Sun and Shadow Read online

  It was windy, but a clear evening. Winter noted the back of a man walking down the street. Perhaps the person who had taken the elevator. Winter turned left. The sky was a dull blue in the direction of Nordstan. He poked his scarf inside his overcoat and fastened a few more buttons.

  There were four crisp rolls left at the baker’s. He hoped Angela was home by now. He wanted to say something to ... them. He could lie down next to her stomach and tell them a happy story.

  A woman with a stroller passed by as he left the baker’s. He stepped to one side. He had a sudden desire to take a look at the baby. He caught up with the woman.

  He apologized to her and she stopped.

  “Do you mind if I take a look at the baby?” he asked.

  “Eh?”

  She seemed more surprised than scared.

  “I’d just like to take a look at your baby.” He felt like an absolute fool, but he didn’t care. “I’m going to have a child myself soon. For the first time.” The stroller was colorless in the neon light. “I’m going to be a father,” he said.

  24

  They traced back the lives of Christian and Louise Valker. They had requested all available data from colleagues in Västerås and Kungsbacka, but the couple had committed no recorded crimes. The church, the state, and the local authorities supplied what information they had, but so far nothing useful had emerged.

  “Was it somebody they knew?” wondered Ringmar. They were sitting in his office after the morning meeting. Djanali and Halders were there as well.

  “Well, he didn’t break in,” Winter said. “He might have stolen a key or had a copy made, but it clearly wasn’t a surprise visit.”

  “No,” said Ringmar. “Not in that sense. They’d eaten, after all. And drunk.”

  “Two bottles of wine,” Winter said.

  “And harder stuff. Beier says there were traces of gin and tonic in their glasses.”

  “Does Beier know what brand it was?” said Halders.

  Winter thought of Tanqueray. Might as well buy the Christmas bottle now, before Mom gets here.

  Ringmar looked at Halders.

  “Hmm. Are you suggesting that knowing the brand might help us?”

  “If the murderer had brought the gin to the party, yes. If he always drinks Gordon‘s, for instance, and somebody at the System shop in the Avenue remembers somebody who always buys Gordon’s ... well ...”

  “He’d have to have bought it by the crate for anybody to remember. Every week. That sounds a bit far-fetched, Fredrik,” Djanali said.

  “I’ll see what Beier has to say,” Winter said. “Every little detail can be significant.”

  “What else do we know?” Djanali asked nobody in particular. “What have we established about this couple?”

  “That they didn’t exactly have a wide circle of friends,” Halders said. “Not many who cared whether they were alive or dead.”

  “There were some messages on their answering machine,” Ringmar said.

  “Trygg-Hansa,” Halders said. “Some guff about pensions. That’s the only link some people have with the real world nowadays: insurance companies trying to flog pensions to keep you going when you’re so stricken with arthritis that you can barely move.” He thought of suggesting that they were obviously wasting their time with this couple, but he didn’t.

  “Two other calls as well,” Ringmar said, who had waited patiently until Halders finished his rant.

  “We talked to them,” said Halders. “Those others. Last night.”

  “There’s something that doesn’t add up,” said Djanali.

  “What do you mean?” Winter asked.

  “It’s true,” Halders said. “There was something ... odd.”

  “It wasn’t clear to us why they’d been to see the Valkers.”

  “Hang on,” Winter said. “One thing at a time. Who went to see whom and in what order?”

  “All right. A couple more or less the same age as the Valkers, Per and Erika Elfvegren—they live in Järnbrott. Similar to the Valkers in several ways. No kids, same age, similar appearance ...” She glanced up at the others as if to say: the way they looked before ... “We went to see them yesterday, after five. She’d only phoned them to find out what was going on, as she put it.”

  “How well did they know one another?” Ringmar asked.

  “That’s exactly it—they were pretty vague on that score. They’d met at some dance restaurant or other, they said, but they couldn’t remember where. They’d had dinner at the Valkers’ once, and the Valkers had paid a return visit.” Djanali looked at Halders. “We had the impression that it was a very superficial relationship.”

  “They didn’t have a clue about what happened to the Valkers,” said Halders.

  “Did they have an alibi for when the murder took place?” asked Winter. They now had an approximate time and date from Pia.

  “They were both at home,” Halders said, “and the only witness is their television set.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What is it that doesn’t add up?” said Ringmar to Djanali. “You said before that there was something that didn’t add up.”

  “Yes ... it was their attitude, somehow. They were so ... detached, or knew so little about the Valkers. But at the same time they were scared stiff.”

  “Is that really so odd?” Ringmar said. “Their friends have been murdered.”

  “Yes, fair enough. But it’s obvious that they’re hiding something. Something they don’t want to talk about.” She looked up. “You know how it is. You can see that there’s something there that a person knows you want to know, but he or she doesn’t want to say what it is.”

  “That’s exactly right,” Halders said, nodding in the direction of Djanali. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  “And it was just the same with the other couple,” Djanali said. “It really was.”

  “Which other couple?” asked Winter. “You mean the other message on the answering machine?”

  “Yes. These ...” She consulted her notebook. “Martell. Bengt and Siv Martell.”

  Bengt and Siv, Winter thought. The same names as my parents.

  “No connection with the cognac,” Halders said.

  “I just knew you were going to say that,” Djanali said.

  “What was odd about them?” Ringmar asked, who was becoming somewhat irritated. “They live in ... Mölndal, if I remember rightly.”

  “Yes. You could say that they are a carbon copy of the other two. The same type. The same answers. The same superficial acquaintance.”

  “We were with them last night,” Halders said. “But there are one or two differences. For a start, the Elfvegrens are childless, but Siv Martell is divorced and has a couple of teenaged children. They live with their father, and he lives in Malmö.” Halders looked at Djanali. “Even I could see that she found it hard to say anything about the children. It was ... painful.”

  “No shared custody?” asked Winter.

  “She hadn’t seen them for several years.”

  “What about the other difference?” Ringmar asked.

  “Well, the Elfvegrens were a bit frightened,” said Halders, “but the Martells were scared shitless, and not of us.”

  “It was even more obvious that they were hiding something,” Djanali said. “I don’t know if it has anything to do with the murder.”

  “Alibi?” asked Winter.

  “Perhaps,” Halders said. “Meals at two restaurants and a few more ... ‘meetings,’ as they put it. We can check them out. Haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  “They’re hiding something,” Djanali said.

  “I’ll have a chat with all of them,” Winter said. “Starting with the Martells.”

  “I recommend that you see them in their home territory,” said Halders. “They seemed to be uncomfortable in their own home.”

  “Coming back to the Valkers, you said at the meeting that they’d both acquired a bit of a reputation at work.”
Ringmar was addressing Djanali.

  “I don’t think I said ‘reputation.’ But there were hints. Nobody wanted to go into detail.”

  “But neither of them had anything against a little flirting?” said Ringmar.

  “You could say that. I suppose the husband had more of a reputation. Well, how should I put it? He saw other women, but I think she was just a bit of a flirt.”

  “So there could well be other couples,” said Winter. “Let’s start with the Elfvegrens and the Martells. Or, rather, take another look at them.”

  Winter read his notes. The others had left. He played the black metal cassette at low volume, but the screeching of the “singer” was just as penetrating. The phone rang.

  “Winter.”

  “Sacrament.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Rickard Nordberg here. We’ve found the band. It’s called Sacrament. Canadian. Sverker wasn’t far off the mark.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I think so. We’ve received several responses. Twenty or so, I think. They all say it’s Sacrament. I’ve never heard of them. Nor has Sverker.”

  “Sacrament,” Winter said. Baptism, or Holy Communion, he thought.

  “Some of the responses have given the name of the song, and of the disc,” said Nordberg. “I posted the first track as an MP three file, and it’s evidently called ‘Evil God.’ The CD’s called Daughter of ... hang on a minute ... Daughter of Habakkuk, or however you pronounce it.”

  “Habakkuk? What’s that?”

  “No idea. If you force me to guess I’d say it’s a fantasy name for a devil.”

  “Habakkuk’s Daughter,” Winter said.

  “Perhaps she’s nice,” Nordberg said, bursting into laughter. “We placed ourselves at the mercy of the Net and got ninety-eight hits on Sacrament. Then we dove deeper into the morass, and found that Sacrament comes from Edmonton and that they’ve made another CD as well as Hab ... well, whatever. And a promo as well.”

  “That’s very well done,” said Winter.

  “Well, another forty-seven hundred twenty-one visitors think so,” said Nordberg. “Sacrament’s home page has had forty-seven hundred twenty-one hits so far. That fits in with what we said when you were here, more or less. Statistics suggest that they have an audience of five thousand fans, give or take.”

  “You don’t have a list of names, I suppose?”

  “Eh? Ha, ha.”

  “What do you think we should do now?” Just for once I’ll listen to what the experts have to say, he thought.

  “Well ... I suppose we could try to get a copy of Daughter direct from Canada. Or we could check with other distributors, now that we have the name of the band. See which shops have stocked the disc. Or if it’s been puffed in the fanzines. That would cut out the record shops. I’m inclined to think that the fanzines are the best bet in this case. But it’ll be a hell of a job. The problem is that the disc came out in 1996, but so much has been published since then that it might as well have been 1896.” Nordberg gave a snort. Judging by the sound quality, it could even have been from then!“

  “Can you help me with this case?” Winter asked.

  “Okay. I have to say that I’m getting quite curious myself. Just a minute ... Sverker wants to say something.”

  Winter waited. Heard distant voices on the telephone. Then Nordberg returned: “Well, let’s be honest, we get lots of promotional CDs every year, and we farm a lot of them out to our friends or whatever, but we do save a few, or, rather, we dump them in the attic archive. It’s expanded beyond our wildest dreams. There’s a possibility that the disc is up there. I mean, it’s highly probable that we’ve had the disc here at one time or another.”

  “Do you have time to check your archives?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. I’ll send a colleague.”

  It was evening. Winter walked home through Heden. It was still cold, clear. A dozen or so men were playing football on one of the gravel pitches, with much shouting and dull thuds as the ball was kicked. Football in November? Why not? In England the season has barely gotten off the ground by then. Somebody shouted. He turned and saw that the ball was rolling toward him. He side-footed it back to them. Far from finished yet.

  He thought about Steve, a colleague in London. Steve was obstinate about what records he listened to. Winter had sent him some jazz, but had been forced to accept that it was a waste of time. I’m more impressionable than he is. People who listen to classic rock are conservative.

  They hadn’t spoken to each other for months. Winter had considered dashing over to London briefly before Christmas, but now he wasn’t sure. Go by all means, Angela had said. If it’s possible.

  Why shouldn’t it be possible? The baby wasn’t due until the beginning of April. The first one, Angela had insisted, and she wasn’t joking. London was tempting. London calling. It had been a long time.

  Winter heard more dull thuds behind him, followed by whoops and cheers: somebody had scored.

  The last time they’d spoken on the telephone, Chief Inspector Steve MacDonald had had his leg in a cast after an obligatory Sunday match for his pub team in Kent. Come over for a few days whenever you feel like it, he’d said. You’re not so important, but I’d like to see Angela. Again.

  They had met Steve briefly in Gothenburg just over three years ago, but they hadn’t met his wife. Or the twins. Perhaps they should wait until there were three youngsters. At the beginning of April. Three.

  “What do you think of Elias?” asked Angela as he marched into the kitchen. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

  “Should I do it?”

  “Yes, please.” She handed over the knife and Winter started chopping the onions. Half of them were still waiting to be done.

  “What do you think? Elias? Or Isak? Emanuel?”

  “Why not Esau?”

  “Be serious now.”

  “Well ... a bit biblical ... but I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “You believe in God.”

  “Occasionally.”

  “You’ve always said that we have to have something to give us strength.”

  “Yes.”

  “Isabella.”

  “An excellent name.”

  “Olivia.”

  “Also excellent.”

  “Leo.”

  Winter blinked away the tears as the onions were chopped.

  “Hmm ... maybe. You seem to have stopped feeling sick now.”

  “It normally stops after twelve weeks or so, and we’re well past that point. Now comes a quiet, peaceful period. For the mother, at least.”

  “How’s your stomach? How’s Elias?”

  “Feel for yourself,” she said, getting up from the chair she’d only just sat down on. “Come with me.”

  She went to the bedroom and Winter put down the knife and followed her. Angela lay down and exposed her stomach, which had grown bigger still. Winter sat down on the bed. It could be the first time. He hadn’t felt anything so far. Everything was so hard to grasp. Was it real? She’d been feeling fetal movements for weeks now, maybe five. Kicks. Winter thought about football again, could picture the guys at Heden.

  “Put your hand there.”

  He did as he was told. He could feel something moving. It was real.

  25

  Morelius and Bartram stopped at a red light. Morelius saw a movement in a car way over to his right out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head and saw an elderly man fastening his seat belt. Bartram had seen him as well. Morelius gave the man a friendly nod.

  Bartram grinned. “If he’d kept still we wouldn’t have noticed.”

  “No.”

  “One thing this job gives you is split vision,” Bartram said.

  “What else does it give you?” said Morelius, moving away as the lights changed.

  “Eh?”

  “What else does this job give you, apart from split vision?”

  Bartram didn�
�t answer. He was busy watching the Christmas decorations going up in the streets and at the entrances to the arcades.

  “Here we go again,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The hell that is Christmas is once more upon us.”

  Morelius stopped at a pedestrian crossing. A young woman was wheeling a wide stroller with two children in it. She waved in acknowledgment, and Morelius raised his hand in return.

  “Poor her, having to push those two around when she goes Christmas shopping,” Bartram said.

  “Poor you, when you have to go Christmas shopping,” Morelius said.

  Bartram didn’t answer.

  “You don’t seem to hear what I say today, Greger.”

  “I hear.”

  “But you don’t answer.”

  “I don’t go Christmas shopping. I never wander around the center of town when I’m not on duty. Especially in this seasonal hysteria.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t you get annoyed by all the drunks and other scum drifting around? Don’t you think: there’s somebody who’s sure as hell wanted? Don’t you think: there goes the bastard, and where are the damn police?”

  Morelius agreed. It wasn’t only when he was on duty. Whenever he walked down the Avenue he noticed the staff entrances where they’d been to pick up shoplifters. He saw the entrance to a pub or outside the post office where everybody peed after dark. That’s where somebody had his shoulder broken. That’s where that woman ran amok. That’s where that guy was shot. That’s where the fight took place ...

  “I don’t like Christmas,” Bartram said.

  “Is there anything you do like?”

  Bartram didn’t answer. He was staring straight ahead. Morelius turned into Götaplatsen. The sun was strong, the sky blue. The high pressure was persisting, which was unusual. There were little drifts of snow in corners on the steps. Gangs of youngsters were standing around outside the library. People streamed into the Park Avenue Hotel for lunch. A line of twenty taxis were outside. Some of the idiots had left their engines running for half an hour. The exhaust fumes hung in clouds around the cars. Morelius was tempted to stop and make them switch off.