Sun and Shadow

by Ake Edwardson

  “The brain tumor. Did you take it out?”

  Perhaps he detected a little smile in the midst of all the solemnity. She turned to another angel in white, who seemed to nod.

  “We suspected encephalitis at first, but it turned out to be the nasti est attack of migraine imaginable.”

  “Migraine? But I’ve never suffered from migraine.”

  Beier had the bottles. I didn’t know they still sold Zingo, he’d said. Is this another message for us, do you think? he’d asked. Winter had waved a hand dismissively: end of messages.

  He listened to Sacrament again and read the text. The singer was wading through blood in Lower Manhatten, but managed to get away and head for the outer Cosmos. Winter had listened to it so many times by now that he could make out more and more words without the crib sheet. Or perhaps he was just imagining that.

  Whenever he was walking through the town he used to listen for black metal, for echoes of roars from predatory animals in the Muzak in department stores or in record shops. He would react whenever anybody passed by listening to a Walkman. A lot of people did. They all sounded the same, a rhythmical buzzing noise, shut in the earphones. They would occasionally remove one of the phones, or the earpiece. Never black metal. But always very loud.

  Winter had never listened using earphones. He wanted to move in time with his music, but from a longer distance away. Now that he was looking out for such things he noticed that several colleagues came to work with portable CD players.

  He had spoken to Lareda again, briefly. They were in his office.

  “Was he interrupted?”

  “No.”

  “What happened, then?”

  She didn’t answer at frst. She was standing by the window. It was lighter than it had been at the same time on the previous occasion. February was approaching, within reach outside the window.

  “He’s on the way to ... somewhere else,” she said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t really know myself.” She was watching the sun starting to set. “Either he lost interest halfway through, or it was the intention from the start. Wait ...”

  “How can I make progress with this investigation?”

  “Think about the words,” she said. “The words on the wall.”

  “Is that a more important clue now? Wall Street?”

  “I think so.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Try following it.”

  “Following it?”

  “It won’t be taking you away from him.”

  “Will he make another attempt?”

  “The same type of crime? No. I don’t think so. Not any more.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you remember what I said about one world governed by God and another world governed by Satan?”

  “I will never forget it.”

  “Something has happened in the world. His world.”

  “Something has happened? What do you mean ‘happened’? Has somebody taken it over?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Who? God?”

  “More likely the other one.”

  “The Devil? That would mean a world without hope, that’s what you said last time.”

  She nodded and sat down again. Winter had switched on his desk lamp. His desk was clear.

  “In a world without hope there’s no longer any point fighting on,” she said. “That means he can’t get any farther. It no longer makes any difference what he does.”

  “So he’ll stop.”

  “He might.”

  “So our hope lies in a world without hope, governed by Satan?”

  Ringmar had been in touch with Swedish Television. They were making a film in Gothenburg about crime and punishment.

  “They’ve been around for quite a while. Several months in fact, with a break. The interesting thing is that it involves forty police officers in uniform.”

  “Forty? Forty actors?” Winter asked.

  “No. Extras.”

  “Are they filming at the moment?”

  “Yes. I talked to the boss. He’s the one in charge.”

  “Ah,” Winter said, with a smile.

  “What I mean is, he’s the one who arranged for the costumes.”

  The location was within walking distance, so they walked. The team was busy in the extensive car park outside the Gamla Ullevi stadium. Six-foot walls of snow lined the edge of the car park along the Allé. There were cameras and microphones everywhere, and two women were shouting into megaphones. A group of police officers were leaning against a panda car. Extras, Winter thought.

  Ringmar went off and came back accompanied by a tall man with mutton-chop whiskers, wearing a green woolly hat and a brown leather jacket, and carrying a folder.

  “We’re innocent, honest,” he said, and looked at Winter. “Interesting that you want to take a look at what we’re doing here.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well ... the film’s about a DCI in Gothenburg, and his adventures.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “A guy about your age, in fact.”

  “There aren’t any,” Ringmar said. “Erik’s the youngest in Sweden.”

  “This is a film.”

  “Ah, of course.”

  “So you’re making a film about a detective chief inspector, are you?” Winter said.

  “It’s a series for television about stark reality in Gothenburg and Sweden in general. STV drama.”

  “When will it be shown?”

  “Probably in a year or so.”

  Winter looked around at the actors and technicians.

  “What’s happening here just now?”

  “At the moment we’re recording a scene in which the DCI visits a television team to ask some questions in connection with a case he’s working on.”

  “All right,” Winter said, and went to peer into a nearby camera. “Let’s get started.” He pointed at the squad car and the group of extras wandering around close to it. “Are you the one who procured those uniforms?”

  “Yes. But not from you.”

  “No, I’d gathered that.”

  “The Gothenburg police are hopeless when it comes to that kind of thing.”

  “Quite right too,” Ringmar said.

  “Where did you get them from?”

  “Swed Int, the supply depot in Södertälje.”

  “How many did you order from there?”

  “Forty-one, to be precise. One in reserve.”

  “Can you account for them all?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Could any of them be stolen?”

  ‘Anything can be stolen. It’s possible to break into the costumes store. But, obviously, when we’ve finished, I’ll check that they’re all there before we send them back to Södertälje.“ He looked at the squad car. ”I’ve already done that once. This is the second round of recordings we’re into.“

  “How much longer will you be doing this?”

  “Until we’ve finished.” He turned to Winter. They were more or less the same height, but he was about ten years younger than Winter. “Could be another month. Maybe longer. You can ask the director.”

  Winter nodded.

  “So you always know where your props and costumes are?” Ringmar asked.

  “Well ... I won’t pretend I’m a hundred percent certain while we’re actually shooting. Not every second.”

  “So somebody could take a costume home in between takes, or whatever they’re called?” Winter asked.

  “Well ... I suppose it’s possible.”

  “Has it happened?”

  “I expect so. If we’re working late and have to start early the next morning ... well ... it could be that not all the uniforms spend the night in the costumes store. I don’t actually know, now that you mention it.”

  “All right.”

  “I do know one thing, though.” He tucked the folder under his arm and rubbed his hands to warm
them up. “These scenes we’re shooting ... some of them ... take place in the suburbs and involve immi grants, ethnic groups that are a part of the plot, I mean.”

  Winter nodded.

  “I don’t want any more problems than necessary ... No more than all the crap that can be flying around when we’re shooting, that is. So I mean ... here we have forty extras running around in police uniforms and sometimes they nearly all appear at the same time ... out in Ham markullen or Biskopsgården say, and I don’t want to run any risks now, do I? Are you with me? That some bastard says something to an immigrant, or something. Makes the most of his opportunity, if you like.”

  “You mean that one of the extras might turn out to be a racist?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And?”

  “And so I’ve sent in all the ... let’s call them ‘police extras’... all their ID numbers in.” He held up the file. “We’ve got all their names and addresses.”

  “Sent them in? Sent them to the police, do you mean?”

  “Yes. For a check, so to speak. To be on the safe side. You’ve got their details already.”

  Beier had received the results of the DNA test from the lab in Link öping.

  “It was Mr. Martell’s sperm.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Ringmar said. Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap, he thought.

  “How is his wife?” Beier asked.

  “In a bad way,” Winter said.

  “Still more dead than alive,” Ringmar said.

  “I don’t like that expression,” said Beier. “You’re either dead or you’re alive. There’s nothing in between.”

  “Have you seen her?” asked Ringmar.

  “No.”

  Ringmar said nothing, and it was an eloquent silence.

  Winter broke it.

  “The Elfvegrens are coming in again tomorrow.”

  Winter dialed Patrik’s home number. The boy’s father answered, as if he’d been standing next to the telephone. Winter said who he was.

  He had consulted the social services: the family was notorious, but there was no history of abuse.

  Winter had been thinking about Patrik. It was his duty to report a suspected case of ill treatment. It was his duty, his obligation. Nevertheless he had hesitated, spoken to the authorities. But now he had filed the report. He didn’t say anything to the man.

  “I’m looking for Patrik.”

  “Can’t you leave us alone?”

  “Is Patrik at home?”

  “You’re the second damn cop who’s phoned today and asked for him.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The third, in fact.”

  The murder investigation, Winter thought. But three cops?

  “Who were they?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  “Did Patrik speak to them?”

  “He’s not at home.”

  “Can I speak to him now?”

  “He’s not at home, I keep fucking telling you.”

  The weather was fine again when they drove to Landvetter. There was not much traffic about as early as this in the afternoon.

  “Blue skies both here and there,” his mother said. She turned to look at her son. “I’ll come back when the baby’s arrived.”

  They drove around the terminal and parked in his usual place. He got a cart and they went into the departure lounge.

  “There doesn’t seem to be any delay,” his mother said, then burst into tears.

  He gave her a hug.

  “This is the first time ... the first time I’ve flown down there on my own,” she said in a faint voice. She looked up at him. “I know you want me to stay here, but I need to go. Can you understand that?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “I mean, that’s where ... where your father is.”

  Winter could visualize the grave, the grove, the mountain, the hill, the sea, the soil.

  “He’s there and he’s also ... here.”

  “Of course he is, Erik.”

  Let’s not go into it now, he thought, but he is here. Perhaps it’s easier this way.

  She waved from the escalator up to customs and the departure gates. She was late.

  He waited by the car until the plane rose like a heavy migrating bird of silver. It was sucked into the blue five thousand feet up.

  FEBRUARY

  47

  There were fingerprints on the Zingo bottles, but far too many.

  “Give me something to compare them with,” Beier had said.

  “I can’t very well compare them with everybody‘s,” Winter replied.

  “Half Gothenburg has held these bottles.” Beier looked at Winter, who seemed to be scrutinizing him. “Are they so important?”

  Winter didn’t reply.

  He drove to Häradsgatan and parked in roughly the same place as before. The wind was stronger now, and had brought clouds with it. Sleet was falling. It was afternoon again.

  The clouds were scudding swiftly over the sky when he looked up at the windows of the Martells’ apartment on the sixth floor. He walked around to the entrance with its glossy tiles. A notice on a door to the right announced that a representative of the property owners would be available to tenants in this office between five-thirty and seven-thirty on the first Monday of every month. That’s this evening, he thought. They had spoken to the caretaker, but had failed to get any new information out of him.

  So, somebody wearing a police uniform had passed by here in the early hours of New Year’s Day. Nobody had seen a police car. But a uniform had been seen. The witnesses all agreed: a police uniform. That had been after the murder, or murders, if Siv Martell didn’t survive. What lay in store for her if she did? Winter wondered. Not an enviable life, he supposed.

  He walked back to the street and continued for a few yards as far as the crossroads. A woman was maneuvering a stroller into the Cityfast supermarket. Winter approached the shop. It looked run-down in the late winter light. There were streaks of rust in joints and around pipes, and in cracks in the paint. Winter went in. The shelves were half-empty. The only customers were Winter and the woman, who was already waiting at the checkout. At the back of the barren shop was a meat counter, the blue light around it highlighting two faded and soiled posters showing butchered cuts.

  He went out again. An advertising poster had blown out of its frame and was fluttering toward the crossroads. It flew over the lawn on the other side and was stopped by the Martells’ seven-story apartment building, pressed against the wall level with the windows on the second floor.

  The woman with the stroller followed him out. She turned left past a pizzeria and a baker’s shop, both of which had closed down. Chairs piled one on top of the other could be seen through the pizzeria’s windows. She continued up a hill. Winter could see the church tower. He went down the steps in the opposite direction. The buildings were in a hollow and the clifflike hillside blocked the view. Nobody was coming or going now. Cars were swishing past on the main road ahead. He walked as far as the shop called Krokens Livs, where he’d bought a packet of Fisherman’s Friends last time. Two posters advertising films were fluttering in the wind, like the last time. They were the same films, City of Angels and The Avengers.

  Also like last time, a bus stopped ten yards away and several old people got out. Winter went into the shop to buy a box of matches. He stood among the dairy products, packets of chips, film, candy, dishwashing brushes, and newspapers. He could see the wind blowing outside through the glass in the door. The woman at the checkout was foreign, possibly from Turkey or Iran. She smiled. Winter took his matches and paid. Behind the woman was a picture of the building he was standing inside. It had been cropped drastically but showed the minimarket in bright sunshine. There was no doubt that it was the same shop. Then as now there were two frames on either side of the door with posters advertising films. The photograph had been enlarged to about two feet by three and was partly obscured by advertisements for ciga
rettes. Winter couldn’t remember seeing the photograph last time, but surely it must have been there? The colors were faded and pale. The picture could have been three years old, or ten. An old man was standing outside the shop door, holding a pile of newspapers and looking like the proud owner. But it wasn’t his appearance that made Winter continue to stare at the picture, forgetting all about his change and not hearing when the woman spoke to him. Over the man’s head was a sign that was no longer there. Now the sign projected at right angles from the wall, and on it was written Krokens Livs.

  In the photograph the name in red letters was different: Manhattan Livs.

  Börjesson had asked again at Powerhouse, the record shop in Vallgatan. The young detective didn’t mind going there. He’d been there before, on his own time.

  “I’ve been here before. Privately, if you see what I mean.”

  “That’s nice to hear.” The young man behind the counter was chewing away and working through a pile of secondhand CDs. “I haven’t seen you.” He opened a jewel case and checked the condition of the disc. “But I’ve been away this last year.” He closed the case, looked up at Börjesson and smiled. “New York, L.A., Sydney, Borneo.”

  “That sounds great,” Börjesson said. He took a CD out of his pocket. “Do you recognize this?”

  The man took Sacrament and looked at the cover, then at Börjesson.

  “If you mean have I sold it, yes, sir.”

  “You recognize the disc?”

  “I recognize most things in the music line.” He looked at the gloomy landscape on the cover. “Maybe it was this lousy drawing that made me long to get away to the sun.” He opened the lid. “We had two,” he said.

  “That’s exactly what I was going to ask you about,” Börjesson said.

  “It’s not bad stuff if you ignore the production.”

  “I don’t suppose you can remember who you sold them to, can you?”

  “You must be joking! In the first place I’m not the only person working here, and anyway, I’m better at album covers than I am at faces.” He turned the cover over and looked at the pictures of the men of darkness against the shocking-colored background. “Sometimes I can remember who I bought the disc from. Some people come in with mountains of CDs. Sometimes you come across a find.” He looked at Börjesson. “This one’s a borderline case.” He took out the booklet with the words and leafed through it. “Why is it so interesting?”