Sun and Shadow

by Ake Edwardson

  “I had no idea they had magazines like that,” Per Elfvegren said.

  You’re lying, Winter thought.

  “Neither of the couples?”

  “No.”

  “Not the Martells?”

  “Eh? ... What?”

  “You didn’t know that the Martells bought Aktuell Rapport?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t know the Martells at all, in fact?”

  “Eh? ... No.”

  It’s not easy to lie, Winter thought. You have to be consistent.

  “You didn’t react a minute ago.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve never said that you knew the Martells, but a minute ago you didn’t react when I referred to them as people you knew.”

  “I must have misunderstood you,” Per Elfvegren said.

  “So you didn’t know them, in fact?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll ask you one more time,” Halders said, looking at Winter, who was sitting, pen poised, ready to make a note of the lie. Per Elfvegren knew that they knew. He looked at his wife. It occurred to Winter that perhaps one of them was in this on their own. “I’ll ask you one more time: did you know, or did either of you know, the Martells, or one or other of them?”

  Erika Elfvegren seemed to have made a decision. She looked at her husband, and then at Halders.

  “Yes,” she said. “We knew them both.”

  “Them both? What do you mean by that?”

  “We knew both couples. The Martells too.”

  “So, that’s established,” Halders said. “The next question is: how?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Halders turned to look her in the eye.

  “What kind of a relationship did you have with them? Dinner parties? Barbecues? Sporting events? Hiking? Sexual intercourse?”

  The end justifies the means, Winter thought. Before long Per Elfvegren will get up and thump Halders. If he’s innocent he will. I would have.

  “I still don’t understand what this has to do with it,” Erika Elfvegren said.

  “Tell us again how you got into contact with them,” Halders said.

  45

  Morelius turned right at the roundabout. The traffic had intensified during the afternoon. Somebody flashed his lights in greeting. Perhaps there was a general feeling of benevolence toward the police.

  “It wasn’t much worse than any other street party,” Bartram said. They were talking about the millennium celebrations.

  ‘A few more people.“

  “A lot more people. But reasonably well behaved, even so.”

  “Did you go off duty early?” Morelius asked.

  “What do you mean?” Bartram turned to face his colleague.

  “I didn’t see you at three.”

  “There was a bit of trouble outside the Park Hotel.”

  “I never got that far.”

  “You didn’t miss much.”

  “There was a bit of trouble with unlicensed taxis as well.”

  “So I heard. The Africans had overstepped their bounds.”

  Most drivers of unlicensed taxis in Gothenburg were foreign and were far from integrated into Swedish society. They’d divided the center of town among themselves. Iranians, Iraqis, and former Yugoslavs operated in the Avenue, as far as the moat. The Africans ruled the roost in Östra Nordstan. The borderline between them was strictly imposed.

  The radio crackled into life. Bartram responded. A drunk on a number-three tram at Vasa/Viktoria. Possibly two. The driver had tried to offload him for causing serious disruption.

  “Roger,” Bartram said. “We’ll take it.”

  The tram was standing in Vasagatan just where it was due to turn right. Cars were able to pass normally. The passengers had disembarked and were dotted around outside. The drunk was clinging on to the rail at the entrance.

  A woman was beside him, presumably they were together. Bartram and Morelius parked on the cycle track and approached the tram. The man was brandishing a broken bottle. The woman was trying to take the bottle from him, but melted away as the police came closer.

  “Put that down,” Bartram said.

  The drunk gurgled some kind of response and swung the bottle at Bartram, but lost his balance and fell out of the tram, doing a half-forward roll and collapsing in the slush. He made no attempt to move. The woman screamed and stared at the police officers. She was drunk, but more mobile than he. The man was now grasping at fresh air, hoping to find something to hold on to to help him to sit up. Morelius couldn’t see any blood. The man managed to get onto all fours, then stand up unsteadily.

  “I’d like to get going again,” said the tram driver, who was standing next to Bartram.

  “That’s fine,” Bartram said. “We’ll take it from here.”

  Angela had started to waddle, really waddle. It was a nice feeling. Both of them were visible now, she and the child. They waddled out of the elevator and unlocked the front door.

  If it was a girl, she’d be called Elsa. Perhaps. They weren’t sure about boys’ names. Erik had suggested Sture, Göte, or Sune. Why not all three? she’d said. Or if we call him Göte he can change his surname and become Göte Borg. Sounds like a great idea, he’d said, then gone back to his repulsive murder investigation.

  She tried to avoid thinking about the apartment building up the street. The caretaker there also looked after their building. He’d given her a knowing smile when they’d met in the entrance the other day, as if they shared a secret.

  The telephone rang. She took the call with her overcoat still on. She was sweating after coming from the wet snow outside into the higher temperature of the elevator.

  “Hello?”

  No reply, and she shuddered, felt suddenly cold, as if the sweat had turned to ice.

  “Hello?”

  She’d almost forgotten, it was months ago.

  She could hear somebody breathing, somebody was listening. Her hand had started to tremble. She felt a movement in her stomach, then another. There was a click and the line was free again.

  There was a scraping noise outside the door and then it opened. She gave a start.

  “Angela!”

  Siv Winter was standing in the doorway, key in hand.

  “I didn’t think there was anybody in.”

  Angela replaced the receiver.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Siv. ‘Are you sick?“

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, take off your coat and sit down.” She helped Angela with her coat and boots. “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Siv went to the kitchen and returned with a glass.

  “You should take things easier. Do you have to keep working until the last minute?”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Some bastard keeps phoning this number. But never says anything.”

  “Really? Nuisance calls?”

  “I wouldn’t call them that.” She took a drink and kept the glass in her hand. “It’s horrible. The last one was some time ago, but this—”

  “Did you get one of those calls just now?” Siv asked, interrupting her.

  “Yes.”

  “What does Erik say about it?”

  Angela took another drink. Well, what did he say? They’d agreed that the calls had stopped, but they’d have to do something about them now.

  “That we should wait, but now I’m not so sure about that.”

  “You have to tell him.”

  Bergenhem’s head was burning as if the sky were on fire. All the fireworks seemed to have eased the pain, but now it was much worse. Far worse.

  He’d screamed out loud during the night, talked in his sleep, rambled. Then he’d dozed off and when he woke the pain was still there, but more like a muffled swishing noise.

  His vision had started to blur. That happened in fits and starts.

  Martina came back from next door. Ada had s
imply laughed and waved. He was all dressed and ready, sitting in the hall, fastening his shoes.

  “I’ll drive,” she said.

  He closed one eye as they drove over the bridge. A ferry was just leaving. The roofs were weighed down with snow. White caps, Ada had said the other day, pointing up at them.

  He started to feel terrible. Martina was driving like an ambulance driver.

  They were attended to immediately. X-rays, cold light, lamps shining into his eyes. He knew what it was, had known for some days. That’s perhaps what had been dictating his mood all year, his restless worry. He thought he could hear them talking about the operation. The words were bouncing and thudding all around him.

  “I want to keep my sight.”

  Everybody was dressed in white. White caps. He tried to get through to them. Please spare my eyesight.

  The Elfvegrens had eventually wriggled off the hook, got away from Halders. They hadn’t admitted anything, but they had left their fingerprints.

  “I refuse,” Per Elfvegren had said. “You have no right to do this.”

  “When we are conducting an investigation we have the right to take fingerprints for purposes of comparison,” Winter said. “For specific purposes.”

  “Who decides that? Who makes the decision?”

  “The person in charge of the investigation.”

  “And who’s that?”

  “Me.”

  They were waiting for answers. Beier’s team was just as eager.

  “Sensitive stuff, this,” Halders said.

  “What stuff? Their leisure activities?” Winter asked.

  “Nobody wants to talk to a few cops about their screwing activities.”

  “No, obviously not.”

  “They should have thought of that before they went in for it,” said Halders.

  “You’ll have to hold your horses for a while,” Winter said. “It’s possible that they’ve never been there. At the Valkers’ place.”

  Elfvegren had said, during the very first interview a long time ago, that they’d been around at the Valkers’ once, but he claimed later that his memory had let him down. He’d changed his mind. They had never set foot in the Valkers’ apartment.

  “A load of crap,” Halders said. “I’ll bet on it.”

  “What’s the prize?”

  “A year’s subscription to The Beano.”

  Beier phoned.

  “They match,” he said. “They’ve been in the apartment.”

  “What about the Martells?”

  “Nothing there.”

  Winter winked at Halders and replaced the receiver.

  “Did you take the bet?”

  “We’ll bring them in again,” Winter said.

  “Blood tests,” Halders said. “Don’t forget the sperm stains.”

  “We can’t do that yet.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Winter was sure. The prosecutor would never agree to blood tests. That needed convincingly specific evidence, and all they had was a couple of witnesses, sort of witnesses.

  “Copulating witnesses,” Halders said. “Two-backed monsters.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Fredrik. Maybe they only had coffee.”

  It was the last time. She’d spent more time on him than he was worth. That’s the way he saw it.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said.

  “No problem.”

  “We had to take a drunk to the cells.”

  “Was it difficult?”

  “He fell asleep in the car.” He sat down. “We knew him, incidentally. Indirectly, at least.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “It was Patrik Strömblad’s father. I’ve come across Patrik once or twice and it was—”

  “Don’t remind me,” Hanne said.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” Morelius said.

  He didn’t need to remind her. Maria seemed to be a changed character now, but the memory was crystal-clear and so were the after-effects. The investigation by the Social Services. “Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.”

  They left the subject of Patrik and his father and spoke about Morelius himself.

  He told her about his visions again.

  “I can’t stop thinking back to that ... accident,” he said.

  Hanne nodded. Morelius looked down at the table. He wasn’t looking at her now, he was avoiding her eyes.

  “She’s haunting me. That poor—”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said she was haunting you.”

  “Did I?” He looked out the window. “Sometimes I don’t know what I’m saying. I mean that the experience I went through that day is haunting me, and maybe not only that. Other things that have happened.”

  Later he said that he felt there was no point in continuing as a police officer.

  The caretaker sat in his usual office, waiting for Winter.

  “Newspapers? Magazines? I don’t have anything to do with newspapers and magazines.”

  “You mean people take them to the trash room themselves?”

  “Always.”

  “Okay”

  “I want to make a little report, incidentally.”

  “Go on.”

  “Somebody keeps getting into my little ... cubbyhole in your building, and he sits there eating or drinking soda.”

  “Your cubbyhole? You mean your office down in the basement?”

  “Somebody keeps getting in there.”

  “Breaking in?”

  “It’s happened several times lately, in fact. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Is the door damaged?”

  “No. It must be somebody with a key. Unless he picks the lock.”

  “Has anything been stolen?”

  “Not as far as I can see.” The man seemed to be keen that Winter didn’t downplay the crime. “It’s not very nice, is it? You can’t go around doing things like that, can you?”

  “No. You should make an official complaint.”

  “I’m doing that now.”

  “Okay. But you should contact the police station in Chalmersgatan as well, so that the formalities can be completed.”

  Winter said good-night and walked the few yards home. He took a deep breath. January would soon give way to February, and there’d be a whiff of something else in the air.

  They’ll be well on the way to spring already in London, he thought. A few years ago he’d worked on a distressing case there. He didn’t want to think about it now. Instead he thought about the fact that the old guy hadn’t smoked a single cigarette while Winter was with him.

  His mother shouted something from the kitchen as he entered the hall.

  “Angela’s gone out to buy some bread,” she said when he came into the kitchen.

  Winter went to meet Angela when she came back.

  “There’s been another phone call,” she said.

  “What do you mean? Who called?”

  “Whoever it is that rings and breathes and doesn’t put the phone down again.”

  “Shit!”

  “What should we do?”

  “It’s probably best to get a new number. Unlisted.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ve thought about doing that before.”

  “Just do it now.”

  That should put a stop to it, at least. But what’s going on? Should I speak to Birgersson and ask for an official bug? For what? It’s part of the investigation, Sture. He suddenly thought of what Lareda Veitz had said. He saw Angela’s profile in the door. Convex. He thought about the cellar.

  He checked his notebook and rang the number of the office he’d just left. The old man was still there.

  “You said that somebody had been in your office, drinking soda.”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The bottle was still there. It’s happened several times. Several bottles.”

  “Have
you kept them?”

  “Kept and kept. I’ve put three to one side. I was going to take them away tomorrow.”

  46

  Winter put on his gloves and took the elevator down. It was the first time he’d collected proof material in his own building. The world was getting closer.

  He had to wait a few minutes until the man arrived.

  “I didn’t realize it was so important,” he said. “Good thing I mentioned it.”

  He unlocked the door.

  “Look. No scrape marks around the lock as far as I can see.”

  Winter agreed.

  “This is a rapid response by the police, I must say.” He opened the door. “You evidently take everything seriously.”

  “Yes,” Winter said. No, he thought. This was a response he didn’t really understand himself. Angela’s worries. Some silent telepl one calls. Somebody who shouldn’t be there sitting in the cubbyhole drinking soda. A case for Detective Chief Inspector Winter.

  They were Zingo bottles.

  “I’ll take them,” said Winter, picking up all three in his gloved left hand.

  “I can see you’ve worked as a waiter,” the caretaker said.

  Bergenhem regained consciousness and looked around the room. If this was paradise, it looked remarkably like the world he’d just left.

  He could focus his gaze. There wasn’t the same burning sensation in his head. Martina’s face was distinct, close. She said something, but he couldn’t hear what. He tried to sit up. She said it again.

  “Lie still, Lars. You have to be careful.”

  Somebody in white was hovering behind her. It could be an angel, and in a way that’s what it was. He recognized her face first, then her voice.

  “I just called in on my way past,” Angela said.

  Same here, he thought.

  “You look better.”

  I have nothing to compare with, he thought.

  “Where am I?”

  “In a ward at the Sahlgren Hospital.”

  Now I remember. Now I can ask the big question.

  “Has the tumor gone?”

  “The tumor?”