Sun and Shadow Page 18

  Now she was going to move in. Fucking great. Fucking great. He had his father to put up with, and now it was going to be twice as cozy.

  “She’s moving in here? But she can’t.”

  “She can’t? Did my ears deceive me?” His father had raised himself up. His body was swaying backward and forward. “Why can’t my fi ancée move in here?”

  “We’ve only got two rooms. We live here. I live here.”

  “There are bigger apartments.”

  Oh, sure. Who would have them as tenants?

  “But we’ve only got one sofa.”

  His father slept in the sofabed in the living room.

  “You’ll have that.”

  “What?”

  “We need your room. Fuck it, it’s not your damn room. We need this room. You’re never at home anyway so you can manage with the sofa.”

  Patrik could feel the sweat on his brow. He looked at his CD collection, his magazines. Posters.

  “You mean I have to move out of my room?”

  “She’s coming tomorrow.” His father stood up. “That’s that.” He left the room, and Patrik heard him unscrewing the bottle top again.

  The party had started before he’d even closed the door behind him. Where could Patrik go now when he needed to be at home?

  Then again, he didn’t need to be at home. He didn’t know where he would go, but he didn’t need to be at home. He looked at his CDs again. Could Ria keep them? Could he rent a room there, sort of for the time being? He laughed so as not to burst into tears.

  Angela kicked off her boots and put on some water for tea. The sun was blazing down on the buildings across the street. The light out there was so bright, brighter than in any winter she could recall. It was winter, all right. The year had decided that it was winter long before it should really have started for real.

  She felt a movement in her stomach, then another. She sat on a kitchen chair. She looked around: everything in this room had become hers. That felt good. She’d brought her things with her, but nothing looked the same in this bachelor apartment. Not that it could be called that any longer. It was a part of her life now.

  We’ll repaper the place and change a few things, she thought. Or we’ll move to that house by the sea. Parties in the garden, under sun umbrellas. The sound of children’s voices, toys strewn all over the lawn.

  Erik at the barbecue wearing his chef’s hat. A smile as broad as the sun is hot.

  The telephone rang. She stood up with difficulty and went to answer it.

  “Hello?” No answer. She looked at the clock over the door: five-fifteen. “Hello?” A wrong number, she thought.

  DECEMBER

  27

  It was like when he was a child. The sun in his eyes. All the smells inside his nose, where they stayed until well into the evening. You could smell all the scents in your clothes even when you were indoors. A little smoke and a lot of snow. What did snow smell like?

  He bent down and scooped up a handful of snow. The sun transformed it into brightly sparkling powder, and he sniffed at it. What was it like? It smelled like a memory he had, but couldn’t pin down. That’s exactly what it was like. A memory of something special.

  He threw the memory away and it disappeared into thin air. He moved into the shadow of the buildings and the sun was gone.

  The snow was piled up like a wall and he could see it nearly all the way to the crossroads. The shop was on the corner. A minimarket, as they’re called. It had changed its name, but he knew what it used to be called. Had he described it, perhaps? He had mentioned what it used to be called. Not directly, but he couldn’t tell everything, could he? Not now.

  He was well known in there. He thought he was, at least. He had done his duty there. His d-u-t-y. He was her friend and he had seen her looking at him in a special way, but he didn’t think it was that way. He was only a friend.

  Once he had been on the point of saying it. I’m only a friend.

  I’m just somebody who is here. Just somebody who was here. In the right place at the right time. But that wasn’t true. He’d been there at the wrong time. Or, rather, that applied to the other person, to be absolutely correct. To be correct. A-b-s-o-l-u-t-e-1-y c-o-r-r-e-c-t..

  Some children were running around in the playground between the building where he used to live and the road. A lot of children. Now there was snow to play in. It wasn’t wet snow, because there was no sign of any snowmen or snow lanterns. He scooped up another handful and tried to pack it into a ball, but he couldn’t. Children knew when it was possible to use it for making things.

  They’d sprayed water and made a skating rink as well. He almost wished that he still had his ice skates. But what would that look like? His feet were twice as big now as they were then, weren’t they?

  The road had been cleared, but it could have been done more efficiently. The apartment buildings didn’t look up to much. It was like a depopulated area in the middle of the city. Depopulation in the middle of the city! There was less and less on the minimarket shelves every day. They boasted that they still had an assistant serving at the meat counter, but he’d never seen anybody there. Never. He hadn’t been there all that often, but still.

  A car drove past and he had to stand on the piled-up snow. It was dirty here. He didn’t want to touch it. He stepped down again. Soon it would be time to go home and get something to eat and then go to work for a long evening shift, and he’d go home again and not be able to go to sleep, and he’d sit in front of the TV, watching videos.

  Suddenly the shop was there without him noticing that he’d gone into it. He had the films under his arm. Two posters outside advertised films. One of the actors looked familiar, but he didn’t waste time there because he knew what kind of videos he wanted.

  There was somebody else behind the counter, somebody he hadn’t seen before. He didn’t say anything when he paid for the videos. Now he was crossing the street. He looked at the tall buildings that looked like a row of huge building blocks.

  Later this evening he would drive past the tall buildings in the center of town.

  One morning he’d been waiting outside and watched her get onto the tram. He’d followed behind, although he knew where she was going. Nevertheless, he wanted to see her get off the tram and then disappear among all the thousands of others who were going in and out of the hospital doors.

  28

  Winter turned off the main road. He drove past the seven-story buildings on the right, turned into the parking area, and found a place directly opposite the huge apartment buildings marked with a housing association sign.

  They seemed to be in good condition. The entrance had a sort of superstructure, and stone paving slabs on the floor.

  Bengt Martell answered the intercom and Winter was let in. The entrance hall was attractive, painted in soft pastel colors not yet disfigured by graffiti. Perhaps there weren’t any young people here. Winter hadn’t seen a soul outside.

  The man opened the apartment door. There was a smell of coffee in the hall. The sun shone right through the apartment, which presumably had windows facing in different directions. The man was a little shorter than Winter, about the same age, dressed in gray trousers and a cardigan that might have been green. He held out his hand.

  “Martell.”

  “Winter.”

  “My wife’s popped out to get something for us to eat with the coffee.”

  He showed Winter into the apartment. Through the window Winter could see the hill and the streets down below. Several clouds had appeared during the few minutes since he’d entered the building and taken the elevator.

  “Please sit down,” Martell said. He blew his nose. That was the second time. He didn’t sound as though it was necessary. Perhaps he needed to do something with his hands. The apartment didn’t smell of smoke. He ought to do something else with his hands, thought Winter.

  The door opened in the hall.

  “It’s my wife,” said Martell, as if he were ke
en to reassure his guest.

  A woman came into the room. She was tall, possibly as tall as her husband. Her hair was cut short and she seemed to have a tan. She was wearing a long, brown skirt and a tight-fitting polo shirt. She had a paper bag in her right hand, but transferred it to her left and shook hands with Winter before going into the kitchen, which Winter could see into through the half-open door.

  “Well,” said the man, who had stood up when his wife arrived but had now sat down again. “What a terrible business.”

  Winter nodded, and sat down as well. The woman returned carrying a tray with coffee cups, a pot, and some Danish pastries. She set out the cups and asked Winter if he wanted milk or cream in his coffee. He told her neither, and waited while she filled his cup. The man blew his nose again. The woman raised her cup and her hand was shaking. She took hold of it with both hands and put it down again, without drinking.

  “When did you last see the Valkers?” Winter asked.

  The Martells looked at each other.

  “Didn’t we tell the other officers who were here?” Bengt Martell said.

  Winter looked down at the notebook that he’d taken out of his inside pocket.

  “It wasn’t quite clear. I might have mixed up some of the information.”

  “It was several months ago,” Siv Martell said. “They were here for ... a cup of coffee.” She looked down at the table and the coffee things as if to confirm the truth of what she had just said.

  “Two months ago.” Winter was reading from his notebook. “Is that right?”

  “If that’s what we said, then no doubt it is,” Bengt Martell said. He looked at Winter. “Such things are not easy to recall precisely” He blew his nose again and then tried to find somewhere to put his handkerchief.

  Uncomfortable, Winter thought. They seemed to be uncomfortable in their own home, Halders had said. Scared shitless, he’d also said. But they didn’t seem like that now. Under the surface, perhaps.

  “We didn’t note it down in a diary or anything,” Siv Martell said. She had started her coffee now, a quick sip. “We rarely do.”

  “But you’ve never been around to their place, is that right?” asked Winter.

  “Never,” Bengt replied.

  “Why not?”

  He looked at his wife, who looked out the window.

  “What do you mean? Why we never went to their place?” He looked at Winter again. “Does it matter?”

  ‘All facts are important to us,“ Winter said. ”Details. Things people notice.“ He leaned forward, picked up his cup and drank some of his coffee, which was getting lukewarm. ”We haven’t yet had the opportunity of talking to anybody who’s been to the Valkers’ place.“

  He didn’t mention the Elfvegrens. Per and Erika.

  ‘Anyway, we haven’t.“

  “It was never in the cards?”

  “Er ... you must understand that we didn’t know them all that well.” Bengt Martell leaned forward. “We only saw them once or twice.”

  “But you phoned them.” Winter looked up. “You left a message on their answering machine.”

  “Yes ... That’s why the police know about us.”

  “We were going to suggest a meal out,” Siv Martell said.

  “I gather you first met at a restaurant.”

  “Yes. A dance restaurant. I don’t know if we mentioned this before, when the other officers were here. It was at King Creole.”

  “Do you often go there?”

  . “Hardly ever,” Bengt Martell said.

  So you met at a place you never go to, Winter thought, but even so you wanted to keep the acquaintance going.

  “Did you ever meet them together with other people?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  ‘At a party, or a gathering with several people present.“

  “What do you mean by several? More than us four?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never.”

  “You didn’t know any of the Valkers’ friends?”

  “None at all.”

  “You didn’t meet any of them at that dance restaurant?”

  “No.”

  “More coffee?” Siv Martell offered.

  “No, thank you.” Winter checked his notebook again. He was getting nowhere with this pair. Was there any point in staying? Perhaps the Martells were lonely people who had a fleeting acquaintance with the Valkers that might have developed into something more.

  They might be scared, but at the same time uninterested. It was as if they were doing their best not to think about the Valkers. They were polite but uncooperative. It could be some sort of delayed shock. Or it could be something else, something lurking in the background. A shared experience. An incident. Something.

  “What actually happened?” asked Bengt Martell out of the blue. His wife stood up and went to the kitchen.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What actually happened to them?” Martell asked again. “To Christian and Louise. There’s been a lot about it in the press, but nothing about how ... how they died.” He seemed to be listening to his wife, who was running water in the kitchen. “How did he do it?”

  “I can’t tell you everything for legal reasons,” Winter said, “but I was just coming to that.” He flipped to another page in his notebook and asked some questions about music.

  It was overcast when he left the building. There was a wind from the northwest. Winter shuddered, and felt a stab in his throat when he swallowed. A slight headache these last two days might be the sign of an infection coming on. He’d have to rely on his immune defenses. The headache was a sign that they were assembling to repel boarders. There’s a battle taking place inside your body, Angela had said.

  His car felt cold, and there was a smell of damp.

  He took the letter out of his inside pocket and opened it for the first time. The letter paper bore the logo of the Spanish police, just like the envelope.

  The letter was handwritten and in English, straightforward and purposeful. Just a few sentences greeting him, and thanking him for his hospitality. He read it several times. It was a part of the dream. There was no need to reply to this letter. Not even to read it. He could close his eyes and then look, and the letter would have disappeared, just like the dream.

  Why do I think about it? he asked himself, and then he thought of Angela.

  Angela, there’s something I have to tell you.

  No. There was nothing he had to tell her because nothing had happened. Angela: I had a very strange dream last night. You don’t say? Do you want to tell me about it? I’ve forgotten it. Almost completely. Was I in it?

  She’d been in it. And only a few hours later he’d picked her up at the terminal in Málaga. Not long afterward they’d stood side by side in the cemetery by the mountain. His father.

  Winter rolled down the window, felt the wind blowing into his face, and now his thoughts were filled by his father.

  He closed the window again and got out of the car. There was a minimarket only a few yards ahead, and he wanted to buy some throat lozenges. There was a sign over the entrance. It looked new. Krokens Livs was its name.

  The wind was making the posters at the entrance to the shop sway back and forth. City of Angels, one of them said, the other was advertising The Avengers.

  A local bus shuddered to a halt a few yards away and disgorged a couple of elderly people. Winter went into Krokens Livs, which seemed to have the usual assortment of dairy products, chips, confectionery, videos, dish-washing brushes, and newspapers. He bought a pack of Fisherman’s Friend from a woman who looked Arabic or Turkish.

  When he came out, the wind was blowing even stronger. Winter felt a few drops of rain. The yellow buildings on the other side of Hagåkersgatan lost their color in the rainy wind.

  Morelius was eating the usual deep-fried prawns from Ming. Why could they never think of anything else to order?

  Somebody from the Gothenburg council was on television, explain
ing what the millennium celebrations would entail. If you believed him, they would be more impressive than anything on offer in London and Sydney and New York.

  In fact Gothenburg would be subjected to the same old uproar, the same old crowds of staggering revelers. Tears, shrieks, guffaws, fireworks projected at eye height by lunatic antiaircraft gunners in the center of town. The same old uproar as usual.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Bartram said.

  “Eh?” said Morelius, getting up to throw away half of the prawns and the sickly salad. As usual.

  “I’m going to work on New Year’s Eve after all. In the thick of the revelry.”

  “Welcome to the club,” Morelius said. “But you’d already changed your mind. First you were going to work, but you decided not to.”

  “Yes. But just like you”—Bartram scraped the last bit of sauce from the foil container—“I’ve decided to work after all.”

  “Why not do a good deed,” Morelius said. “Others need time off more than we do.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “What’s your reason, then?”

  “I have nothing better to do,” said Bartram, going to switch off the television that was now showing the weather forecast for western Sweden. It was going to be fine but cold again. ‘And I’ll get time off later instead.“

  “When?”

  “In summer, maybe. How the hell should I know now?”

  “What will you do?”

  “In summer? No idea. It’s a long way off.”

  “We have the revelry to cope with first,” said Morelius.

  He went to his locker and opened it. His overcoat smelled of the cold that hadn’t completely gone away when the rain came.

  Tomorrow he would see Hanne again, and it would be the last time. She couldn’t help him anymore, and he didn’t need any help. It had happened, but now it was more like a dream. He couldn’t say any more than that. Maybe he wouldn’t know what he’d said when he said it. He’d forgotten all the questions he’d asked himself during the night with the videos playing on the TV screen, and he never did know what they were about anyway.