Never End (21 page)

There was a smell of exhaust. Somebody had just driven along here. Unless the smell came from the road on the left. There was a car parked under a tree, in the shadows. The streetlights were few and far between, producing a dirty yellow glow, maybe more of a white, but it didn’t extend very far and wasn’t much use, and she speeded up, but suddenly her foot slipped off one of the pedals and she veered to the left, and the handlebars twisted out of control and her heart jumped almost into her mouth, and then she twisted back again and nearly regained her balance, and she wobbled into the light of the next lamp, which was just as dim as all the rest. Then she felt a prod in her side, and she’d seen the shadow the moment before, and she felt scared now, and then another prod and she fell off her bike and her terror was like an ice-cold block of stone inside her and her heart went bang, bang, bang.

Three hours earlier: Winter had been trying to contact Hans Bülow, and Bülow had phoned and left a message, and Winter called him as he walked over the soccer fields at Heden. A ball came bouncing toward him and he kicked it back, and play was able to restart in one of the matches. A pity he couldn’t join them; it would be nice to work up a sweat that warm evening.

It was late. The digital clock on the building behind him had just changed to 22-something. But they’d still be working at the newspaper offices, preparing for the next morning’s edition.

“GT, Bülow.”

“Winter here.”

“You were supposed to call ages ago.”

“Didn’t have time.”

“If you want help, you have to put yourself out, too,” said the reporter.

Winter paused as he came to Södra Vägen. A car full of teenagers sailed past. Eddie Cochran’s voice at an aggressive volume, girls in sweaters—there are always girls in sweaters in cars full of teenagers.

“Hang on a minute.”

He crossed over the street and came to the sidewalk café section of Kometen. A table was just becoming available, as a party of four prepared to leave. Their bill was on the table.

“If you can manage to drag yourself away from your desk, you’ll find me at Kometen.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Winter ordered a beer. Bülow arrived and followed suit.

“Have you always been a crime reporter?” Winter asked, as Bülow took a swig of his beer.

“Ever since I learned to write.”

“I’m thinking of giving you a piece of highly sensitive information.”

“About time, too.”

“It won’t be the first time,” Winter said.

Bülow took another drink, puffed at his cigarette, waited. He’d leaned his bicycle against the wooden fence.

“A boy might have been murdered.”

Bülow put down his glass.

“Who? When?”

Winter didn’t answer.

“For God’s sake, Erik.”

“Nobody knows.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Highly sensitive, as I said.”

“No.”

“You mean you don’t want it?”

“You’ve just given it to me, for Christ’s sake! Jesus . . . you think I’d keep quiet about a murder?
Another one?!
”

“Keep your voice down, if you don’t mind.”

Bülow looked around. Nobody seemed to be listening. Some new customers had just arrived at the next table, and were in the process of ordering and talking all at once, blah blah blah blah.

“Let’s have the details, please.”

“We can find him. This is my own suspicion, if you see what I mean. We’re in a situation where we need to make a breakthrough.” Winter looked Bülow in the eye. “I need to smoke somebody out. I want you to write something.”

 

 

Cut cut cut. Rip rip rip. It was deafening inside her head. She could feel breathing against her cheek, a smell she’d never come across before, sweat, smell, cut, cut, her heart was leaping like a wild beast inside her chest, cut, breathing, a voice saying something right next to her but also far away, rip, rip.

She was lying on the ground, could see her bike beside her, the wheel still turning round and round, a noise that could be from the wheel or . . . something pulled at her, she was lifted up and dragged along, and there was nobody else there and why didn’t somebody come, and oh, God, and who and where is th—and she tried to put her hand into her handbag that seemed to be open and she didn’t know why, and she tried to reach her mobile, and even if she couldn’t phone she could smash it into the head of . . . and she was
lifted
up and her face was scratched by the bushes, and she tried to scream and felt the hand pressing against her mouth before she could open it.

She felt a blow to her head. Breathing again, close to her again. Somebody saying something. Breathing, like a voice. A voice. A voice now, yes. A chant, words, words, the same words, words, sounds, can’t hear what, oh, God.

Another blow. Red, white, red in her mind.

 

 

“An illegal immigrant,” Bülow said.

“No.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No, something else,” Winter said.

“You can’t find him?”

“Something has to turn up soon.”

“So you want me to write as if he were dead?”

“As if he might be.”

“Are you planning on dictating the article?”

Winter didn’t answer that. All the tables were full now. Everybody on all sides was pretty drunk.

“Have you paid?” he asked.

“Am I supposed to pay for this?”

Winter stood up. “Let’s go home,” he said.

Bülow pushed his bike. Three men were fighting at the hot dog stall. Vague punches making holes in the air smelling of grilled sausages. One of the men had blood on his forehead. Another started vomiting, the sick shooting out of his mouth like a lance. The third burst out laughing, like a loony.

Winter and Bülow made a detour to get around them.

“They’re training for the Gothenburg street party,” Winter said.

“Huh. A damp squib.”

Vasaplatsen was deserted. A streetcar approached from Landala. There was the sound of music from one of the cafés at the corner of the square.

“So, we have a deal?” Winter said.

Bülow laughed.

“You can count on me, one hundred percent.”

“Good night.”

Winter opened the front door of his building.

“Greetings to your family,” said the reporter, but the door had already closed.

The phone rang. Four times. The answering machine turned on. The message echoed in the silent room. Nobody was listening.

Her voice: “I can’t take your call right now, but . . .”

Then the message.

Breathing, panting, like a wild beast, her voice, perhaps a prayer, now . . . a noise like something from the pews of a four-square gospel church, speaking in tongues, chanting, chanting, a hoarse voice from another world, no, from here, from there, “NnnnnnaaAAAAieieRRRRAAAAAAIIIIYYYYYIYYIYI!!

“NNNAAAIEEEIEIIE!!!”

 

 

They were asleep when he got home, both of them. He took off his sandals and tiptoed into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. It creaked.

He turned the coffeemaker on.

“So, no sleep tonight either,” said Angela, who had been woken up. She sat down at the table and yawned, hair spilling over her eyes.

“Not like you,” he said. “You’re asleep now, here. Sitting.”

“Can’t you ever go to bed? You have to be wide awake tomorrow morning, don’t you?”

“I am wide awake.”

“I said tomorrow morning.”

“I’ve got to think.”

“Best done when you’re awake.”

“I
am
awake. I just said so.”

“No need to shout.”

“I wasn’t shouting.”

“Oh . . .”

“I
wasn’t
shouting.”

“Elsa’s asleep. Or was.”

“There wasn’t a sound from here until you appeared.”

“Ha, ha.”

“If you just leave me in peace for an hour or so, it’ll be all quiet on the western front, and I’ll go to bed. OK?”

Angela said nothing.

“OK?”

She stood up, hid her face. He could hear a sob.

“But . . .”

She strode out and closed the door behind her. It creaked.

Winter put down his cup and considered banging his head against the fridge door, just once. The kitchen window was open, and a few people were sitting out in the courtyard, four stories below. He could hear every word they said. Maybe he ought to stick his head out of the window and inform them that his family needed to get some sleep?
Shut up.

 

 

He was out on the balcony, with a cigarillo. There was a smell of smoke, but a different kind of smoke, and from another direction. Something was on fire.

The streetcars had stopped.

Angela came out.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You have us, too.”

“I know I can be a fool. I fail—”

“That’s not what I mean. We can be a support as well.” She seemed translucent in the light from the street lamps down below and the sky up above. “You don’t have to see us as something that gets in the way.”

“I’ve never done that.”

“I never say anything about your work, do I?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, don’t let it eat you up.”

“I try not to, Angela.”

“Maybe you should talk to somebody.”

“About what? To whom?”

“A lot has happened lately.”

Shouldn’t she be the one? he thought. Who needs to talk? Something happened to her that was beyond comprehension. He could look at as many dead bodies as anybody was prepared to put before him. But he couldn’t get anywhere near understanding
that
. She needed to talk. To somebody else. What I want, my dear idiot, is silence.

“Are you thinking about your dad?”

“Dunno. No.”

“Things are pretty good between us. Isn’t that right, Erik?”

“That’s not the problem. I’m just tired.”

She nodded and said good night and went back inside. He’d be able to explain things better tomorrow. He put down his cigarillo and watched it glowing. There was still a smell of smoke from elsewhere. The phone rang inside the apartment. He heard Angela answer.

WINTER COULD SEE THE FAINT GLOW ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE
park as he drove down the hill. The light was like a pale mist under a clearer, purer sky. The forerunner of a new day. It would be hot again. It was already seventy-two degrees, even though it was, strictly speaking, still nighttime.

The girl would never experience the new day. Winter had seen strangled corpses before. She was naked from the waist down. His colleagues were rooting around the scene. The pathologist was bent over the girl like an angel of death. It wasn’t Pia Fröberg. Winter remembered that she was on vacation. This was a man, and he looked big and clumsy in his shorts and baseball cap. Or was he made to look that way because the girl lying in front of him was so small and slim?

Like a dead sparrow by the side of the road.

Winter walked back. Her bicycle was lying in the middle of the bike path. The handlebars were pointing inward. It looked almost as if one of the wheels was still spinning. A uniformed policeman was standing beside the bicycle, and a patrol car was parked behind him. The lights were spinning around on the car roof. The girl’s face was lit up, plunged into darkness, lit up. Winter preferred the darkness.

He approached the police officer, whom he didn’t recognize. A young kid. Only a couple of years older than the girl, at most. Hardly a policeman. A police boy.

“I hear you were first on the scene.”

“Yes, it was us who . . . found her.”

Winter nodded.

“What’s your name?”

“Peter. Peter Larsson.”

“How did you find her?”

“The bike,” said the young constable. “We were driving by, and noticed it.”

“Do you drive by here every night, Peter?”

“More or less.”

Winter sized up the road as far as the bend. After the bend the road continued round a pond. On the other side of the pond was a little clump of trees, and beyond that another pond, and on the other side of that pond some bushes, a few trees, a big rock. A murder scene twice over.

Not a third time on this occasion. But not far off: four hundred meters, as the crow flies. He thought about the girl. A dead sparrow.

“You didn’t see anybody else?”

“Not a soul.”

“How did you find the girl?”

“We saw the bike, as I said, and stopped. I got out to investigate. It was obvious somebody had been walking on the side of the road. I didn’t have to look very hard to find her. I mean, you’ve seen for yourself.”

“Yes.”

“We’ve all had our eyes peeled, after what’s happened recently.”

“Well done, Peter.”

The constable looked at Winter, then into the bushes and trees.

“Is it the same old story?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was he at it again?”

“No idea,” said Winter, going back to take another look at the girl.

“Do you think it’s rape?” asked Ringmar, who’d arrived only minutes after Winter.

The pathologist shrugged.

“He asked you a question,” Winter said.

“Probably,” said the man, rising to his feet. The peak of his cap was pointing to the sky. That doesn’t fit in here, Winter thought. Doesn’t fit in anywhere. The doctor looked at Winter. “OK, I know what you’re getting at. Could be. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“We’ll have to bring in the coroner’s office in Linköping as well,” Ringmar said. “Where’s Beier, by the way?”

“In New York.”

“New York?!”

“A conference. Didn’t you know?”