Sun and Shadow (10 page)

A long time.

He was shaking like a dog. The music was still on when it was over. He’d done everything and toward the end he’d had all the help—the courage—he’d lacked earlier. He was still there in the white glow. He could hear the words, one after another, nobody else could make out any words in the blare of the music, the-blood-is-sacrificed-in-my-face.

Angela rang after five minutes.

“All done.”

“Good.”

“So, what now?”

“I’ll borrow money from Mom today. But you could phone the bank and ask them to send me some money to arrive tomorrow.”

“Where to?”

“To one of the banks in town. I’ll call in at the first one I come to and ask if they can receive transfers. Actually, I can phone my bank myself if you can give me the number now.”

“Okay. That was ... pretty bad luck.”

“It was badly handled by me. That shouldn’t happen.”

“Every cloud has a silver lining. You’ll learn to have a bit of sympathy with the victims from now on.”

“Hmm.”

“You’ll have to report this to the police.”

“Oh, please.”

“Of course you must, Erik. You can’t come back home and contact your insurers and all that without having reported the incident to the police on the spot. Do I have to spell that out for you, of all people?”

“No.”

“Maybe the thief will pocket the credit cards and send all the rest to the police.”

“Maybe Santa lives at the North Pole.”

“I’m serious, Erik.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll report it to the police. At least I know where the police station is.”

“Good. Worse things have happened, Erik.”

“I know, Angela. I know.”

He walked around the bus station, investigating the waste bins and the dusty bushes, but the thief hadn’t thrown away the wallet.

Winter was still feeling furious, but Angela was right. There were people worse off than he was.

 

The gray marble walls of the police station had turned white when the sun started shining on them. He went up the steps and turned left to the Oficina de Denuncias, and tried to explain his problem to a uniformed officer at a desk. The man held up a hand, and used his other to point to a door. It was closed, but the sign, white on blue, said:
INTERPRETER’ S OFFICE.

Winter sat down. After a few minutes the door opened and a couple who could well have been Swedes came out. The police officer beckoned to Winter.

Inside was a woman at a desk. She was busy filling in a form, looked up and indicated to Winter that he should take a seat on the chair in front of her desk. She looked twenty-five, possibly thirty, years of age. Dark, close-cropped hair; but when she looked at him he noticed that her eyes were blue. She didn’t seem to be wearing any makeup. An attractive woman. Wearing a loose-fitting dress, and her skin tone was unusually light for a Spaniard.

He told her briefly what had happened. She listened with interest, which surprised him.

“Please fill in this form. I’ll be back in just a moment,” she said.

She handed him a form headed
“Diligencia
,” and he started filling in personal data and a summary of what had happened. He hesitated at the word “
Profesió
,” but decided to tell the truth.

She came back and read quickly through the document.

“Do you still have your passport?”

“It looks like it. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to fill in the passport number, would I?” He’d sounded aggressive. He regretted his words. But she didn’t react at all.

“So, you are a chief inspector?” He thought he could detect a trace of a smile, but couldn’t be certain.

“Detective chief inspector,” he said.

‘Aren’t you a bit on the young side for that?“

“You think so? I’m in my fifties.”

“In that case you have lied about your age on this form.”

“I was only joking.” Winter could feel something inside his head, a sudden weak rush of blood. She looked at him again. “You also seem to be on the young side for an ... interpreter,” he said. Oh, come on! I hope I’m not sitting here flirting.

She smiled and stood up. She was tall, taller than he had expected.

“I apologize for all the criminals we have here on the south coast.” She pointed at the door. “If you’d like to wait outside I’ll pass on this form to a police officer who’ll enter the information into the computer. You’ll be called in to him shortly.”

“Is that everything?” Winter said.

“I can’t think of anything else.”

He stood up. There was a sign by the door with three names under a heading that presumably meant “Police Interpreters.” Two men’s names and a woman’s: Alicia. She noticed that he was scrutinizing the sign.

“Yes, my name’s Alicia.”

“Erik.”

“I know,” she said with a smile, indicating the form she had in her hand.

He waited outside. A constable emerged and ushered him into a room looking out over the main road. It was the man Winter had seen earlier that morning going into the bar, and later into the motorcycle showroom.

“I apologize for the problems, Chief Inspector.”

“It was my own fault.”

The man said nothing. Perhaps he wondered how on earth I could have been such an idiot, something I was asking myself as well.

“They are getting more and more bold.”

“That’s the way it is.”

“But we mustn’t give up, must we?”

“Of course not.”

“Where would the world be if the police were to give up?” wondered the officer, but Winter decided not to enter into that philosophical debate just now. The officer spoke excellent English. Their discussion could have been very involved. “When the police give up, the world is doomed.”

“Do you need any more information?”

“I beg your pardon? Er, no. I’ll just finish filling this in.”

The man wrote in silence, much more slowly than he had spoken. He needed to concentrate hard. Winter had no intention of disturbing him. He might take it amiss.

“There. It’s done. Could you sign here, please? Both copies.”

Winter duly signed and got to his feet, one of the copies safely in his pocket.

“Be careful out there, Chief Inspector,” said the police officer, and Winter searched for a trace of irony; but the man’s face was a complete blank. “It’s a jungle.”

As he passed by the front desk, Alicia emerged from her office carrying more forms: Winter could see another tourist in the chair in front of her desk.

“Good-bye, Inspector Erik,” she said, giving him a winning smile.

He thought briefly about her as he walked down the hill. He was behind the wheel of his car and ready to drive to the hospital before he remembered that he needed to stop in at the bank.

Maria and Patrik were wandering around the center of town. It was chillier now. A northerly wind. Maria plunged her hands into her pockets.

“Didn’t you bring any gloves?”

“I thought I had put them in my pocket.”

“It’s cold.”

“That’s better than rain, though.”

“Have you got any cigarettes?” she asked, stopping outside McDon ald’s. The big stores in the Nordstan shopping center were closed, but the doors into the warmth were still open.

“I’m trying to stop.”

“Stop? You’ve only just started.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Who does?” she said, going into the shopping center. They walked under a blast of warm air. A group of adults followed them in. They all seemed to be laughing. Maria could smell booze and perfume and aftershave. The group stopped outside King Creole, then went in just as Maria and Patrik were passing.

“Dance band,” he said with a laugh.

“At least they have somewhere to go.”

“I’d prefer to stay outside.”

“Even so.”

Groups of people were dotted around the square outside Femman. Two police officers strolled across to where a street musician was playing the guitar. He didn’t stop playing just because they were standing over him. He started to sing. One of the officers, the older one, seemed to be swaying in time to the music. The singer increased his volume.

“He sounds as if he’s in pain,” Patrik said.

“It’s meant to sound like that,” Maria said. “It’s something from Spain. Flamingo, they call it.”

“Flamenco. It’s called Flamenco.”

“I didn’t think you knew about stuff like that.”

“But it sounds as if he’s hurt himself.”

“Just imagine being able to fly off there.”

“A last-minute package to the Canary Islands.”

“Have you been there?”

“We were all there, the whole family ... before Mom moved out.”

“What was it like?”

“When Mom moved out? Just let it drop.”

“I meant the Canary Islands.”

Patrik paused, listening to the musician, who had launched into a new tune that sounded identical to the previous one.

He could tell her about a swimming pool and how he’d dived from a little stone ledge where there was a palm tree and the pool was just one story below the balcony of the apartment they’d stayed in. His little sister had had water wings and his mom had walked beside her in the blue water, laughing. He’d been diving and swimming all day long and in the afternoons they’d played bingo. He’d been swimming after dark as well, and demonstrated a new dive to his parents as they’d sat at a poolside table with his sister. Watch this, he’d shouted, and they’d clapped. It was nearly as hot in the evenings as during the day, but back home in Sweden there was snow everywhere. He’d held his father’s hand.

But there was no little sister, no mom, no trip to the Canary Islands, no swimming pool, no palm tree, no bingo. Had never been. He used to dream, sometimes, dream aloud. Maria knew nothing about that. She could visit whatever islands she wanted.

“There was nothing special about the Canary Islands,” he said.

Morelius was standing outside Harley‘s, waiting for Bartram, who’d gone inside to chat with the owner. Morelius stamped his feet. It had turned colder, and felt much chillier and drier after only a couple of hours.

“It’ll take place tomorrow,” said Bartram as he came out. “They’re not thinking of changing it.”

“Okay.”

“Maybe that’s just as well.”

“Does it matter when the Harley-Davidson club have their party?”

“I suppose not.”

“Same high jinks no matter when.”

“Pretty girls, though,” Bartram said. “They always have some top-class babe with ‘em.”

“Don’t you include them among the members?”

“They’re hangers-on,” said Bartram. “Attractive hangers-on.” He stamped his feet. “I wouldn’t mind an HD chick to warm me up right now.”

“You don’t say.”

“Get her inside all this leather.” He stroked his leather jacket. “Get down to the basics. Get what I mean, Simon? The basics.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Now what’s the matter?”

“I’m fed up with your chatter.”

“Relax a bit, for God’s sake! It’s a ...” But Bartram shut up as he saw two young people approaching along the Avenue. They were only six feet away now. “Ah, some old friends! Good evening.”

“Good evening,” Patrik said.

“So you’re out walking again,” Morelius said.

“It’s a free country,” said Maria.

“Of course it is,” said Bartram. ‘Aren’t you cold?“

“No,” said Maria, but Morelius could see her red nose and earlobes and her bare hands stuck into her pockets.

‘Are you on your way home?“

“Whose home?”

“Suit yourselves,” Morelius said. “We’re just about to pick up a car and could give you a lift.”

“The night is yet young,” Patrik said. He’d heard that somewhere and thought it sucked so much, he just wanted to say it. Morelius looked at Bartram but made no comment.

“It is indeed,” said Bartram. “Have you something special in mind?”

“We’d thought of going to a pub,” said Maria.

“You’re too young for that.”

“Exactly. That’s just it.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s nowhere we can get into.”

“You don’t want to be sitting around in pubs.”

“I’m not just talking about pubs. I’m talking about places. Anywhere. Any place where young people can get in and hang out.”

“Hang out?”

“Hang out. With other people.”

“Okay,” Morelius said.

“But it’s no good,” Patrik said. “There isn’t anywhere.”

“I’m with you on that,” Morelius said.

“What are you going to do on New Year’s Eve?” asked Bartram.

“What?”

“The night of the century. Of the millennium. Will we be seeing you up at Skansen?”

“Eh?”

“Won’t you be there? We’ll be there.”

“You mean you’ll be working on New Year’s Eve?”

“Of course. Both Morelius and I are on duty then, and we’ll be up at Skansen when the big moment comes.”

“Jesus Christ! Working on New Year’s Eve!”

“Why not? Half of Gothenburg will be up on that hillside, in any case. The younger half, at least. And we’ll be getting paid for being there.” He turned to Morelius. “We’re in luck, aren’t we, Simon?”

“We certainly are.”

Patrik looked at Maria and shook his head.

“We’d better get going,” he said.

“Go home and get warm,” Morelius said.

“It’s a free country,” Patrik said. He enjoyed saying that, because it sucked.

Bergenhem had finished his late shift but hadn’t gone straight home. Instead he’d driven southward and played the fourth CD from Springsteen’s
Tracks, happy with you in my arms, happy with you in my heart.
Last night Martina had whispered something and stroked his arm, but he’d pretended to be asleep. She’d turned away, and he really did fall asleep in the end. He’d tried not to think.