Sun and Shadow

by Ake Edwardson

  “There is another possibility, though.”

  Ringmar nodded. He was standing next to Winter now.

  “What’s that?” Setter asked.

  “That the gentleman responsible sneaked back a week or so after the murder and put some music on to improve the atmosphere,” Halders said. Somebody giggled again.

  “So what are we going to do with this?” Helander asked.

  “Well, it’s been suggested that Bergenhem should listen to the cassette, and that thought had occurred to me as well,” said Winter. “But we’ll have to check with anybody who might be able to help us with this. Record shops, including ones that sell secondhand stuff. Bands here in Gothenburg. If this music is so popular, somebody must recognize it. Recording studios. Check with rock critics working for newspapers, radio, television.” He looked around those present. “Johan. Can you look after that? You’ll get some help. Take the cassette around to Bergenhem’s place, then see where you go from there.”

  Setter nodded.

  “There’s one more thing,” said Winter, signaling to the rookie. A new picture appeared on the screen. It showed the wall in the room where the two dead victims had been sitting. There was something on the wall. Everybody could read it, the letters were a couple of feet tall and covered a large part of the wall:

  “And that was there when you got to the apartment?” Djanali asked.

  “Yes. We’re waiting to hear how long it’s been there.”

  “As long as that couple have been sitting on the sofa,” Halders said.

  Winter made no comment.

  “A message,” Djanali said. “That’s not exactly a wild guess.”

  “Is it red paint?” Halders asked.

  “No.”

  “ ‘Wall,’ ” said Ringmar. “Is the murderer trying to tell us that he’s writing on a wall?”

  “Assuming it was the murderer,” Winter said. “But this doesn’t look as if it’s a single word. I don’t quite get it. A circle around the W. What does that indicate? A gap between the W and all.”

  “All,” said Ringmar. “It could mean he took all of them.”

  “All two?”

  “All who come after.”

  “Pack it in, Bertil. Go home to bed now.”

  ‘Are we all going to be off sick? All?“

  “Bergenhem will be back tomorrow.”

  “Have you spoken to him?”

  “Half an hour ago.”

  “Had Setter been with the tape?”

  “Yes. Not Bergenhem’s cup of tea,” he said.

  “Okay. Anyway, this is another message for us, as well as the music. He’s trying to tell us something.”

  “Does he want to be caught?” asked Winter.

  “Or is he playing with us?”

  “It took a lot of time to write ... to prepare this. To fix ... the paint. He had to go backward and forward.”

  “He used a paintbrush.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he have a paintbrush with him?”

  “He? You’re saying ‘he’ all the time.”

  “Do you think it’s a she?”

  “No.”

  “The question is whether he had a paintbrush with him.”

  “One of the questions,” Winter said. “Another is: where is it now?”

  “I hate this kind of thing,” Ringmar said. “Riddles.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re always dealing with?”

  “Riddles within riddles, then. I hate it. It makes me upset. It makes me angry. So angry that I can feel my infection dissipating.”

  Winter was alone in the apartment in Aschebergsgatan. He had gone back.

  The smell was still there in the room. The pictures he recalled from that morning, the real thing he’d seen first, then the photographs. I saw it live, he thought. I saw death live and I heard the sound track. What am I thinking about? The sound track?

  The sofa was empty now, stained. The roar from the music seemed still to be there. The text on the wall was lit up by the sun coming in through the window. The clouds had cleared as Winter walked across the street, and now the bright light was streaming in through the window and the shaky letters seemed to be starker, more powerful. Winter stared at the circle around the W. What did it mean?

  How can you classify degrees of lunacy?

  Is it as simple as that?

  Or is this a sick act by a sane man?

  I’ve only seen one thing before that comes anywhere near matching this. But I never thought I’d have to encounter such human brutality again.

  He could see the bodies in his mind’s eye, each on a chair of its own. Was that three years ago now?

  But it’s continuing.

  Water was running along a pipe somewhere in the building. It was a noise he recognized. This building was similar to the one he lived in: a stone block built in the old-fashioned way. He might have been standing in his own apartment. He suddenly thought of Angela.

  Angela and her stomach, which had now become a part of him as well. That’s how it was.

  This apartment even had the same layout as his own. He hadn’t thought of that when he first entered it yesterday evening, he’d been concentrating on other things. But he could see it now. The rooms radiated from the hall and kitchen, the big living room, where he was standing, the bedroom next to it, another room. A toilet and a separate bathroom.

  The forensic officers were working their way through every little thing, but he wanted some time in the apartment to himself. Go and get yourselves a cup of coffee, boys. Give me half an hour.

  There were clothes everywhere. It had started in the kitchen and finished on the sofa. When had they started getting undressed? In the kitchen? Why? Had the clothes been put where they were afterward? It should be possible to establish that. Was there a pattern to it? Was there another accursed message? Another riddle? He thought of Ringmar, and his sudden cure.

  All the blood was in the living room. Nothing in the hall, or in the kitchen. There didn’t seem to have been any blood left in the bodies. Christian and Louise Valker. At least her eyes had been closed.

  They had been sitting in the kitchen. Winter couldn’t know, but he was sure the dried-up drops of wine in the glasses and the dregs in the bottle were from then. He vaguely recognized the label, from the glass-covered shelves at the System liquor store on the Avenue. One of the cheaper Spanish brands.

  19

  Angela came home late to an apartment in darkness. She switched on the hall light and took off her coat and boots. She could hear music coming from the living room. Guitars. Somebody singing in a loud voice, almost shouting.

  ‘Anybody there?!“

  No answer. She tried again.

  I’m in here.”

  She went to the living room and found Winter in the leather easy chair next to the window. The room was in shadow. He was only an outline.

  “You’re sitting in the dark.”

  “I like it like this.”

  The guitars became more hectic, faster. The song was a screech.

  “Are you thinking about ... your dad?”

  “Yes. Among other things.”

  “Does the music help?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps. I bought the disc in a shop in Marbella.”

  “It’s ... interesting.” She listened to the singer, who was now completely drowning out the acoustic guitars. “There seems to be a lot of hurt in flamenco.”

  “Hurt and heart. Romero. He’s called Rafael Romero. An old man.”

  “You can hear that he’s had a life.”

  Winter stood up and crossed the room to embrace her. He stroked her cheeks and kissed the tip of her nose and her mouth.

  “What sort of a day have you had?”

  “I haven’t felt sick so much as the day wore on. It was worst at the beginning. Apart from that it was the usual running around from patient to patient, ward to ward. I apologize when I get to the patients later than I should, but I suspect I’m the only one w
ho does.” She caressed his arm. “What about you? How was work?”

  “We have our double murder to keep us occupied,” he said, going to the CD player and turning down the volume. “But don’t ask me about details.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  The phone rang. Winter automatically checked his watch. Eleven-fifteen. He picked up the receiver.

  “Winter.” No reply. “Hello?” He could hear a crackling noise on the line. He gestured to Angela that she should turn off the music. “Hello? Who is it?” He could hear distant voices flitting through space. Thought he could pick up a few words of Spanish. There was a click, and the line went dead. Winter held the receiver at arm’s length, looked hard at it, then replaced it.

  “Who was it?”

  “Nobody,” Winter said. “At least, nobody prepared to say anything.” He looked at Angela, who was still standing by the CD player. “Didn’t you say that somebody rang once before but didn’t say anything?”

  “Was it him again?”

  Winter shrugged and held his arms out wide.

  “It was him,” she said. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Sit down,” Winter said, pulling the other easy chair to the window. He switched on a desk lamp. That felt better. “Sit here, Angela.”

  “This is scary,” she said, sitting down. “Can’t the call be traced?”

  “That’s not as easy as a lot of people think. But nine times out of ten it’s somebody dialing a wrong number and being too shy to admit it. Or they are surprised when somebody they don’t know answers. Then the shock passes and they hang up.”

  “You’re used to receiving calls like this, are you?”

  “It happens now and then.”

  “And you’re trying to convince me that it has nothing to do with ... your work?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “You come up against God only knows what strange people. Maybe they’re trying to frighten you. Get their own back.”

  “Stop exaggerating.”

  “But that could be it, couldn’t it?”

  “I don’t know, Angela. There have been a few calls like this, but I don’t know who made them because he never says a word.”

  She gave him a skeptical look.

  “Now that I think about it, I wonder if it was a mistake moving in here,” she said.

  “Stop exaggerating. I think everybody’s had calls like this.”

  “Not me. And I certainly haven’t brought Mr. Creep here with me, if that’s what you think.”

  “No, no.”

  “What kind of haunted house is this that you live in, Erik?” She thought of the neighbors, could see the stairwell in her mind’s eye. The stark, unpleasant light when she emerged from the lift. When she came home tonight she’d had a momentary urge to creep up to Mrs. Malmer’s door and listen. The memory almost made her smile. Was it something to do with her pregnancy? Anonymous phone calls. Mrs. Malmer’s midnight masses. She was smiling now. She could see that Erik had noticed. She felt silly, embarrassed. A wrong number. Nothing to worry about. Even so ...

  Winter was still in the easy chair. The lower part of his face was illuminated by the desk lamp. His chin was covered with a day’s growth of stubble. He hadn’t changed since coming home from work, although he had taken off his jacket and tie. The shirt from Harvey & Hudson was unbuttoned at the neck, its discreet stripes almost invisible in the gloom.

  She felt worried about him, about what had happened to him. She knew that he was struggling with his memories, the relationship with his father that had drifted away. He was trying to cope with it by not speaking about it, but that was not the right way of approaching it. He needed to talk to somebody, perhaps just occasionally. She could see that his chin had dropped slightly, as if he’d fallen asleep in the chair once the music had finished.

  He’s intelligent, he understands. But it’s a big step from understanding to actually coping. Coming to terms with his memories. But keeping quiet doesn’t help. Nor does throwing yourself all out into a new and horrific investigation. It might provide an odd kind of comfort for a brief while, but only for a brief while.

  “I can see you’ve got me under the microscope,” he said, raising his chin so that almost all of his face was in shadow.

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I’m resting. I feel better now and am ready for another eighteen hours of work.”

  “But you must have something to eat.”

  “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Something suitable for the night, then. Did you have anything at all this evening?”

  “Coffee. A cheese roll.”

  “I could make you a Paris sandwich, but I’ll fry some ham with the egg instead of a burger.”

  “A Paris sandwich! Do they still exist? Is the term still in dictionaries nowadays? I haven’t had one of those for at least thirty years.”

  “Then it’s about time you did. It’s one of my late-night specialities.”

  “There are still things about you that I don’t know, Angela.” He slid down out of the easy chair, crawled over to her, and crouched with his head on her knee. She stroked his head, but her fingers found little purchase thanks to his close-cropped hair. “Dark late-night secrets,” he said. “Yes. Yes! I can’t wait to try it, this Paris sandwich.”

  As they ate, he avoided thinking about his father and those last days in Marbella. He almost managed it, but for a split second he could see Alicia in front of him, the table at Altamirano, her surprise, and possibly pleasure, to see him standing there. Her friend had managed to find a spare chair and he sat down. Food was served. They’d been waiting for the food, too long according to Alicia, and she’d looked at him as if expecting him to answer a question he hadn’t heard her ask. He had drunk wine and the black iron balconies on the far side of the little square had seemed closer, as if carried down by the bougainvillea. He could feel the sweat on his brow.

  “What do you think?”

  Angela was looking at him, and nodded toward his plate.

  “Fantastic,” he said, cutting another piece of the bread, egg, and ham.

  “Yes, it’s pretty good, isn’t it?”

  “And yet it’s so simple.”

  “It’s like you say. Fantastic.”

  “And so quick. It’s only just turned midnight,” he said, checking his watch. At that moment, the telephone rang.

  Patrik and Maria could see the white street through the café window. It was unusual for snow to remain in the city center, on the few occasions there was any. Patrik was waiting for the idiots to put up the Christmas decorations in the streets and the shop windows. A Merry Christmas in November, as it were. Why bother to wait? Celebrate Christmas Eve on November 24. Why not? Santa Claus is coming to town.

  “Imagine it happening only just around the corner,” said Maria, taking a drink of her hot chocolate. Smoke was rising from her cigarette lying in the ashtray. Smoke was rising from thirty million cigarettes lying in ashtrays in there, and when they went outside he’d be able to smell smoke in his clothes and right through to his brain. He didn’t like it. There was no need to smoke just because everybody else was doing it.

  “A bit farther than that,” he said. “But more or less just around the corner.”

  “And that you were the one who discovered it.”

  “That old caretaker guy had noticed it as well.”

  “Why didn’t he do something about it, then?” she said, taking a puff of her cigarette. “Why didn’t he report it sooner?”

  “How should I know? He’s an old guy. Old guys are cowards.”

  She laughed, replaced her cigarette in the ashtray, and took another drink of her hot chocolate. What a mixture. If she’d been drinking espresso he could have understood it, but not a cigarette and chocolate. He was drinking espresso. Double espresso. It tasted awful. You didn’t get much either.

  “What do you think they saw when they went in?” she asked.


  “No, idea.”

  “It must have been awful.”

  “A dead married couple,” he said. “There’s only one thing worse than that.”

  “What?”

  ‘A live married couple.“

  She grinned, but noticed that he wasn’t even smiling. Maybe it wasn’t a joke. She knew what he’d been through, was still going through. She reached for his hand, brushed against her cigarette and burned herself.

  “Ouch!”

  “That’s what happens when you mess around with that crap.”

  She stroked her finger and blew on it.

  “It hurts.”

  “About time you stopped.”

  “I’ve only just started.”

  “I think they saw something worse than a Wes Craven,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Halloween. I think it was Halloween in that apartment, sort of.”

  “Explain.”

  “Come on, Ria. For once I’ve been following this in the newspapers. I mean, you could say that I’m an interested party. I checked to see what the police had to say about what they found inside there. What had happened. Are you with me?”

  “No.”

  “It says nothing at all about it. About what had happened, sort of. I think that’s fishy.”

  “Take it easy. They never tell you all that much, do they?”

  “Do you read the papers regularly?”

  “I read about the TV programs. What’s on in town.”

  “Don’t you see what I’m getting at?”

  “Are you saying that they’re keeping quiet because there was something extra horrific inside there?”

  “Yes. That’s the way I see it. Less is more.” He drank the last drops of his cold espresso and made a face.

  “That’s smart.”

  “What?”

  “A smart way of putting it. Less is more.”

  “There’s another thing.”

  “And?”

  “I think I might know what kind of music they were playing in there.”

  20

  They were three cars behind and Morelius saw the Volvo jump a red light.