Sun and Shadow Page 21

  “What had happened?”

  “I think he was beaten up at home.”

  “That could well be,” she said, her face becoming serious.

  “Have you seen anything like that before?” he asked.

  “Not really, but he has looked a bit tousled on some of the few occasions he’s been to see us. To see Maria. Which isn’t very often.”

  “Has he said anything to you?”

  “No. Not directly, but I have had thoughts.”

  “His father is maltreating him. We can’t prove it, but that’s the way it is.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “We’ll have to see. Patrik will have to sort out what he wants to do about it.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “I must do something to help.”

  Winter went to the CD player. “I’d like you to listen to this.” He started the Sacrament disc. He was familiar with the music by now. For a brief moment he even thought he might be able to hear a tune, like a vague sort of message inside the cement mixer. Like Coltrane’s meditations.

  Hanne Ostegaard listened with her eyes closed. She has a teenager at home. This is nothing so unusual to her. He switched it off after a minute.

  “Not exactly what I like listening to,” she said. “What is it?”

  He filled her in and gave her the text that came with the CD.

  “Patrik has played metal for us at home.”

  She scrutinized the cover, the black line tracing the coast, the sky, the silvery gleam. Winter had written out the text from the leaflet in a readable form.

  He asked her to read the words for the first of the songs. She seemed almost to smile, despite the seriousness of it all.

  “A large dollop of imagination,” she said.

  “You can say that again.”

  “A wide scope. All the way, from bottom to top, as it were.”

  “From hell to heaven.”

  ‘And then they make a little corner available for one of the prophets.“

  ‘And that brings us to the real reason why I wanted to talk to you, Hanne.“ He gestured toward the first page of the leaflet that had accompanied the CD.

  “Habakkuk? You want to know about Habakkuk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Erik, I’m not that kind of theological expert. He was an honest professional prophet, but that’s just about all I know. Have you read what he wrote? In the Bible?”

  “Yes. Did he have a daughter?”

  “I’ve no idea. I don’t think anything is known about his life. You’ll have to look at the theological literature. Exegesis. The exegetic reference works.”

  “Okay. I’d thought of turning to the university. Religious studies.”

  “Yes. There’s something called an Interpreter’s Bible. And similar stuff. That’s where you’ll find whatever is known about Habakkuk.” She looked at the cover. “How on earth could he get involved in something like this? Habakkuk?”

  “The murders, you mean?”

  “Or just this CD cover. That’s enough.” She looked at Winter. “What are you going to make of this?”

  “For starters, we will try to avoid making anything of anything, and concentrate on establishing some facts.”

  “Heaven and hell.”

  “That’s what it looks like right now.”

  “But perhaps it’s just a game. This band, Sacrament—are they really trying to say something serious with all this trash?”

  “That may not be important. But somebody is using it to mean something.”

  “I read an article in one of the Sunday papers last week,” Hanne said. “It was about the spirit of the age. It went on about there being only a couple of weeks left until the new millennium, when all concepts would have to be redefined.”

  “Fin de siècle. ”

  “Yes. The end of the century, in spades: the end of the millennium. We’re a bit lost about where we go from here.”

  “Whether we’re on our way up or down, you mean?”

  “Yes. Heaven or hell.”

  “And we finish up with a remarkable mixture of both,” Winter said. “The world is being pulled in different directions.”

  “Not my world,” said Hanne, and smiled again. “In my world we spend all our energy on fighting against evil.”

  “But does it produce results?” Winter closed his eyes; then looked again at Hanne. “ ‘Our Lord, how long must I call for your help before you listen? How long before you save us from all this violence?”’

  “That sounds like the Old Testament. I’d guess Habakkuk.”

  “Right the first time.”

  “Are there any quotations here? From the Bible?” she asked, holding up the printouts of the text.

  “Not as far as I can see. Not literal quotations.”

  She put down the leaflet.

  “More and more people are looking for some kind of guidance in life, some kind of comfort or consolation,” she said. “In their different ways.”

  “Everybody wants a box of chocolates and a red rose,” Winter said.

  “Isn’t that reasonable?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Or a bowl of soup,” she said. “Our parish runs a pretty good soup kitchen.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Isn’t that awful?”

  “The soup kitchen? I don’t know about that. If you didn’t do it people would starve out there in the darkness.”

  As he said that she turned and looked out the window.

  “Light will soon be back,” she said.

  32

  Morelius stopped at a red light. The town theater was attractively illuminated. The same applied to the whole city. One week to go to Christmas, and the light was intense when it grew dark.

  A Santa Claus went past, and bowed in the direction of the police car.

  “Do Santas bow?” Bartram asked.

  Morelius didn’t answer. The light changed to green.

  The Avenue was full of people carrying packages.

  “Have you bought any Christmas presents?” Bartram asked.

  “Not yet.”

  ‘Are you staying in Gothenburg for Christmas?“

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I was only asking.”

  Morelius turned into Södra Vägen. The council workers were busy on Heden, building a stage that would be used for the New Year celebrations. Gothenburg would enter 2000 with bright lights and a fanfare of trumpets. That applied to the whole city. Everybody would be on their feet, apart from those who had already fallen over before the clock struck midnight, thought Morelius. And he would be standing in the midst of them.

  “All right. I’m going to spend Christmas with my mom.”

  “Kungälv?”

  “Kungsbacka.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right. You’re from Kungsbacka. I don’t suppose you knew the woman who was murdered? Louise?”

  “No.”

  “I guess the town isn’t all that small.”

  “No.”

  ‘Are they talking much about it? In Kungsbacka, I mean?“

  “Mom phoned but she hadn’t heard anything.” Morelius waited while several people carrying parcels walked over the pedestrian crossing. “She didn’t know her, either, this... Louise.” He set off again. The city center was packed, and driving was a nightmare.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “For Christmas, you mean?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Working.”

  “What? You’re going to be working over Christmas as well?”

  “Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.” Bartram shifted his position. “All the more free time for next summer.” He looked out at the people, the packages, the lights. “I don’t like all this stuff anyway.” He turned to Morelius. “I’ve never liked Christmas.”

  “I bet you’ll like it even less if you’re working in the middle of it,” Morelius said. “It’s not much fun having to sort o
ut families when Mom and Dad have been overdoing the celebrations.”

  Bartram didn’t respond, seemed to be lost in thought.

  “I’d be happy to skip it,” Morelius said. “It feels pointless sometimes.”

  “ ‘Our Lord, how long must I beg for your help before you listen? How long before you save us from all this violence?”’ Bartram said.

  “That sounds like a quotation.”

  “It’s from the Bible.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Don’t ask me which part. It’s the sort of thing that sticks in the memory but you don’t know why. Useless knowledge.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask.”

  Winter met the caretaker in the latter’s cramped office. He’d considered summoning him to the station for questioning, but decided to take the softly, softly approach. The man had given the impression of being nervous from the start, and that could be disastrous for his memory.

  The office smelled of tools and tobacco. Shabby files were stacked on a desk that also seemed to serve as a chopping block. There was nothing of the century-old elegance of the rest of the building down here.

  The man looked down at his desk as if he were searching for something.

  It occurred to Winter that this might be the caretaker of his own building as well. He asked.

  “What’s the address?”

  Winter told him.

  “Yep, that’s me. That’s part of my job as well. I look after three buildings in all, from here down to Storgatan.”

  “You do?”

  “Yep.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply “That’s what they’ve saddled me with this last year.” He looked at Winter and tapped ash into an old soda bottle that was half full of cigarette butts and dark brown tobacco juice. “Nowadays you have to be thankful that you’ve got a job.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “Too much.”

  “Still, I’m glad that you discovered that there was something wrong in that apartment.”

  “In the end, yes.”

  “You didn’t speak to anybody else about it?”

  “What do you mean, anybody else?”

  ‘Anybody else who also thought the same thing.“

  “No.”

  All right, Winter thought. We’ll leave it at that for now. He might get wary on his guard for anything and everything.

  The man flicked off more ash, half of which missed the neck of the bottle. A fire risk? Winter thought. There again, the caretaker was sitting in his own basement room. His own office. If this could be called an office.

  “Do you have an office in my building as well?”

  “Of course. There are three, from here down to the crossroads.” He inhaled again, and squinted through the smoke hanging in a cloud around him. “The second crossroads, that is.”

  “Of course.” Winter could feel the irritation in his throat. No point in a discreet cough here. The old bastard lit another cigarette. Winter coughed even so. “Er ... the Valkers ... how often do you think you met them?”

  The caretaker didn’t remove the cigarette from his mouth. He wiped his hands along his trousers to get rid of the oil on them. He examined his palms, which had been clean at the start. Then he turned to Winter, with a new furrow between his eyebrows.

  “Not very often, I must say.”

  “Were you working here when they moved in?”

  “I’ve always worked here,” he said, and succumbed to a combined cough and laugh that turned into a nasty smoker’s hack and reminded Winter of the man at the next table when he’d breakfasted at Gaspar’s in Marbella.

  The caretaker finished coughing and dropped the cigarette end into the bottle, where it hissed away and went out. He lit another one, and waited for the next question.

  “But you did meet the Valkers sometimes?” We’ll take them separately later, Winter thought.

  “I don’t know about meet, but I’ve come across them, obviously. I’ve never been in their apartment, though.”

  “Never?”

  “I suppose he managed to change washers himself.” The man took another drag on his cigarette, flicked ash in the direction of the bottle. “It’s the same with you. I look after the building you live in but I’ve never spoken to you. I’ve seen you, but that’s not the same thing.” He looked up at the ceiling and then back at Winter. “On the other hand, I’ve only been in charge of your building for the last few months.”

  “Have you ever spoken to him? Christian?”

  “No.”

  “To her? Louise?”

  “Yes. Once ... ,” he said, and a new furrow returned between his eyebrows. “She once asked me about ... hmm, it might have been the heating. I can’t remember now.”

  “Is there anything about them that made you wonder? Or about one of them?”

  “Such as what?”

  “Their visitors.” Winter coughed again, turned away. “Did they have visitors, for instance?”

  “People come and go in this building just as in any other. Who knows who visits who? And I don’t go running up and down stairs unless I have to, you could say.”

  Winter could see his point.

  “But they did have the occasional party now and again,” said the caretaker.

  “Really?”

  “Things got a bit lively there at times.”

  “In what way?” Winter tried to encourage him.

  “People coming and going, sort of thing. I sometimes had to change a bulb or something on the stairs in the evening, so I might have heard something then.” He reached for the cigarette packet again, but it was empty. “Could have been somebody else, of course.”

  Winter nodded again.

  “No, I can’t remember if it was them or not,” the man said. “Have you finished with me yet? I’ll have to go out to the newsstand to buy some cigarettes.” He waved the empty packet. “None left in here.”

  Winter asked about dud bulbs on the stairs, about dates.

  “Good Lord, you stink!” Angela said when she came to greet him in the hall.

  “A witness chain-smoking like a chimney.”

  “Do you normally allow that?”

  “We were in his office. He’s our caretaker as well, incidentally”

  “What was he a witness to?”

  “Nothing here. But he looks after that other property as well,” said Winter, nodding his head in the direction of “that” apartment.

  “But what was he a witness to?”

  “Nothing more than he’s told us so far, it seems.”

  “But you can call him a witness even so?”

  He is that type, thought Winter. Takes all the credit for himself.

  “Get those clothes off and have a shower,” Angela said.

  Winter put his pigskin briefcase on the floor, beside the shoe rack, took off his overcoat and jacket and hung them up. He started unbuttoning his shirt, went into the bathroom, and put all his clothes except for his trousers in the big wash basket Angela had brought with her.

  He closed the door, got into the shower, and was just going to turn on the water when Angela shouted something. He shouted back that he couldn’t hear a word, and she opened the door.

  “I’m looking for a form from the maternity clinic,” she said. “I think you put it in your briefcase. That was a while ago, but I need to check something.”

  “It’s probably still in my briefcase,” he said. “In the hall.” She went out, he drew the shower curtain again, and turned on the water. The pungent smell of tobacco smoke started to fade away and eventually disappeared altogether as he rubbed the shampoo into his hair. He tried to clear his mind, and was rinsing away the lather when he heard a shout from the hall. He turned off the water.

  “What?”

  No reply. He shouted again. Still no reply.

  “Angela?”

  He opened the curtain, took the bath towel from its hook, and quickly rubbed his hair, shoulders, and stomach. He dried his feet and fas
tened the bath towel around his waist, then opened the door. He could see his briefcase standing open on the floor outside the bathroom.

  “Angela? Did you shout?”

  No answer. He hurried into the kitchen and then into the living room. Angela was on the sofa, staring at him with a piece of paper in her hand. She held it up and Winter could see the return address of the Spanish national police force in the top-left-hand corner.

  Oh shit! He’d been carrying that damned letter around instead of throwing it away as he’d meant to.

  “I had to look through the pile you had in your case, and this letter was lying face up,” she said. “So don’t think I’m in the habit of snooping through your private papers.” She waved the letter in the air again. “But now I’d like an explanation of what the HELL this is, Erik.”

  Winter could feel the water dripping from his hair. Or was it cold sweat? Despite the fact that it was nothing. The letter was nothing. There was nothing to explain.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. He took a step toward her. There was water on the floor.

  “But I’ve read it, I’m afraid. It wasn’t very long. But long enough.”

  ‘Absolutely nothing happened,“ he said.

  “She seems to have a different idea about that.” Angela looked at the letter. “Alicia. Do you have a photograph of her as well? Maybe it’s hanging on the wall of your office?”

  Winter went up to Angela and tried to touch her. She knocked his hand aside.

  “I promise you, Angela. Nothing happened.”

  “Oh, shut up!” She punched the air. “You’re talking to a witness who’s seen it all.” She burst into tears, quietly, with a soft, constant whimper he’d never heard before. “How could you, Erik? How could you?”

  He sat down on the sofa beside her. It felt as if all his blood had rushed to his head. Damn it. He should have told her right at the start, but there was nothing to say. Why say something that could cause pain when there was nothing to discuss? It would be pointless. Destructive.

  He started to say something but she stood up and headed for the hall.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  “But I must ... we must ...”