a white robe from the footstool and gestured at the water.
“Why don’t you take a dip while you’re waiting?” He sauntered off toward the house and turned around on the veranda. “I’ll bring out a couple of beers. You’ll find swimming trunks in the drawer of the footstool. Nice T-shirt. But who wants to go to London?”
Winter took off his shirt and shorts and dove into the water. It felt cool against his skin, and he swam along the bottom of the pool until he reached the other end. He got out, dove in again, and turned over on the bottom and looked up at the sky, the surface of the water like a ceiling of floating glass. There was a crackling down there from the tiled walls, unless the sound was coming from his eardrums. He stayed under the water for a long time before gliding back up to the surface. He saw a face flicker into view above him.
“Trying to break some kind of record?” Vennerhag asked, and held a beer out over the water.
Winter stroked his hair back over the top of his head and took the bottle. It was cool in his hand. “You live a comfortable life,” he said, and drank.
“I deserve to.”
“Like hell you do.”
“No need to be bitter, Inspector.”
Winter heaved himself up and sat down on the edge of the pool.
“Swimming in your underwear. What happened to your sense of style and taste?”
Winter didn’t answer. He drank down the last of his beer and set the bottle on the paving stones, then took off his wet boxers and pulled on his shorts.
“Who was it that beat up my Aneta?” Winterasked, and turned toward Vennerhag.
“What are you talking about?” Vennerhag sat up again.
“A woman on my tea—from my department was assaulted and badly beaten last night, and if you find out who did it, I want to know,” Winter said. “Now or in due course.”
“That’s not your style either.”
“I’m a different man now.”
“Well, you can sa—”
“This is serious, Benny.” Winter had stood up. He walked over to the deck chair and crouched down, bringing his face close to his host’s. He smelled alcohol and coconut oil. “I tolerate you as long as you’re honest with me. As soon as you stop being honest with me, I won’t tolerate you anymore.”
“Oh yeah? And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Then all this is over,” Winter said, stone faced.
Vennerhag gazed around at his property.
“What kind of a threat is that? And how am I supposed to know what happened to your fellow officer, Erik?”
“You know more lowlifes than I do. You’re a criminal. You’re a racist. If you’ve heard anything, I want to know.”
“I’m also your ex-brother-in-law,” Vennerhag said, and smiled. “Don’t come here and start acting all cocky.”
Winter suddenly grabbed hold of the man’s jaw and squeezed hard.
“They smashed off this part of her face,” he said, and leaned in closer and pressed harder. “You feel that, Benny? You feel that, when I squeeze here?”
Vennerhag jerked his head to the side, and Winter let go.
“You’re out of your mind, you fucking bastard,” Vennerhag said, and massaged his chin and cheeks. “You should get help.”
Winter felt dizzy. He closed his eyes and heard the rasping sound as the other guy ran his hand over his chin again.
“Jesus Christ,” Vennerhag said. “You shouldn’t be free to roam the streets, you fucking maniac.”
Winter opened his eyes again and looked at his hands. Were they his? It had felt good clenching his fingers around Vennerhag’s jaw.
“That’s how I oughta talk to Lotta,” Vennerhag said.
“You don’t go anywhere near her,” Winter said.
“She’s damn near as crazy as her brother anyway.”
Winter stood. “I’ll call you in a few days,” he said. “Meanwhile ask around.”
“Thanks for the visit,” Vennerhag said. “Jesus Christ.”
Winter stuffed his wet boxers into his pocket and pulled on his T-shirt. He left the same way he came in, climbed into his car, and drove toward town. He drove past the police station and continued to Korsvägen and drove across Guldheden to Sahlgrenska Hospital. The city looked cold again through the windows.
The street services had planted three palm trees at the entrance to the hospital, but through the tinted windows of Winter’s Mercedes the trees looked frozen in their pots.
Aneta Djanali seemed to stiffen as she reached for something on the wheeled table by her bed. He saw the surprise in her eyes as he entered her room and went quickly to her bedside, smiling and handing her the newspaper.
“I’ll just sit here for a spell,” he said. “Until the worst of the heat has settled.”
4
MOMMY WASN’T THERE ANYMORE. SHE HAD CALLED OUT FOR her, but the man said that Mommy would be coming soon, and so she waited and stayed quiet. It was dark and no one turned on the light. She had to go wee-wee, but she was too scared to say anything, so she held it in, and that made it feel even colder as she sat on the chair by the window.
She could see through the gap at the bottom of the shade that the forest was just outside the window. The wind blew through the trees. It smelled bad in here. Mommy’s gotta be coming soon.
The man said something to another man who had entered the house. She crept closer to the wall. She was hungry but more scared than hungry. Why hadn’t they gone home after that awful thing happened? When they drove away from there? There had been a man driving the car, and they had driven back and forth between the houses, and then another man had carried her with him when he jumped out of the car. Then they had jumped into another car, and that one had taken them away. She had looked around when she finally felt brave enough, but then Mommy wasn’t there.
“Mommy!” she had cried out, and the man had said that Mommy would be coming soon. She had cried out
again and the man had become really angry and squeezed her shoulder hard. He was mean.
They were all mean, and they shouted and smelled bad.
“What do we do with the kid?” one of them said, but she couldn’t hear what the other man answered. He mumbled as though he didn’t want her to hear.
“We have to decide tonight.”
“Don’t talk so damn loud.”
“Let’s go into the kitchen.”
“What about the kid?”
“What do you mean? Where’s she gonna go?”
She stayed sitting in the chair by the window after they left. She heard an owl hoot out in the forest and pulled back the shade a little so she could see better. There was a bush growing just outside. She saw a car. It was lighter above the trees now. She looked in at the room and kept her hand on the shade. A faint beam of light came in from the window. It was like a band reaching across the floor, and there was something lying in the middle of that band. When she let go of the shade, the light disappeared and she couldn’t see the thing anymore. When she pulled back the shade again, the band came back and she saw that the thing on the floor looked like a piece of paper.
The men were talking somewhere. It sounded like they were far away. She kneeled down and felt along the floor with her hand and picked up the thing that was lying there. It was a piece of paper, and she stuffed it into the secret pocket on the inside of her pants. She had wanted to wear just those pants today, and they had a secret pocket inside the regular one.
She went back to the chair by the wall and climbed up onto it again.
She had a secret in her pocket. Stuff like that was usually fun and exciting, only not this time. What if the man who dropped the piece of paper starts looking for it and finds out that I’m the one who took it? I’ll put it back, she thought, but then the men came into the room again and both looked at her. Then they came closer, and one of them lifted her up while the other looked out through the window.
They drove away from the house, and she tried to stay awake but her eyelids closed. When she woke up, it had become light all around. She thought about it and then asked about her mommy.
“We’ll find your mommy,” said the driver up front.
Why did he say that? Don’t they know where Mommy is?
She started crying, but the man next to her didn’t look at her. She had nothing to hold on to because she’d lost her dolly back when they’d jumped out of the car.
5
THE WITNESS’S NAME WAS JÖRAN QVIST, AND HE WAS ACCOMPANIED through Kungstorget by Halders and Bergenhem. It was eleven o’clock at night and difficult to make headway because of all the people. A dance band was playing on the stage, and Halders thought the music was crap. He said so to Bergenhem, but his younger colleague pretended not to hear.
The homicide detectives and their witness slowly made their way down toward the water. Rock music was throbbing from one of the restaurant stands. A sightseeing boat passed by on the canal. The clamor of voices sounded louder down here than up on the square. A hundred skewers sizzled on big grills next to the wall. People thronged together, holding beer in plastic cups and balancing paper plates of lángos spread with black fish roe and sour cream. Most looked happy.
“Some fucking party,” Halders said. “Junk food and overpriced beer in plastic cups. And so crowded.”
“Some people enjoy this kind of thing,” Bergenhem said. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“It’s garbage.”
“Not everyone has your sophistication.”
“What did you say?”
“Not every—”
“There they are,” Jöran Qvist said.
Bergenhem fell silent. He looked at Qvist, who gave a slight nod at a table near the edge of the canal. One of the spotlights above the bar was directed right at the benches where the three men were sitting, with beer glasses in front of them and an umbrella above. The harsh lighting illuminated them as if on a stage. What arrogant bastards, Bergenhem thought.
Halders was strangely silent. He turned toward Qvist.
“Are you sure?”
“Definitely.”
“Specifically those three? You don’t just recognize one or two of them?”
“No. They’re even wearing the same clothes. And the little one’s got the same baseball cap.”
“Let’s call in the uniforms,” Bergenhem said.
“Fuck that.”
“Fredrik.”
But Halders didn’t hear. He was already on his way through the teeming crowd, sort of languidly, as if out on an aimless stroll.
Like an assassin, Bergenhem thought. “Wait here,” he told Qvist, and started to walk toward the table where the men were sitting. They were maybe ten yards away, and Halders was already halfway there. One of the three suspects stood up to get more beer. He pitched suddenly and sat back down; the others laughed.
Bergenhem was sweating. He was hot before, but now the sweat was streaming down his forehead and stinging his eyes. He rubbed his eyes, and when his focus returned, he saw Halders sit down on the bench next to one of the three.
Halders sat there motionless. He seemed sealed within himself even when Bergenhem reached the table and sat down next to him.
There was no more room on the bench, so Qvist took a seat two tables away. Bergenhem saw how Halders was hovering as if primed for battle.
When Bergenhem touched his colleague’s left arm, Halders peered at him with eyes that seemed to have no focus.
They sat there silently. Bergenhem didn’t know if Halders was listening, but he heard the men speaking to one another.
“Do you get drunker when it’s hot?”
“Nah.”
“Sure you do, and you get uglier too.”
“There’s no more beer.”
“Where’s the vodka?”
“It’s all gone.”
“No it isn’t.”
“I’m telling you, it’s all gone.”
“I gotta have a beer.”
The man who said this got up, and Halders rose at the same time, took his wallet from his breast pocket, and held up his ID.
“Police,” he said.
“What?”
Bergenhem had also stood up.
“Police,” Halders repeated. “We’d like you guys to come with us so we can talk to you about something that happened last night.”
“What?”
“We’re looking for information—”
The man standing in front of Halders kicked him in the shin and went dashing off to the left while Halders cried out and bent forward. The two others tried to run off but got tangled up among the guests sitting next to them. One of them turned to Bergenhem and threw a punch, but Bergenhem ducked and stood his ground. He cast a quick glance to the side and saw Qvist bend down over something that lay on the ground. Damn it, Bergenhem thought.
The man who’d botched the punch remained standing there, as if paralyzed or mesmerized by Bergenhem’s gaze. I won’t blink, thought Bergenhem.
The commotion had caught the attention of others, and a circle formed around the two police officers and the two suspects at the table. The rock music had cut out. The dance band had stopped playing right in the middle of a barre chord. The Gothenburg Party was holding its collective breath.
One of the suspects broke the stillness, throwing himself backward through the thin line of onlookers and plunging into the water. The splashing down below sounded like swimming strokes. The man in front of Bergenhem sat down again and started to throw up with his head propped between his legs. Halders rushed to the edge of the canal and saw the fugitive paddling awkwardly toward the brightly lit Storan Theatre on the other side. The spotlight from the bar had caught him. He stopped swimming and splashed around in confusion, with his arms above the surface, before he started to sink.
“He’s drowning,” Bergenhem shouted, but Halders had already dived in.
Halders—once those fucking scumbags were apprehended—changed
into dry underwear. He didn’t bother to pull anything over his torso but sat on a park bench outside the police station with Bergenhem, who was more tired than he could ever remember being.
“When the temperature stays above seventy over a twenty-four-hour period, the climate is tropical,” Halders said, after a drawn-out silence.
“How do you know that?”
“Aneta told me. She oughta know,” Halders said.
Bergenhem turned toward him, but he couldn’t see if Halders was smiling.
Bergenhem looked up at the sky. It was getting lighter now, and the sun slid very slowly down the facade of the Social Insurance Agency on the other side of Smålandsgatan. A taxi drove past. A patrol car pulled up in front of the main entrance and sat there with its headlights pointed toward the front doors and the engine switched off.
“Why the hell don’t they turn their lights off?” Halders said, and audibly drew in air through his nostrils.
The patrol car started up again and sat with the engine idling. After two minutes Halders rose and walked over to the forecourt in front of the darkened police station. Bergenhem could hear him speaking, loud and clear in the stillness of morning: “What the hell are you doing, fucking cops?”
Bergenhem heard a mumbled reply and then Halders’s voice again: “Say that again!”
Bergenhem ran over and grabbed Halders from behind just as he was about to bury his fist in the head of the police officer who’d stepped out of his car.
“For Christ’s sake, Fredrik.”
“Want us to take him in?” the officer asked. “Is he drunk?” The officer was close to fifty, a self-assured man. He did a salute of sorts when Bergenhem declined, and then climbed back into the car. All along his colleague remained quiet in the passenger seat, as if he were asleep.
“There’s a one-minute idling limit in Gothenburg,” Halders shouted when the patrol car turned around and started back toward the street. The driver waved.
Three minutes later the call came in to dispatch and was immediately passed on to homicide, twenty-five yards from where Halders and Bergenhem were still standing.
The Shadow Woman Page 3