Never End (23 page)

“What did you do then?”

“Wandered around town for a little while, and then went to the bar.”

“And she didn’t get in touch?”

“No.”

“Where was she?”

Andy didn’t answer. He took a drink of the water Winter had given him. His thoughts suddenly seemed to be miles away, in another world.

“Where was Anne last night?” Winter asked again.

“I don’t know,” said Andy, looking at something next to Winter. The grayness in the office had blended with the sharper light of morning, and it seemed to Winter that two lights mingling in that way caused confusion. It wasn’t at all clear where they should go when they met in the middle of the room. The new light fell over Andy’s face. Winter wondered why he was lying.

 

 

Halders wondered why she was lying. They were sitting in the garden. Her father was on the verandah. He’s casting his shadow over her, Halders thought. He’s thirty meters away, but his shadow is falling over her. It looks as if she’s freezing cold, but it’s eighty-five degrees.

“Don’t you want us to put that bastard behind bars?” Halders asked.

“Of course,” said Jeanette.

“You don’t seem all that interested.”

“I’ve told you all I know. All I . . . experienced. How I experienced it.”

“What do you have to say about last night’s murder?” Halders asked. Her expression didn’t change. It was as if she hadn’t heard.

“I know no more than anybody else,” she said, before Halders had time to repeat the question.

“And you didn’t know this girl either? Anne Nöjd?”

Jeanette Bielke shook her head.

“Never seen her?” asked Halders, showing her again a picture they’d found in the girl’s house.

“I don’t know.”

“What about the house?”

She shrugged again.

“It’s not far from here,” Halders said.

“All those little houses look the same,” she said.

Halders nodded.

“They shoot up like mushrooms.”

Kurt Bielke had come down from the verandah and approached the table where they were sitting, underneath the maple that formed a sort of green roof.

“I think Jeanette needs to be left in peace now,” he said.

Halders made no comment. Bielke looked at his daughter.

“You can go up to your room now, Jeanette.”

She didn’t look at her father. She started to get up. It’s like slow motion, Halders thought.

“I haven’t finished,” he said. “We have some more to discuss.”

“You always do.”

Jeanette looked at Halders. He nodded to her, and she stood up.

“Good-bye, then, Jeanette,” he said, stretching out his hand. Hers was cold as he shook it. She left.

“How is she?” Halders asked. He had turned to face Bielke.

“How do you think she is?”

“What’s going to happen with her studies this autumn? University?”

“We’ll have to see.”

“What about the business?”

Bielke had been on the point of walking away, but stopped in his tracks and turned back to face Halders: “I don’t follow.”

“Your businesses. You are co-owner of several places of entertainment, aren’t you?”

“Am I?”

“It’s not a secret, is it?”

“Isn’t it?”

“So it is a secret, is that it?”

“There are some questions you can’t answer with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ ” Bielke said. “Such as: ‘have you stopped beating your wife?’ or the one Mr. Police Constable just asked.”

“
Have
you been beating your wife?” Halders asked.

Bielke took a step forward.

“Or your daughter?”

“What is this?”

Halders took a step back and turned away. He’d gone too far. That’s the way I am. Maybe it was the right thing to do. Maybe I’d been intending to do that all the time, but didn’t realize it.

“Bye, then,” he said, over his shoulder.

“I’ll be calling
your fucking boss,
” Bielke said. He followed Halders out. Halders got into his car, which was parked in the shade of an oak tree. Bielke stood on the other side of the fence.

“Winter,” said Halders, before closing the door. “DCI Winter is my superior officer.”

 

 

Halders drove south. There were patches on the road that might have been water, but it was a mirage. Caused by the sun. He squinted and lowered the visor whenever the sun attacked the car.

The buildings in Frölunda were shimmering in the heat. He parked in the vast parking lot, half of which had been dug up. The other half was being excavated as asphalt was being laid in the first one. Halders could smell the pungent fumes, made more acrid by the hot wind. The workers were in shorts, gloves, tough boots. Their skin was the color of the asphalt. This is what real workers are supposed to look like, thought Halders.

The square was full of people. Some had no doubt just come back from vacation, but not as many as this, he thought, as he bought a pear from a wrinkled old man from Syrabia, or some such place. There weren’t all that many people around here who could retreat to their summer place for the season, or even go abroad. To Syrabia, or wherever. The shriveled old man had seen more of the world than most of these Swedish plebs who shuffled around all hunched up, glancing around furtively, with fat backsides and cheap clothes. For fuck’s sake, Halders thought. What’s the point? This country’s gone to shit.

Mattias was waiting outside the sports center, at the bottom of the steps. The local drunks were staggering around on the other side. A woman sat with her head in her hands. A man—really more of a boy—was swigging from a bottle of whiskey that an older man was trying to reach out for from his lost world. As Halders walked past he could smell the stench of piss and stale alcohol. At least it’s nice and warm for them, he thought.

“Have you been waiting long?” he asked Mattias.

“Well, sort of.”

“Let’s go, then.”

“What’s wrong with here?”

“The stench,” said Halders, walking up the steps. “The stench from the dregs of society.”

Mattias followed him, caught up.

“Why don’t you kill ’em all off ?” he asked, looking at Halders. Mattias was tall, taller than Halders. He seemed pretty heavy.

“We don’t have the resources.”

“You could make a start. Who would choose the victims?”

“Me,” said Halders, as they sat down in the café in front of the big, red building.

“Nobody would want to use the indoor pool on a scorching day like this,” said Mattias.

“It can be pretty good to take a sauna on a day like today, though,” Halders said.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I used to work for the UN around the Middle East, and we used to take saunas in places like Nicosia when the temperature outside was a hundred fifteen. It felt good afterward. Cool.”

“If you say so.”

“And what do you say, Mattias?”

“What about?”

“About Jeanette.”

“Like I said when you called, I’m squeezed-out, for God’s sake. There’s nothing more to say.”

“I spoke to her today.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Not long ago. And to him.”

“Her old man?”

“Yes.”

Mattias looked up at the sky. It was motionless, as there were no clouds. A girl came to take their order. Halders asked for coffee and Mattias for an ice cream.

“You’re right,” said Halders.

“What about?”

“About him. Kurt Bielke.”

“Right? What do you mean right? I don’t remember saying anything about him.”

“There’s something funny about him. Know what I mean?”

The boy said nothing. Their orders came. The ice cream had already started to melt. Mattias eyed it without touching it.

“Take him, too,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“When you’re choosing who to kill off.”

 

 

The vacation season is always a problem for the police investigating a murder.

Winter was reading the file on Beatrice Wägner. Newspaper cuttings now.

It should say
the
police
are
working on witness statements, thought Winter. These reporters mangle the language. The police are working on witness statements today. Five years later. The old ones, and the new ones. And
the
police
are
still wondering about the missing witnesses.

The phone rang. Winter’s mother, her first call for a few days. There was a rustling on the line from the Costa del Sol.

“I heard on the news that it’s still warmer in Scandinavia than it is in Spain.”

“You should congratulate us,” he said.

“Just you wait and see, if it goes on like that. It’ll be unbearable. You’re talking to somebody who knows.”

“Is that why you’re still there in the south of Spain?”

“I’m coming in August, you know that. Then it’s absolutely impossible to live down here. Impossible.”

“You’ll be welcome.”

“Have you thought about a house yet, Erik?”

“No.”

“But Angela said that . . .”

“Angela said what?”

He could hear the sharpness in his voice.

“What’s the matter, Erik?”

“What do you mean? What did Angela say?”

“She just said that you might be looking for something in the autumn. Maybe.”

“Really?”

“What’s the matter, Erik?”

“Nothing. It’s hot, that’s all. Hot, and there’s a lot to do.”

“I know.”

“Oh, do you?”

He could hear the rustling on the line again, the fragmentary chatter from a hundred thousand voices all over Europe.

“Erik?”

“Yes, I’m still here.”

“Is everything alright with you? With you and Angela?”

IT WAS SILENT. WINTER BRACED HIMSELF TO LISTEN TO A MURDER.
He’d brought a new Pat Metheny CD with him the day before yesterday, but he still hadn’t played it. It was on the pile on the shelf above the Panasonic, to the left of the window.

He put the tape recorder on the table. The birds had stopped singing outside. He turned on the message from Anne Nöjd’s answering machine.

Screams and . . . and that other voice, like something from hell. Like something totally inhuman, he thought. Would they be able to separate the voices? Put them side by side and then listen?

There was a message there, unintentional. There’s a message in everything.

Jeanette had talked about something her attacker had said. Three times perhaps, the same thing. She hadn’t seen his face, but she had heard his voice. The sound. Assuming it was the same attacker.

Were there any words there? Real, actual words? Would it be possible to separate everything and hear the words, if there were any? Or parts of sentences? Filter the sounds? It should be possible. There were technicians in the building, only fifty meters away, and if they couldn’t do it, there were always the sound technicians at Swedish Radio.

There was a knock on the door, and Ringmar came in. He was not alone. She looked scared.

Jeanette listened to the recorded message. Winter had tried to prepare her for it as much as possible. It wasn’t possible.

“I don’t want to,” she said after three seconds.

“It hasn’t even started yet.”

“I know what it is, though.”

“You kno—”

“Can’t you leave me alone!?”
she shouted. She got to her feet.

Winter stood up. Jeanette suddenly toppled over backward and hit the floor hard. Winter rushed around the table. She lay with her eyes closed. He bent down, and she opened them.

“I broke my fall with my hand,” she said, wiggling her wrist. She looked at Winter. “OK, turn the tape back on.”

“You don’t have to.”

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

Winter looked at her eyes. He didn’t recognize her. She was there but not there.

She took a seat, looked at the tape recorder, then at Winter. He started the tape.

She listened: “nnaaaaieieieierryyy . . .”

Winter stopped the tape.

“I don’t recognize it at all,” she said, in a voice that sounded rehearsed, as if it too was recorded on tape. She looked at Winter.

“It’s horrible. Is it really genuine?”

 

 

Bergenhem and Möllerström were looking into who had owned the place. It was taking time. Barock hadn’t been registered in the usual way. Some of their colleagues knew of it, of course, but it wasn’t at all clear who had owned it. There had been registered owners. Several names and faces, but they’d had no luck yet. They would eventually, but it was painstaking work, took days, and involved many interviews.

 

 

“There are a lot of names,” said Möllerström.

But there was one particular name that stood out. It was linked to a dance restaurant—the kind with music and old-fashioned ballroom dancing—south of the river. The name was one of the most familiar in the Gothenburg restaurant world, had been for ages. One of several, and they’d worked their way down the list and come to the name, and they would ask the person in question before they went back to the list. Bergenhem had no great hopes.

“What is a dance restaurant nowadays?” asked Möllerström.

“A place where people eat and dance,” Bergenhem said.

“Isn’t that something from another era?”

“Eating and dancing?”

Möllerström grinned.

“Proper dancing. Makes me think of the Royal Hotel back home.”

“We’ll soon find out,” said Bergenhem.