Death Angels (21 page)

“Somebody I knew.”

“Bingo.”

They sat there silently.

An angel flitted through the room.

“You’re giving me goose bumps,” Winter said.

“Somebody they knew.”

“It’s certainly possible, but I’m skeptical somehow.”

Ringmar tried to weave together the various strands of the conversation in his head.

“I’m pretty sure there’s only one murderer,” Winter said. “He’s been here and there, and he’s here or there now too. Gothenburg or London.”

“We look for this person in the victims’ past. If he’s there, we grab him.”

“That’s not where we’re going to find him. Not in their past.”

“The past and the present, where do you draw the line?”

Winter had no answer.

HE WAlTED WlTH THE OTHERS. EVERYBODY WAS SlLENT, LOST lN
their own thoughts. When the sliding doors opened, he walked through and onto the airport bus. He was tired, and apparently so was everyone else.

The bus made its rounds of the downtown area. New passengers got on. They shivered outside the Park Avenue Hotel. A few airport personnel boarded at Korsvägen Street, the crisp creases of their uniforms belying their weariness, as if only their clothing were holding them upright.

Out on the expressway, the driver did his best to break the sound barrier. But the sonic boom could never have reached him, drifting as he was between sleep and waking, Ijahman Levi’s reggae blasting in his headphones.

The bus finally stopped outside the international terminal. He grabbed his bag and got off. It was snowing again. Travelers jogged with their carts from the parking lot.

Voices drifted to the ceiling of the terminal like sleepy bees. The Scandinavian Airlines attendants finished their check-in preparations and the long line began to move. He glanced at his watch: six o’clock. The flight to Heathrow was scheduled for ten after seven. He had skipped breakfast and was planning to grab a cheese sandwich and a coffee before takeoff.

When his turn came, he held up his bag for the blue-uniformed attendant to see.

“Is that all your luggage?”

“Yes, it’s small enough to carry on, isn’t it?”

She nodded, checking his ticket and passport. “Do you have a seating preference?”

He shrugged. It didn’t make a bit of difference to him.

“A window seat in the middle of the aircraft. Will that do?”

He shrugged again and she smiled, printing out his boarding pass and handing it to him along with his return ticket and passport. “Have a nice trip.”

He nodded and stuffed everything into his right breast pocket, then strolled over to the escalator and rode up to security.

His sandwich and coffee finished, he watched people wander around the duty-free shops. He had promised to buy some perfume for his mother on the way back. The name was in his wallet somewhere. They must sell it in London too, he thought. Otherwise it was crap.

Someone he recognized walked up to him, and he turned off Dr. Alimantado, who was standing outside a hovel in a Kingston slum dissing the police. The music stopped with a long backbeat. He pulled the headphones out of his ears.

“So you’re off to see the world.”

He nodded. “London.”

“Same here, but just for the day.”

“Just for the day? Is it really worth it?”

“They want me to pick up some papers.”

“There’s always the mail.”

“Some things are a little sensitive.”

“I guess.”

“How long are you going to be there?”

“A week, I think.”

“Haven’t you decided? It’s enough to make a man jealous, anyway. Been in London before?”

“Only once.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

“Hell no.”

“Have you gotten any tips?”

“My parents mentioned a place in Bayswater, so I guess it will be there. Or maybe I’ll stay at a couple of different hotels.”

“Don’t you have a job to go to?”

“I haven’t graduated yet.”

“I see.”

“I’ve got some brochures and I want to check out a few schools.”

“Colleges?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you going to study?”

He folded his napkin into smaller and smaller squares. He looked up at the departure board. The plane had arrived at the gate. “Maybe English. Or design or photography—that’s the school I have the best feeling about.”

“Is it hard to get in?”

“I don’t know, but we’d better go now if we’re going to make the plane.”

“Relax, we’ve got plenty of time.”

“Then there’s the music.” He took his bag and started to get up.

“What music?”

“I’m into the new reggae, so I thought I’d go down to Brixton and buy a few CDs, plus some of the old stuff I can’t get here in Sweden.”

“Hmm.”

“I found a bunch of places online.”

“Record stores?”

“Stores, discos, clubs—seems like a pretty cool scene.”

“Brixton? Isn’t that a long ways from Bayswater?”

“A few stops on the tube, that’s all. ‘The Guns of Brixton’ by The Clash. My dad’s got it. Have you heard it?”

“No.”

They walked over to Gate 18, showed their passports and tickets, then boarded the plane. He shoved his bag into the overhead rack and squeezed his way over to the window seat.

He fastened his seat belt and looked out. Bare trees lined the edge of the airport. The runways were a shimmer of concrete.

Snowflakes stuck to the window and melted. He listened to the first part of the safety instructions, put his headphones on, closed his eyes and tapped his right foot to Dr. Alimantado.

A while later he was thrust backward in his seat. He opened his eyes and saw the blur of the runways like gray speed lines against a transparent background.

Then everything turned to white. They rose straight through the clouds and were soon cruising far above the earth. He tried to remember the last time he had seen a blue sky. Whenever it was, it had been nothing like this.

THERE WAS THAT RESTLESSNESS AGAlN, LURKlNG lN THE PlT OF
his stomach like a predator.

Are you mature enough to be a father? he asked himself. Is it too big a step, or is something else bothering you?

He had felt the baby kicking earlier that evening, and his hand was still throbbing hot and cold.

“What’s going on?” Martina asked, squinting at him.

“Nothing.”

“You just had an expression like something horrid had crossed your mind.”

“It’s just the job.”

“What about the job?” she persisted.

“The late hours are getting to me, that’s all.”

“Haven’t you got the afternoon shift all week?”

“Yes, but they should call it the evening shift.”

“Or the night shift. You come home smelling of cigarette smoke.”

Bergenhem took the road that led from their row house to the bridge. The sunlight over the bridge had worn a different aspect the last day or two, like a promise. Will you have the same feeling fourteen years from now? he wondered. Will your heart still leap when spring is on the way? In fourteen years, the trees will tower over the house and you’ll be a detective inspector and your kid will be starting high school.

Then we’ll hole up in some secret hideout, like Birgersson, for the last week in February when the whole world is waiting out winter’s last gasp. Birgersson is never tan when he comes back. Where the hell does he go, anyway?

Chunks of ice floated below the bridge. The setting sun struck the water and turned the river into a trail of broken glass.

A cutter cleaved the surface on the way to the sea as if it had diamonds in its propeller. West of the bridge, it met the
Catfish
, soaring above the water on its way in from Denmark. He heard nothing, the hovercraft a burst of movement without sound.

He left the bridge behind and found himself surrounded by the silence that wafted through the city from the sea.

It must be possible to get hold of a sailboat at a decent price, he thought. Martina would be glad for some time alone, wouldn’t she?

He put a tape on and turned up the volume until it was just short of unbearable. The traffic flowed soundlessly outside the window.

The sign was lit up, just like the last time. He parked in the same spot. The door looked different now that he knew what it was like inside. He walked quickly past the racks of magazines, through the curtain and into the club proper. There were men at all the tables except the one closest to the door, and that’s where he sat down.

A woman was dancing on a table next to the stage at the far end of the room. The customers clapped every once in a while. No music was playing this time.

Tina Turner deserves a break, he thought. A waiter in a white shirt and dark bow tie came and took his order, returning a couple of minutes later with his Coke. He raised his glass and sucked an ice cube into his mouth to chew on.

“Back already?” The owner stopped halfway through the curtain.

“You don’t waste any time.”

The owner didn’t respond.

“I had a couple more questions for you.”

The owner stayed where he was, cigarette in hand.

“This is fine right here. We don’t have to go into your office.”

“Fire away.”

“Isn’t the curtain bothering you?”

“Is that the first question?”

“I was just wondering.”

“It’s a great curtain, exotic, just like our dancers.”

“It looks like something out of a silent movie.”

The owner held up his hand in resignation and sat down across from Bergenhem. He peered over at the glass on the table. “We can spike your drink if you like.”

Bergenhem asked himself what Winter would have done in this situation. He sipped his Coke, feeling the icy cold on his tongue. “With what?” he asked, though it was obvious he was being offered any substance of his choice. “How about rum?”

The owner went off and talked to the bartender, then returned, and soon the waiter appeared with a couple of drinks. “For our friends only,” the owner said, lifting his glass once the waiter was gone.

This is an innocent enough game, Bergenhem thought. He’s testing me, but for what? “I just remembered I’m driving,” he said.

“A few sips won’t hurt you.”

This is pure strategy on my part, Bergenhem thought, raising the glass to his lips.

“Was there something you wanted from me?” the owner asked.

The music started to pound like a pile driver through rock. The low bass made Bergenhem’s forehead throb. Is this another test? he wondered.

The owner studied him. The volume was lowered and the treble turned up. Two women climbed onto the stage. Tina Turner again.

The owner leaned over the table. “I’m still waiting.”