Death Angels (29 page)

“We got a letter today from a professional burglar who claims that he broke into an apartment and found some bloody clothes.”

“That’s a new one for you.”

“Hmm.”

“How many apartments in Gothenburg have had bloody clothes in them the past few weeks?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“A lot.”

“This guy doesn’t seem to be a nutcase.”

“Is that all he had?”

“He says that it was shortly after the murder.”

“Which one?”

“Geoff.”

“Did he mention the address of the apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing about who lives there?”

“Only that it’s a man.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Why are we wasting our time talking about this, then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because there’s something about the tone of the letter. Or just because it’s from a burglar. He seems to have a sixth sense about what he saw.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll put this aside for now, but I’m keeping it in the back of my mind.”

“You can discreetly check out the apartment and tenant when you get around to it.”

“I sent Halders out there.”

“I said discreetly.”

Ringmar chuckled.

“How’s Bergenhem doing?”

“What?”

“Lars. Has he found anything?”

“I don’t know, to tell you the truth. He seems determined to learn everything he can about the porn industry.”

“Have a little chat with him.”

“I doubt that he’d be into it. As far as I can tell, he thinks you’ve dispatched him on a special mission from God or something.”

“Tell him that I want him to report to you from now on.”

“Okay.”

“Bye.”

Winter hung up and headed for the shower. Afterward he toweled off and dressed, letting his tie hang loose. He slipped into a pair of casual shoes and walked a block to Crystal Palace. The food was delicious, as always. He brooded some more about memory.

HE RAN lNTO THE OWNER’S SON ON THE STAlRWAY ALMOST
every time he left his room or returned to the hotel. The guy was mentally disabled, no doubt about it. Hour after hour, he climbed the winding stairs all the way to the seventh floor, turned around and walked down again, continuing through the lobby and out to the sidewalk.

The guy gave a peculiar smile, his face breaking up and his eyes turning inward. He always walked by him as fast as he could.

If he listened from his room, he could hear the guy’s steps like clockwork.

He had never seen the owner except when he first checked in. The lobby was always empty and nobody was ever behind the front desk. You could ring the bell for the clerk, but he had everything he needed.

He had already scouted out the two Greek restaurants across from the hotel, so he decided to walk south on a new street. He had never seen such awesome houses, at least a hundred years old with ivy growing up the sides. He passed a few people washing their cars. The street was long, and it took him a while to get to Grove House Tavern, where he sat down at one of the three tables on the sidewalk. The sun made its way over the rooftops on the other side of the street and shone in his face. He bought a glass of beer in the pub and went back outside.

The other tables were empty. Three men, all white, sat inside. This was a typical white street. You could tell by the houses.

Which was sort of odd, because the street he was staying on and the main thoroughfare that led to downtown Brixton got blacker and blacker the farther you went. It was like coming home, he thought. Things were different here. He sat all alone, surrounded by white people.

A black guy at a white pub.

How strange it had been to feel white among all the black people and yet blend in with the crowd. It was never like that in Sweden. Christian Jaegerberg was a white name but that’s not what he looked like.

The trees along the street shrouded him in silence. He patted the CDs in his jacket pocket.

There had been a white customer at Red Records when Christian was there. The guy had heard him talking to the clerk. He was tall, maybe thirty-five or forty years old.

“Are you Swedish?” the guy asked, walking out at the same time as Christian.

“Does my accent give me away?”

“You sure surprised the clerk.”

“I guess I don’t look like a typical Swede.”

“No doubt he’s seen stranger things.” The guy laughed.

Christian nodded as if he’d seen stranger things too.

They stood on Brixton Road across from the underground station.

“Did you find anything good in there?” the guy asked.

“Too much.”

“
Somma I
?”

Christian looked at him. “How did you know that?”

He threw out his arms and Christian got the impression he was flexing his muscles—a bodybuilder on his day off. “You looked like you kept up with the music scene.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Christian said.

“I figured as much.”

Christian started walking toward the pedestrian crossing on the left.

“I come to London every once in a while to stock up on music,” the guy said.

“Stock up?”

“I have a distributorship in Scandinavia.”

“For reggae?”

“If it’s black music, we carry it.”

“So here you are.”

“This is the place.”

“What did you buy this time?” Christian wondered if he knew his stuff.

The distributor rattled off the best there was.

“Do you buy a lot of music?” Christian asked.

“Yep, but I hardly take anything back home.”

“Gothenburg?”

“It’s a hard dialect to disguise, isn’t it?”

“But you don’t have a store or anything?”

“Just what I distribute in Scandinavia, and a little bit in northern Europe. I have a few samples I could show you, or even give you just to see what you think of them, but there’s not enough time.”

“Too bad.”

“I’m supposed to be at a meeting in half an hour.”

“I understand.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you. Good luck with your musical adventures.”

“Thanks.”

“And your Swedish accent.”

Christian’s face felt colder, as if the sun had gone behind the clouds, and he opened his eyes. Somebody was standing directly in front of him. He waited until his pupils readjusted to the light and saw that it was the distributor.

“I thought you looked familiar.”

“Hi,” Christian said.

“It’s a small world.” The distributor moved to one side.

Now the sun was in Christian’s face again. He squinted, then cupped one hand over his eyes. The distributor’s features were obscured by the shade. His teeth glistened and it looked like he was smiling.

“One of my contacts lives on this street. An honest-to-goodness Jamaican. Up by the hospital—have you seen it? The biggest one in south London.”

“No, I haven’t,” Christian answered. “I didn’t think any black people lived around here.”

“It’s a strange part of town—like a chessboard, you might say.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m on my way to see another guy down on Coldharbour Lane, and he’s white.” The distributor’s teeth flashed again. “I’d ask you to come along, but he doesn’t like to have more than one guest at a time.”

“That’s okay.”

“I think I can squeeze in a quick beer. Do you want another one?”

“Sure.”

The distributor went into the pub. The sun was behind a chimney on the other side of the street, lighting it up like a torch. An ambulance passed and Christian remembered the hospital up on the hill, or wherever it was.

A woman and a man came from the direction of his hotel and sat down at the next table. After a few minutes, the man got up and walked inside. The woman stared at the chimney, now surrounded by a halo of sunlight. The distributor came out carrying two pints of beer with foam running down the sides. Christian felt the cold glass in the palm of his hand. He put it down and reached for the wallet in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“It’s on me,” the distributor said.

“Okay, thanks.”

“So tell me about your favorite CDs.”

Christian gave him a quick rundown.

“Brilliant. I’ve got to remember this.” Taking out a pen and a small notebook, he asked Christian to repeat a few of the titles. “A whiz like you could come in handy,” he said.

“I don’t know about that.”

The woman’s companion stepped back out of the pub with a glass of beer and something that could have been wine. He sat down across from her.

Christian heard her say that they had left home too late and missed the sunshine.

“At least it’s warm,” the man said. “I don’t ever remember it being so nice this early in the year.”

“I’ve really got to go,” the distributor said.

“Okay.”

He stood up. “Are you staying nearby?” he asked.

“It’s not too far,” Christian said.

“Stop me if I’m being pushy, but I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

“Me?”

The distributor took a stack of CDs out of his briefcase. There must have been at least eight of them. He sat back down. “I’m meeting with one of my other contacts tomorrow, and we’re going to discuss these. I was planning to listen to them tonight. Maybe it’s not so important, but he wants his customers to know what they’re getting. I have to be able to say something about them.”

It was colder now. The couple at the next table took their glasses and went inside.

“I have a little lady here in London who needs her man, if you know what I mean.”

“I think so.”

“You could listen to them for me.”

“Sure, but . . .”

“And give me your expert opinion.”

“Hmm.”

“I might have time to come by and pick them up later tonight, but my lady friend will be with me, so it would be better if you could leave them at the front desk.”

“But then you won’t know what I thought of them.”

“Damn, how stupid of me.”

“You must have that chick on your mind.”

“Yeah, and then it’s not exactly the thing between your shoulders that you think with.” The distributor laughed.

“No.”

“If I put off my meeting for one day, I can stop by for a few minutes tomorrow night and go through the CDs with you.”

“I probably won’t be able to tell you anything you don’t already know,” Christian said.

“The CDs are yours, that goes without saying. You can keep all of them.”

“What time will you come by?”

The distributor took out his notebook again. “I have a dinner date at eight, so I could come right after that. Is eleven too late?”

“No, that’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“No problem.”

“My friend might be with me, but she can sit in the corner while we talk.”

“Okay.”

“Here’s my cell number in case something comes up.” The distributor tore a page out of his notebook and jotted something down. “Shit, I forgot that my phone doesn’t work in London for some crazy reason.” He put the piece of paper in his pocket. “I don’t remember the number of my hotel, but I’ll call and leave it at the front desk of your place when I get back.”

“Sounds good.”

“Now I’m really late.”

Christian felt a little dizzy from the two beers. He was starting to like this guy. A little speedy, maybe, but businessmen were like that.

The distributor was on his feet. “Just one more detail.”

“What?”

“You’ll have to tell me where you’re staying.”

THEY HAD SEEN EACH OTHER THREE TlMES AFTER THElR CON
versation at the club in the Vasastaden district.

Bergenhem had turned into two people, or maybe three, each with a conscience that bumped up against the others like ice floes.