Never End (25 page)

“No? Weren’t you a part owner for a while?”

“Yes.” He looked at Winter. “What is this?”

“Questions.”

“Yes, yes. But Barock . . . huh! What next?”

“Another question. Where
could
this picture have been taken?” Winter asked.

Samic looked briefly at the photograph again.

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“What I need is help,” Winter said. “This isn’t an interrogation.”

“You’re turning it into one,” Samic said. “It’s becoming an interrogation.”

 

 

We’ll meet again soon, Winter thought on his way out.

Samic could have been wearing a toupee at that graduation party earlier in the summer; then, it might not be him in the picture at all. It was impossible to decide if he was the man in the photograph.

You could have fried an egg on the sidewalk.

Winter was hungry and went to a Vietnamese restaurant. He ordered one of the five specials, all of which seemed to be the same. He picked rice with minced meat, and found a table outside under the umbrellas. The streetcars seemed to be struggling to force their way through the heat. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Airplanes were crisscrossing it. There was a smell of gas and asphalt, and maybe also a whiff of the river, which was not far away. People were wearing as little as possible. He was in shorts and a khaki shirt Angela had bought for him the previous week.

He hadn’t thought about Angela for two hours. He’d thought about Elsa, but not about Angela.

The food arrived and he started eating, although he wasn’t as hungry now. Everything tasted of glutamate and he slid the half-full plate to one side, drank his mineral water, lit a cigarillo, and looked up to glimpse Samic’s profile as he drove past in a Mercedes the same color as Winter’s, which was parked outside the department store across the street.

Benny Vennerhag must have quite a bit to say about Samic. Is he going somewhere as a result of our little chat?

A woman went past with two dogs, each on its own leash. She was wearing too many too-expensive clothes. One of the dogs squatted down and deposited a pile on the pavement while the woman looked around, waiting impatiently, then walked off, leaving the muck behind her. Winter considered calling her back and giving her a good telling off—why not? But instead he stayed where he was and watched the dogs strut off with their mistress.

They thought it was a dog leash. So did he. The murderer had tightened a leash round his victims’ necks. Or a belt. Or a leash.

Did he have a dog? No. No dog. Just a leash that he always carried around with him. Maybe hanging loose when he walked through the park . . . like a dog owner who’d just let his dog run off for a while and was strolling along nonchalantly after it, and was just about to call it back again. A leash hanging loose. Over his arm, perhaps.

Back. Went back. Again. Wandered around with the leash. Or took it out when he was
close,
when he was as close as he could get. He had to be close. Back again.

His mobile rang in the breast pocket of his khaki shirt.

“Where are you?” Angela asked when he answered.

“In town, eating a pretty awful lunch.”

“You could have come home.”

“No time, Angela. I’ve been sitting here for too long already.”

“Can we go swimming this evening?”

“Of course. Six o’clock. Be ready.”

“Six down in the street?”

“Have everything packed and ready. Don’t forget my swimming trunks. And the sardine sandwiches.”

He hung up, but his mobile rang again immediately.

“Somebody’s called in and claimed to recognize the boy from Angelika’s photo,” Bergenhem said.

“Only one?”

“Only one who seems reliable.”

“Where?”

“Frölunda. In one of the high-rise buildings behind the square.”

“Do you have the address?”

Bergenhem read it out; Winter paid his bill and drove off westward.

The big digital thermometer displayed in the square showed ninety-four degrees. The high-rise buildings lining the parking lot were colorless, and seemed to be hovering in air that was really layers of glass.

Bergenhem was standing by the newspaper kiosk. They walked over to the high-rise buildings. Clumps of people were sitting in the shade. Winter could smell the whiff of cooking. A lot of people here were immigrants, from the south. They’d be down by the sea tonight, staying much longer than the Swedes, who would all leave by seven. Apart from Winter and Angelika and Elsa. The smell of grilled meat. Enormous families, all ages, soccer, shouts, laughter, life,

They passed the Arts Center. Buildings became less frequent, lower. Bergenhem consulted a scrap of paper, pointed to an apartment building, went in, and rang the bell of an apartment on the second floor. A man in a string vest and Bermuda shorts opened the door. He was chewing on something.

Bergenhem introduced himself and Winter.

“I think he lives across the street,” said the man, still chewing. “Lots of foreigners live around here.” He finished chewing, and swallowed. “Far too many.” He eyed Winter, who was behind Bergenhem. “What did he do?”

“Where exactly?”

“You what?”

“Can you show us exactly where he lives, please?”

“Yeah, OK. Hang on, I’ll just get my sandals.”

They walked through the courtyard. “Number eighteen,” said the man. Two small children were playing on the swings in the sunshine. On the bench next to the swings was a woman dressed in black.

“Like I said, darkies wherever you look,” said the man, indicating the children on the swing.

“Shut your trap,” said Winter.

“Eh? . . .” said the man, stopping dead in his tracks. The children put their feet down and stopped the swings and stared at the men in front of them. “You don’t talk like that around . . . ,” the man started to say.

Winter was striding toward number eighteen. Bergenhem followed him. The man turned to face him, and then Winter.

“I’ll call your boss,” shouted the man in the string vest.

They went inside and rang all the doorbells. About half of the occupants answered, but nobody recognized the boy’s face. Bergenhem showed them the photo. Nobody had read the local newspaper.

At four apartments there was no answer.

“Hmm,” said Bergenhem.

“The housing association that owns the apartments,” Winter said.

“We’ve already talked to them.”

“Check again.”

They went back. Winter could see the sweat on Bergenhem’s back through his shirt. They passed the tallest of the buildings.

“This is where Mattias lives,” said Bergenhem. “Jeanette Bielke’s ex-boyfriend.”

“Hmm.”

“That building.”

“I know.”

“Have you been to his place?”

“Not yet.”

Winter’s mobile rang.

“It wasn’t consummated rape,” said the male doctor who was standing in for Pia Fröberg. “Anne Nöjd.”

“I see,” Winter said.

“Have you heard from the coroner’s office?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid.”

There was a short pause. Winter could hear paper rustling.

“A belt or some other thin . . . object,” said the pathologist.

“Such as a dog leash? Could she have been strangled with a dog leash?”

“Yes. That’s one possibility.”

“Can you be more precise?”

“Not just yet.”

 

 

They were by the sea at six-twenty. Some Swedes were on their way home to their barbecues. The new Swedes were carrying
their
barbecues down to the shore.

“We’ll bring a throwaway grill with us tomorrow,” Angela said. “You can get them at gas stations.” She was undressing Elsa. “I can’t resist the wonderful smell of their grub any longer.” She was watching two women dressed in black who were starting to cook dinner on the beach.

“I’m all for that,” said Winter, lifting up Elsa, who screamed and giggled as he swung her up and down and carried her down to the water’s edge, which was receding as dusk approached.

Elsa was sitting on his shoulders when they waded in. He squatted down and let her feel the lukewarm water. There were too many jellyfish, but the water was ideal. He lifted Elsa up, held her around her hips, and spun around and around. Light dazzled. The horizon disappeared. He stopped, feeling how dizzy he was. When it eased he realized that there was something nagging in his mind. He searched for what it was as Elsa wriggled in his arms.

It was something he’d heard and seen, just as bright and dazzling as when he’d been spinning around. One second, two. He’d seen it. Seen it.

He heard voices and looked down. Two teenaged girls were asking if they could hold Elsa.

“Ask her,” he said.

She said they could.

 

 

Everything was darker as they drove home. He picked Elsa up—she was in too deep a slumber to awaken.

Angela served white wine. They sat in the kitchen, listening to the evening.

“You need a vacation,” she said.

“Two weeks to go.”

“Can you really go on leave if you haven’t solved this case? Cases.”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“It could be just as well. For the sake of the investigation.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute.”

“Would you believe it, gone already.” He gazed at his empty glass.

“I’ll get the bottle.”

She filled him up, and he took another sip.

“A penny for your thoughts, Erik.”

“Right now?”

“When else?”

“What a marvelous evening it is.”

“One in a thousand.” She looked at him. “You were thinking about something else, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t look pleased.”

He took another sip, and put down his glass.

“I was thinking about the murders, of course. The girls.” He turned to face her.

“You can’t just turn off. Can you?”

“No. I don’t think so. They’re wrong, the ones who say that you can,” he said. “OK, you can turn it off for a while, do something else. But then it comes back.”

She nodded.

“Tonight two teenage girls wanted to hold Elsa. That’s when it came back. Lots of images.”

“You looked unusually far away when you came out of the water.”

“Something hit me.”

“May I ask what?”

“I can’t quite put my finger on it. It hit me that I knew something . . . new. I think. Something important.”

WINTER CALLED HALDERS. HE’D JUST GOTTEN UP AND WAS SITTING
on the balcony. Invisible birds were singing from a sky where two jets had painted a cross.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Halders said.

“How are things?”

“It’s hot already.”

“How’s it going?”

“I said I’ll see what I can do, didn’t I?”

“OK, OK.”

Halders looked up and saw a new cross. The old one had already melted into the sky.

“As you can hear, there’s still a bit of the grumpy old Halders left,” he said.

“There’s hope yet, then.”

“I’ll be coming in shortly,” Halders said.

“We’ll try to find the flat where one missing boy lives in the meantime.”

“You’ll have to do that, at least.” Halders paused. “I’ll pay a visit there later.”

 

 

He took the road alongside the river. The white pleasure boats twinkled on the water like sparklers. The asphalt felt soft under the tires. It smelled like a different country. Julie Miller was singing “Out in the Rain” on Halders’s

CD player. Halders turned up the volume and sang his way through his journey westward as the sun punched at the roof of his car.

 

 

As he turned off the roundabout the silencer on his exhaust suddenly gave way. People turned their heads to stare at him.

The high-rise buildings in Frölunda swayed like drunks in the thin air. He parked outside one of them, diagonally opposite McDonald’s.

The elevator didn’t work. He took the stairs up to the sixth floor. There was graffiti all over the walls, letters on cracked concrete. Stains everywhere, like black blood. A smell of piss and cooking had solidified in the stairwell between floors. Children screamed through closed doors, grown-ups shouted in a thousand different languages. He passed a man in a turban, a woman behind a veil, a man in a vest who passed by hugging the wall. He could see the madness in the man’s eyes.

A door opened on the fifth floor and a young woman emerged with a double stroller containing two small children, who looked up at him in silence. The woman pressed the elevator button. “It’s not working,” Halders said. She pressed again. “I have to go and buy food,” she said.

Halders went up one more floor and rang the bell. Mattias answered after the third ring.

“I wasn’t posh enough for them,” he said, when they were on the sofa under a big window.

Halders nodded.

“Can you understand that?”

“I’ve even been through it myself.”

“You mean it’s happened to you, too?”

Halders nodded again. He could see the sky and a reproduction of a painting of a field full of sunflowers next to the window. “You were there yesterday, weren’t you?” he said. “Or outside the house, at least.”

“Who told you that?”

Halders didn’t answer.

“That bastard of an old man, wasn’t it?”

Halders shrugged.

“Jeanette hasn’t said anything, has she?”

“Why don’t you let her go, Mattias?”

“What do you mean, let her go?”

“You know full well what I mean.”

“I did that ages ago. Let . . . everything go.”