Sun and Shadow

by Ake Edwardson

  He wore a mask that was at least thirty years old. Maybe he should do this more often. He marched into the living room asking if there were any well-behaved children there, just like every other Santa in every other Swedish living room on Christmas Eve.

  Of course, he wasn’t actually there when Santa came with all the presents. Bim explained that he’d gone out to buy an evening paper, and so Santa put all the presents for Winter in a little pile under the Christmas tree.

  The teenagers insisted that everybody should open their parcels in order, one at a time. Everybody had admired their presents by the time Winter returned from the newsstand.

  “Oh, has Santa been already?” he asked.

  “Your presents are under the tree,” Angela said. “Where have you been?”

  “I went to buy a newspaper.”

  “Where is it, then?”

  Everybody burst out laughing and Winter went over to his pile, and when he opened his first parcel it was something that felt hard but turned out to be soft. A fur hat, the sort that men in Russia wear.

  “That’s to keep your head warm,” Lotta said.

  His father had fallen asleep by the time Donald Duck started on the television. Ulla had left in a huff an hour earlier, as something had annoyed her. She’d slammed the door so hard that some flakes of paint fell off.

  Mickey Mouse was dressing the Christmas tree. You don’t need a Christmas tree. Look what happened to that one. Patrik could hear the snores coming from what used to be his room. He raised the volume of the television. Ferdinand was under the oak tree, smelling the flowers. Patrik could smell the hyacinth he’d bought the previous day, from a stall at Linnéplatsen. His father didn’t say anything when he saw it, and Ulla wasn’t there.

  His mom always used to buy a hyacinth at Christmastime. It was the Christmas smell, it seemed to him, and he went to close the door so that he could hear the squeaking of the wheelbarrow when Ferdinand was taken back from the bullring.

  That brought the cartoons to an end. He went to the refrigerator and took out the party sausages and meatballs he’d bought. They were all right. He didn’t like the traditional marinated herring, so it didn’t matter that there wasn’t any. He could whip an egg and make an omelet. An omelet was good with thick mushroom sauce, but mushrooms were expensive and so was cream and there were other ingredients and he didn’t really know how to make it.

  He fried a few sausages. They smelled good. He looked for some mustard, then realized he’d forgotten to buy any. There was ketchup. His father had bought a tin of red cabbage. Christmas isn’t Christmas without red cabbage, he’d said—but he seemed to be managing all right without it, fast asleep in his room. Dad will manage all right without any Christmas at all. So will I.

  Christmas is for amateurs. Just like New Year’s Eve.

  He heard somebody laughing on the landing, then the front door opened and Ulla shouted something, then marched into the kitchen, still in her overcoat and boots and followed by a couple of winos. Abruptly he walked away from the cooker and the frying pan and into the hall. As for the party sausages, they could turn to charcoal for all he cared, so that those bastards couldn’t eat them, but they’d eat them even so, not now, but some time later tonight.

  He pulled on his boots and was halfway down the stairs before he put on his jacket.

  Once in the street he noticed that the snow he’d watched dancing past the kitchen window had turned into sleet. He pulled up his hood and set off toward the center of town. When he got to Haga Church he saw they’d erected spotlights to shine on the walls: what was the point of that?

  It was nearly dark now, and a car came down the Allé, followed by another. One was a taxi and the other jumped a red light. His head felt wet, even through his hood. It was more rain now than snow.

  He walked down the Allé as far as the Avenue, which was deserted and quiet. Another taxi drove past, and he saw a police car turn around at Götaplatsen and head back toward him. He crossed over the Avenue when the police car had gone past, and he thought about that again. There’d been a flash, as if from a reflector or something of the sort.

  There were two police officers in the car. It continued in the direction of Kopparmärra. A number-five tram was approaching, and he noticed that he was more or less at the Valand stop. When the tram came to a halt he got on. He’d meant to pay, but the inspectors weren’t going to ruin their Christmas celebrations by chasing fare dodgers on Christmas Eve.

  He got off at Saint Sigfrids Plan and before he knew where he was, he found himself standing outside Maria’s house. Light shone from most windows, but he couldn’t see anybody inside. Then he saw Maria’s mom walking from one room to another with something in her hands. Now he could see an old lady: that must be Maria’s grandma.

  Lights were on in all the houses but one. Either they were away, or they were in bed, snoring, he thought. Quite a few were in bed snoring tonight, but that was okay. He hadn’t given his father his Christmas present yet, but it didn’t have to be today, did it? Christmas would carry on for ages yet.

  Once again his legs started moving without his being in control. He found himself standing on the steps leading up to her front door, and he had to hold himself back from going closer still and ringing the bell. He turned away, then back again. Then he turned away once more and started to walk off.

  “Patrik.”

  He turned back yet again. Hanne was standing in the doorway.

  “Why don’t you come in, Patrik?”

  “Nooo ... I’d better be off ...”

  He set off down the steps with the open door behind him, and then he noticed Maria standing there.

  “Come on in, Patrik.” She came up and almost touched him. “Have you eaten?”

  “Er ... yes, of course.”

  “Do you think you could force down a bit more? We haven’t started our Christmas dinner yet.”

  “Er ... I mean, it’s your ...”

  “Don’t be silly! Come on in now, the cold wind’s blowing into the house.”

  Bartram was driving, for a change.

  “Rain, for once,” Ivarsson said.

  “The farmers could do with a bit,” said Bartram, turning off when he came to Götaplatsen.

  “We used to block off this square in the evenings,” Ivarsson said.

  “Block it off?”

  “It’s not all that long since the public order police used to come here every evening and block off the whole of Götaplatsen with chains, and then we’d open it up again the next morning. Weren’t you here then?”

  “No, I was working somewhere else.”

  “I see.”

  “Why did you block it off?”

  “Teenage hell-raisers in their cars.”

  “Eh?”

  “The hell-raisers. The bosses didn’t want them congregating here every night.”

  They were heading northward, toward Kopparmärra.

  “Look at that poor bastard. Left to his own devices on Christmas Eve,” Ivarsson said, pointing at the boy plodding along the Avenue, his woollen hat clamped down on his head as he leaned forward into the driving rain.

  “Yes.”

  “Or maybe he’s on his way from one party to another.”

  “Could be.”

  “Just like we are.”

  “It’s pretty quiet so far.”

  “The partying hasn’t really gotten under way yet,” said Ivarsson.

  “And when it does, we’ll turn up and gate-crash.”

  “Is that how you see it? That we gate-crash?”

  “I’m only making conversation.”

  “I suppose we have to do that when we’re going around and around here on Christmas Eve.” Ivarsson looked at Bartram. “Back home they’re all celebrating Christmas, but not us. Sad.”

  “We’ll have to make up for that later.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Kungsbacka looked as if a neutron bomb had hit it. The buildings were still there, and
the streets, but there was no sign of any people. Morelius drove through the town before it was dark enough to be able to see if the windows were lit up.

  “Couldn’t you have come yesterday?” was the first thing his mother said to him.

  “You know what it’s like. Work.”

  “Haven’t you nailed whoever it was that did such awful things to Louise who came from here?” asked his mother. He hadn’t even taken his overcoat off.

  “No. Not yet.”

  “She came from here, though, poor thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps he’s from here as well. The one who did it.” She went to the kitchen, and he followed her. The ham was on the work surface, and there was a smell of anchovies and spices. The lutefisk was still soaking in an enormous cauldron. “Have they thought of that possibility?” She opened the oven door to check what was inside. Ah! Jansson’s Temptation—the traditional sliced herring, potatoes, and onion, baked in cream. Best of all, the anchovy topping. “They must have thought of that,” she said, addressing the Jansson’s.

  “When are we due to eat?” he asked.

  “In an hour or so. It sounds as if you can’t wait.”

  “I was just wondering if I could do anything to help.”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  “I’ll go for a little walk, then.”

  “Now?”

  “I think I need some fresh air before we start eating. There wasn’t any in the car.”

  He went out, but after a hundred yards turned off in the other direction and was soon standing outside the school, which was the same color as it used to be.

  They used to go through the pedestrian underpass that was still there, but the graffiti at the entrance was different now. From where he was standing, the tunnel was just a black hole.

  Run. They’d sometimes run. The shouts and laughter had been magnified by a thousand decibels inside the tunnel, bounced around from wall to rock wall.

  “Did you see any people out there?” she asked when he got back.

  “Just one,” he said.

  39

  Sture Birgersson had returned from his excursion into the blue. It was Boxing Day. Birgersson was not tanned, but, then, he never was when he came back from his mysterious holidays.

  Maybe he stays in Gothenburg, thought Winter, who was sitting opposite the head of the crime unit.

  Birgersson squinted at his second in command through a thick cloud of smoke.

  “Did you have a good Christmas?”

  “Excellent.”

  “Mind you, it’s not over yet. Technically speaking.” Birgersson flicked ash into the ashtray, cleared his throat tentatively, and held up some documents.

  “Interesting.”

  “What’s that?” Winter asked, lighting a Corps. He didn’t like cigarette smoke, never had.

  Birgersson put the papers back on the desk.

  “Lots of possible leads shooting off in all directions. But interesting.” He was holding one of the papers in his hand now, a transcript of a tape recording. “I liked your chat with Lareda. Smart girl.” Birgersson used the ashtray again. “Perhaps a bit too smart.”

  “What do you mean by that, Sture?” Winter drew at his cigarillo and looked hard at him. “She came up with ideas, hypotheses. We’re the ones who make the judgments.”

  “Have you made any, then?” Birgersson waved the documents. “On the basis of this stuff?”

  “Not yet. There’s a lot to take in.”

  “Like I said, lots of possible leads shooting off in all directions. That business of uniforms, for instance. That sounds interesting, but we’ll have to be careful, I suppose.” Birgersson stubbed out his cigarette and eyed Winter’s cigarillo. “Is there any risk that somebody might leak stuff to the press, do you think?”

  “Who would do that, Sture?”

  “The press would love it,” Birgersson said, without answering Winter’s question. “Love it.” He looked at the papers spread out on his desk. Birgersson’s desk was usually empty. It was a peculiarity of his, possibly something more serious than that. He would read things by the window, on a chair, keep everything away from his desk. But not now. Maybe something had happened while he was out in the blue, Winter thought. Birgersson looked up. “Just as much as some people evidently love this so-called music. That’s just as odd.” He seemed to be smiling. “They’re similar to each other in that respect. The press and the death rockers.”

  “Is that what you call them, death rockers?”

  “Or black rockers or whatever their goddamn name is. I know it’s really called black metal, but here, in front of you, I’ll call it what the hell I like.” He stroked his chin, then rummaged among the papers again. “I was a bit curious about this prophet, Habakkuk. Have you got anything more about him that isn’t in this paper?”

  “Not really. What it says there is taken from a biblical encyclopedia.”

  “The thing that seems to be the biggest distinguishing feature of this prophet is that there was evidently nothing of interest about him as a person,” Birgersson said.

  “Yes. He was apparently very reticent about his private life,” Winter said.

  “That’s a good quality,” said Birgersson. “We know next to nothing about Habby and even less about his daughter.” Birgersson looked at Winter. “Did he have a daughter?”

  “I’ve just sent Halders back to the seventh century B.C. to investigate that very thing.”

  “Excellent. Halders needs to get out more.” Birgersson looked at the document again, and read an extract out loud. “‘So, Habakkuk was a professional prophet at the temple in Jerusalem, he was a Levite, and an angel took him by the hair and flew with him to Daniel in the lion’s den with some food.’ ” He looked up again. “The information has no historical value.”

  “That’s where Halders comes in.”

  “On second thought, I don’t think the seventh century B.C. is up to coping with Halders,” Birgersson said. “He could cause a lot of trouble.” Birgersson gave a short, hoarse laugh. “Perhaps we wouldn’t be sitting here now if Halders had been on the loose twenty-six hundred years ago.” He put down the paper and turned to Winter again. “That reminds me of another thing, in parentheses, as it were, before we go on.” Birgersson stood up and seemed to be stretching his long legs. He towered over Winter, shutting out the Boxing Day light. He was a gigantic, shadowy figure and Winter could imagine his body in a long silken robe, with long hair and a beard, brandishing newly written documents on parchment rolls. Or stone tablets. Habakkuk had received a message from the good Lord: “‘Then the Lord told me: I will give you my message in the form of a vision. Write it on tablets clearly enough to be read at a glance.’”

  The Book of Habakkuk. Winter thought about Ringmar and what he’d said about the word “rubric.” It was all connected.

  Evil will be conquered in the end, even if it always seems to win, was what the prophet meant. The story always had a meaning for those with eyes to see and the ability to put it into the perspective of their faith.

  Habakkuk could mean “dwarf.”

  Birgersson said something.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “There’ll be nine of us on duty in the control room on New Year’s Eve and I’ll be one of them. I’ve known that for some time, but it won’t have any effect on your work.”

  “No.”

  “I admit that I did think about sending you, for a moment.” Birgersson had sat down again, and the robe, shoulder-length hair, and beard down to his chest had disappeared. “To make it clear that you are as important as I am. An equal deputy. But I don’t think it would have been a good idea, with this case on the go.”

  “Things shooting off in all possible directions, is that what you mean?”

  “You think well when you’re at home, Erik. I’ve no doubt you’ll be doing that while Gothenburg celebrates the party of the century.”

  “Of the millennium.”

  “Yes. I
can hardly wait to celebrate it along with the chief constable of the province, that very dear lady.”

  “You won’t be on your own,” Winter said. He could see them now in his mind’s eye, the nine senior officers from the various units with the task of supporting the communications HQ on this exceptional night that was drawing ever closer. It was a sacrifice by those in high places, proof that the top brass put duty before partying.

  “It’ll be interesting,” said Birgersson. “I’ll be able to say afterward that I was there.”

  “I’ll think about you when midnight comes,” said Winter. “I hope all the electronics can cope.”

  “That’s why we’ll be there.”

  Winter laughed.

  “What will you be doing at the magical moment? Any special plans?”

  “Yes ... we’ll be eating at home. My mother’s visiting us. Angela and Mom and me. Nice and quiet.”

  “I suppose a bit of peace and quiet is what’s called for, in view of the coming addition to the family. And all’s well with Angela?”

  “She’s working away and getting more annoyed about the goings on in the hospital than ever. So, yes, all is well.”

  “Anyway. Now you know where to find me when the carnival explodes in a riotous crescendo.”

  “Let’s hope that everybody can handle their jubilation,” Winter said.

  “To be honest, I think it’s going to be a hard night for the boys on the ground,” said Birgersson.

  “There are quite a few gals in the cars as well,” Winter said. ‘And in the street patrols.“

  “Yes, yes, but you know what I mean.” Birgersson lit his second cigarette since Winter had come to his office. Winter was reminded of the chain-smoking caretaker. Perhaps Birgersson was cutting down? He looked up: “We’ve said it a thousand times before, but it’s still true that what holds us back in this job is a lack of imagination. But, in a way, the reverse is true with regard to this case. Are you with me? There’s so much imagination floating around that we have to make an effort to keep it in check. The material is somehow ... so comprehensive. All these trails that could be leading us in the same direction but don’t necessarily do so.” Birgersson’s face suddenly looked heavier, older. “This is an imaginative sonofabitch we’re dealing with here. The bastard. He’s building up a façade that takes up more space than the deed itself. Are you with me?”