Never End

by Ake Edwardson

  'So, the boss has come in person,' Samic said.

  'Do you recognise this girl?' asked Winter, showing him the photograph of Angelika sitting in front of that wall. Samic looked at it without Winter being able to notice any change in his expression.

  'Who is she?'

  'I asked you if you recognised her.'

  'No.'

  'Has she been here?'

  'No.' Samic smiled. 'She's too young.'

  'What do you think about the setting?'

  'Ugly.'

  'More specific,' said Winter.

  'A bodega on the Costa del Sol if you ask me,' Samic said.

  'Or a dodgy bar in Gothenburg.'

  'Could be.'

  'Do you recognise any of it?' Winter said.

  'Not a thing.'

  'You don't know where it is?'

  'I don't see how I can express myself more clearly.'

  'Barock.'

  'Barock? That old dump?'

  'Yes.'

  'I went to Barock hundreds of times. This wasn't taken there.'

  'No? Weren't you a part-owner for a while?'

  'Yes.' He looked at Winter. 'What is this?'

  'Questions.'

  'Yes, yes. But Barock ... huh! What next?'

  'Another question. Where could this picture have been taken?' Winter asked.

  Samic looked briefly at the photograph again.

  'I haven't the slightest idea.'

  'What I need is help,' Winter said. 'This isn't an interrogation.'

  'You're turning it into one,' Samic said. 'It's becoming an interrogation.'

  We'll meet again soon, Winter thought on his way out.

  Samic could have been wearing a toupee at that graduation party earlier in the summer, but then, it might not be him in the picture at all. It was impossible to decide if he was the man in the photograph.

  You could have fried eggs on the pavements.

  Winter was hungry and went to a Vietnamese restaurant. He ordered the day's special, one of the five to choose from, all of which seemed to be the same. He picked rice with minced meat, and found a table outside under the parasols. The trams seemed to be struggling to force their way through the heat. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. Aeroplanes were criss-crossing it. There was a smell of petrol and tarmac and maybe also a whiff of the river, which was not far away. People were wearing as little as possible. He was in shorts and a khaki shirt Angela had bought for him the previous week.

  He hadn't thought about Angela for two hours. He'd thought about Elsa, but not Angela.

  The food arrived and he started eating, although he wasn't as hungry now. Everything tasted of glutamate and he slid the half-full plate to one side, drank his mineral water, lit a cigarillo and looked up to glimpse Sarnic's profile as he drove past in a Mercedes the same colour as Winter's, which was parked outside the department store over the road.

  Benny Vennerhag must have quite a bit to say about Samic. Is he going somewhere as a result of our little chat?

  A woman went past with two dogs, each on its own lead. She was wearing too many, too expensive clothes. One of the dogs squatted down and deposited a pile on the pavement while the woman looked round, waiting impatiently, then walked off, leaving the muck behind her. Winter considered shouting her back and giving her a good telling-off – why not? But in fact he stayed where he was and watched the dogs strut off with their mistress.

  They thought it was a dog lead. So did he. The murderer had tightened a lead round his victims' necks. Or a belt. Or a lead.

  Did he have a dog? No. No dog. Just a lead that he always carried around with him. Maybe hanging loose when he walked through the park ... like a dog owner who'd just let his dog run off for a while and was strolling along nonchalantly after it and was just about to call it back again. A lead hanging loose. Over his arm, perhaps.

  Back. Went back. Again. Wandered around with the lead. Or took it out when he was close, when he was as close as he could get. He had to be close. Back again.

  His mobile rang in the breast pocket of his khaki shirt.

  'Where are you?' Angela asked when he answered.

  'In town, eating a pretty awful lunch.'

  'You could have come home.'

  'No time, Angela. I've been sitting here for too long already.'

  'Can we go swimming this evening?'

  'Of course. Six o'clock. Be ready.'

  'Six down in the street?'

  'Have everything packed and ready. Don't forget my swimming trunks. And the sardine sandwiches.'

  He hung up, but his phone rang again immediately.

  'Somebody's phoned in and claims to recognise the boy from Angelika's photo,' Bergenhem said.

  'Only one?'

  'Only one who seems reliable.'

  'Where?'

  'Frölunda. The high-rise buildings behind the square.'

  'Do you have the address?'

  Bergenhem read it out, Winter paid his bill and drove off westwards.

  The big digital thermometer displayed in the square showed 34 degrees. The high-rise buildings lining the car park were colourless, seemed to be hovering in air that was layers of glass.

  Bergenhem was standing by the newspaper kiosk. They walked over to the high-rise buildings. Clumps of people were sitting in the shade. Winter could smell the whiff of cooking. A lot of people here were immigrants, from the south. They'd be down by the sea tonight, staying much longer than the Swedes who would all leave by seven. Apart from Winter and Angela and Elsa. The smell of grilled meat. Enormous families, all ages, football, shouts, laughter, life.

  They passed the Arts Centre. Buildings became less frequent, lower. Bergenhem consulted a scrap of paper, pointed to a block of flats, went in and rang the bell of an apartment on the second floor. A man in a string vest and Bermuda shorts opened the door. He was chewing on something.

  Bergenhem introduced himself and Winter.

  'I think he lives over the road,' said the man, still chewing. 'Lots of bloody foreigners live round here.' He finished chewing and swallowed. 'Far too many.' He eyed Winter, who was behind Bergenhem. 'What's he done?'

  'Where exactly?'

  'You what?'

  'Can you show us exactly where he lives, please?'

  'Yeah, OK. Hang on, I'll just get my sandals.'

  They walked across the courtyard. 'Number eighteen,' said the man. Two small children were playing on the swings in the sunshine. On the bench next to the swings was a woman dressed in black.

  'Like I said, darkies wherever you look,' said the man, indicating the children on the swing.

  'Shut your trap,' said Winter.

  'Eh ...?' said the man, stopping dead in his tracks. The children put their feet down and stopped the swings and stared at the men in front of them. 'You don't talk like that around ...' the man started to say.

  Winter was striding towards number eighteen. Bergenhem followed him. The man turned to face him, and then Winter.

  'I'll phone your boss,' shouted the man in the string vest.

  They went inside and rang all the doorbells. About half of the occupants answered, but nobody recognised the boy's face. Bergenhem showed them the photo. Nobody had read the local newspaper.

  At four flats there was no answer.

  'Hmm,' said Bergenhem.

  'The housing association that owns the flats,' Winter said.

  'We've already talked to them.'

  'Check again.'

  They went back. Winter could see the sweat on Bergenhem's back through his shirt. They passed the tallest of the buildings.

  'This is where Mattias lives,' said Bergenhem. 'Jeanette Bielke's ex-boyfriend.'

  'Hmm.'

  'That building.'

  'I know.'

  'Have you been to his flat?'

  'Not yet.'

  Winter's mobile rang.

  'It wasn't consummated rape,' said the male doctor who was standing in for Pia Fröberg. 'Anne Nöjd.'

  'I read you,'
Winter said.

  'Have you heard from the coroner's office?'

  'Not yet, I'm afraid.'

  There was a short pause. Winter could hear paper rustling.

  'A belt or other thin ... object,' said the pathologist.

  'Such as a dog lead? Could she have been strangled with a dog lead?'

  'Yes. That's one possibility.'

  'Can you be more precise?'

  'Not just yet.'

  They were by the sea at 6.20. Some Swedes were on their way home to their barbecues. The new Swedes were carrying their barbecues down to the shore.

  'We'll bring a throwaway barbie with us tomorrow,' Angela said. 'You can get them from filling stations.' She was undressing Elsa. 'I can't resist the wonderful smell of their grub any longer.' She was watching two women dressed in black who were starting to cook dinner on the beach.

  'I'm all for that,' said Winter, lifting up Elsa who screamed and giggled as he swung her up and down and carried her to the water's edge, which was receding as dusk approached.

  Elsa was sitting on his shoulders when they waded in. He squatted down and let her feel the lukewarm water. There were too many jellyfish, but the water was ideal. He lifted Elsa up, held her round her hips and spun round and round. Light dazzled. The horizon disappeared. He stopped, feeling how dizzy he was. When it settled down he realised there was something nagging in his mind. He searched for what it was as Elsa wriggled in his arms.

  It was something he'd heard and seen, just as bright and dazzling as when he'd been spinning round. One second, two. He'd seen it. Seen it.

  He heard voices and looked down. Two teenaged girls asking if they could hold Elsa.

  'Ask her,' he said.

  She said they could.

  Everything was darker as they drove home. He picked Elsa up – she was in too deep a slumber to wake.

  Angela served white wine. They sat in the kitchen, listening to the evening.

  'You need a holiday,' she said.

  'Two weeks to go.'

  'Can you really go on leave if you haven't solved this case? Cases.'

  'Yes.'

  'Really?'

  'It could be just as well. For the sake of the investigation.'

  'I don't believe that for a minute.'

  'Would you believe it, gone already.' He gazed at his empty glass.

  'I'll get the bottle.'

  She filled him up, and he took another sip.

  'A penny for your thoughts, Erik.'

  'Right now?'

  'When else?'

  'What a marvellous evening it is.'

  'One in a thousand.' She looked at him. 'You were thinking about something else as well, weren't you?'

  'Yes.'

  'You didn't look pleased.'

  He took another sip and put down his glass.

  'I was thinking about the murders, of course. The girls.' He turned to face her. 'You can't just switch off, can you?'

  'No. I don't think so.'

  'They're wrong, the ones who say that you can,' he said. 'OK, you can switch off for a while, do something else. But then it comes back.'

  She nodded.

  'Tonight two teenaged girls wanted to hold Elsa. That's when it came back. Lots of images.'

  'You looked unusually far away when you emerged from the water.'

  'Something had struck me.'

  'May I ask what?'

  'I can't quite put my finger on it. It struck me that I knew something ... new. I think. Something important.'

  26

  Winter phoned Halders. He'd just got up and was sitting on the balcony. Invisible birds were singing from a sky where two jets had painted a cross.

  'I'll see what I can do,' Halders said.

  'How are things?'

  'It's hot already.'

  'How's it going?'

  'I said I'll see what I can do, didn't I?'

  'OK, OK.'

  Halders looked up and saw a new cross. The old one had already melted into the sky.

  'As you can hear, there's still a bit of the grumpy old Halders left,' he said.

  'There's hope yet, then.'

  'I'll be coming in shortly,' Halders said.

  'We'll try to find the flat where our missing boy lives in the meantime.'

  'You'll have to do that at least.' Halders paused. 'I'll pay a call there later.'

  He took the road alongside the river. The white pleasure boats twinkled on the water like sparklers. The tarmac felt soft under the tyres. It smelled like a different country. Julie Miller was singing 'Out in the Rain' on Halders' CD player. Halders turned up the volume and sang his way through his journey westwards as the sun punched at the roof of his car.

  As he turned off the roundabout the silencer on his exhaust suddenly gave way. People turned their heads to stare at him.

  The high-rise buildings in Frölunda swayed like drunks in the thin air. He parked outside one of them, diagonally opposite McDonald's.

  The lift didn't work. He took the stairs up to the sixth floor. There was graffiti all over the walls, letters on cracked concrete. Stains everywhere, like black blood. A smell of piss and cooking had solidified in the stairwell between floors. Children screamed through closed doors, grown-ups shouted in a thousand different languages. He passed a man in a turban, a woman behind a veil, a man in a vest who passed by hugging the wall. He could see the madness in the man's eyes.

  A door opened on the fifth floor and a young woman emerged with a double pushchair containing two small children who looked up at him in silence. The woman pressed the lift button. 'It's not working,' Halders said. She pressed again. 'I have to go and buy food,' she said.

  Halders went up one more floor and rang the bell. Mattias answered after the third ring.

  'I wasn't posh enough for them,' he said when they were on the sofa under a big window.