Sture Birgersson had returned from his excursion into the blue. It was Boxing Day. Birgersson was not tanned, but, then, he never was when he came back from his mysterious holidays.
Maybe he stays in Gothenburg, thought Winter, who was sitting opposite the head of the crime unit.
Birgersson squinted at his second in command through a thick cloud of smoke.
“Did you have a good Christmas?”
“Excellent.”
“Mind you, it’s not over yet. Technically speaking.” Birgersson flicked ash into the ashtray, cleared his throat tentatively, and held up some documents.
“Interesting.”
“What’s that?” Winter asked, lighting a Corps. He didn’t like cigarette smoke, never had.
Birgersson put the papers back on the desk.
“Lots of possible leads shooting off in all directions. But interesting.” He was holding one of the papers in his hand now, a transcript of a tape recording. “I liked your chat with Lareda. Smart girl.” Birgersson used the ashtray again. “Perhaps a bit too smart.”
“What do you mean by that, Sture?” Winter drew at his cigarillo and looked hard at him. “She came up with ideas, hypotheses. We’re the ones who make the judgments.”
“Have you made any, then?” Birgersson waved the documents. “On the basis of this stuff?”
“Not yet. There’s a lot to take in.”
“Like I said, lots of possible leads shooting off in all directions. That business of uniforms, for instance. That sounds interesting, but we’ll have to be careful, I suppose.” Birgersson stubbed out his cigarette and eyed Winter’s cigarillo. “Is there any risk that somebody might leak stuff to the press, do you think?”
“Who would do that, Sture?”
“The press would love it,” Birgersson said, without answering Winter’s question. “Love it.” He looked at the papers spread out on his desk. Birgersson’s desk was usually empty. It was a peculiarity of his, possibly something more serious than that. He would read things by the window, on a chair, keep everything away from his desk. But not now. Maybe something had happened while he was out in the blue, Winter thought. Birgersson looked up. “Just as much as some people evidently love this so-called music. That’s just as odd.” He seemed to be smiling. “They’re similar to each other in that respect. The press and the death rockers.”
“Is that what you call them, death rockers?”
“Or black rockers or whatever their goddamn name is. I know it’s really called black metal, but here, in front of you, I’ll call it what the hell I like.” He stroked his chin, then rummaged among the papers again. “I was a bit curious about this prophet, Habakkuk. Have you got anything more about him that isn’t in this paper?”
“Not really. What it says there is taken from a biblical encyclopedia.”
“The thing that seems to be the biggest distinguishing feature of this prophet is that there was evidently nothing of interest about him as a person,” Birgersson said.
“Yes. He was apparently very reticent about his private life,” Winter said.
“That’s a good quality,” said Birgersson. “We know next to nothing about Habby and even less about his daughter.” Birgersson looked at Winter. “Did he have a daughter?”
“I’ve just sent Halders back to the seventh century B.C. to investigate that very thing.”
“Excellent. Halders needs to get out more.” Birgersson looked at the document again, and read an extract out loud. “‘So, Habakkuk was a professional prophet at the temple in Jerusalem, he was a Levite, and an angel took him by the hair and flew with him to Daniel in the lion’s den with some food.’ ” He looked up again. “The information has no historical value.”
“That’s where Halders comes in.”
“On second thought, I don’t think the seventh century B.C. is up to coping with Halders,” Birgersson said. “He could cause a lot of trouble.” Birgersson gave a short, hoarse laugh. “Perhaps we wouldn’t be sitting here now if Halders had been on the loose twenty-six hundred years ago.” He put down the paper and turned to Winter again. “That reminds me of another thing, in parentheses, as it were, before we go on.” Birgersson stood up and seemed to be stretching his long legs. He towered over Winter, shutting out the Boxing Day light. He was a gigantic, shadowy figure and Winter could imagine his body in a long silken robe, with long hair and a beard, brandishing newly written documents on parchment rolls. Or stone tablets. Habakkuk had received a message from the good Lord: “‘Then the Lord told me: I will give you my message in the form of a vision. Write it on tablets clearly enough to be read at a glance.’”
The Book of Habakkuk. Winter thought about Ringmar and what he’d said about the word “rubric.” It was all connected.
Evil will be conquered in the end, even if it always seems to win, was what the prophet meant. The story always had a meaning for those with eyes to see and the ability to put it into the perspective of their faith.
Habakkuk could mean “dwarf.”
Birgersson said something.
“I beg your pardon?”
“There’ll be nine of us on duty in the control room on New Year’s Eve and I’ll be one of them. I’ve known that for some time, but it won’t have any effect on your work.”
“No.”
“I admit that I did think about sending you, for a moment.” Birgersson had sat down again, and the robe, shoulder-length hair, and beard down to his chest had disappeared. “To make it clear that you are as important as I am. An equal deputy. But I don’t think it would have been a good idea, with this case on the go.”
“Things shooting off in all possible directions, is that what you mean?”
“You think well when you’re at home, Erik. I’ve no doubt you’ll be doing that while Gothenburg celebrates the party of the century.”
“Of the millennium.”
“Yes. I can hardly wait to celebrate it along with the chief constable of the province, that very dear lady.”
“You won’t be on your own,” Winter said. He could see them now in his mind’s eye, the nine senior officers from the various units with the task of supporting the communications HQ on this exceptional night that was drawing ever closer. It was a sacrifice by those in high places, proof that the top brass put duty before partying.
“It’ll be interesting,” said Birgersson. “I’ll be able to say afterward that I was there.”
“I’ll think about you when midnight comes,” said Winter. “I hope all the electronics can cope.”
“That’s why we’ll be there.”
Winter laughed.
“What will you be doing at the magical moment? Any special plans?”
“Yes… we’ll be eating at home. My mother’s visiting us. Angela and Mom and me. Nice and quiet.”
“I suppose a bit of peace and quiet is what’s called for, in view of the coming addition to the family. And all’s well with Angela?”
“She’s working away and getting more annoyed about the goings on in the hospital than ever. So, yes, all is well.”
“Anyway. Now you know where to find me when the carnival explodes in a riotous crescendo.”
“Let’s hope that everybody can handle their jubilation,” Winter said.
“To be honest, I think it’s going to be a hard night for the boys on the ground,” said Birgersson.
“There are quite a few gals in the cars as well,” Winter said. ‘And in the street patrols.“
“Yes, yes, but you know what I mean.” Birgersson lit his second cigarette since Winter had come to his office. Winter was reminded of the chain-smoking caretaker. Perhaps Birgersson was cutting down? He looked up: “We’ve said it a thousand times before, but it’s still true that what holds us back in this job is a lack of imagination. But, in a way, the reverse is true with regard to this case. Are you with me? There’s so much imagination floating around that we have to make an effort to keep it in check. The material is somehow… so comprehensive. All these trails that could be leading us in the same direction but don’t necessarily do so.” Birgersson’s face suddenly looked heavier, older. “This is an imaginative sonofabitch we’re dealing with here. The bastard. He’s building up a façade that takes up more space than the deed itself. Are you with me?”
“I’m with you. It sounds interesting.” It was interesting. This was Sture Birgersson the detective speaking.
“Just for a second you think it hasn’t happened. That feeling. You have to go back to an earlier feeling in order to proceed. Try to think under and over these tracks. Messages.”
“I’m with you.”
“Do you think he’s making fun of us, Erik? In the sense that all those messages are really fakes?”
“Fakes?”
“That they are fantasies and nothing to do with the deed. Something that happened afterward… consciously. Intentional misinformation.”
“No.”
“Nor do I really. But what we’ve got is not enough.” Birgersson looked down at the pile of papers again. “There are marks and stains and fingerprints but nothing to compare them with. Beier’s team found some sperm stains, but that’s not enough.”
“I’m afraid I can’t present you with a suspect yet.”
“I’d be happy with somebody to interrogate.”
“Not even that.”
“Perhaps AFIS could be of help,” Birgersson said.
Yes. That had helped in the past. The automated fingerprint identification systems contained the prints of everybody who had been arrested for any crime or misdemeanor, so they could insert the prints they had and see if there were matches. The case could be solved.
“What does the team say?” asked Birgersson. “Is anybody complaining about how long it’s taking you to get anywhere?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I don’t suppose we’re landed with a serial murderer, or…?”
“We’ll know that if we have a series.”
“We don’t have serial murderers in Sweden anymore.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. And I’m prepared to repeat it.”
“Hmm.”
“Get somebody linked with the scene,” said Birgersson. “That’s where we have to start. Those other couples. Can’t you bring ‘em in and shine a light into their eyes? There are several things that aren’t clear.”
“It’s more like vagueness in the way they act,” said Winter. “That can be due to all kinds of things. General uncertainty when it comes to facing the police, for instance. Fear, simply.”
“Exploit it.”
“I am, in my own way.”
“They seemed to have a pretty vague past. The Valkers.”
“Well…”
“A few semi-indecent possibilities, but there’s nothing substantial to work on.”
“We shall see.”
“You said you were going to pay her mother a visit yourself. Louise. In Kungsbacka. You’re not satisfied with the interviews the team’s had with her so far.”
“I’m going there on Thursday.”
Bergenhem was building a snow lantern in the garden. He was building it, and Ada was demolishing it.
“We have to leave an opening to put the candle through,” he said. More snow had fallen during the night, and it was workable. One more night, though, and it would freeze. The snow lantern might survive.
Martina came out with hot juice.
“Ooce!” Ada said.
FBergenhem stroked his hair back.
“Has the headache gone?” she asked.
“I didn’t feel anything last night.”
“What about now?”
“Only a little bit when I bend down.”
She didn’t say any more, but he knew she wanted him to go to a doctor. No. It would get better of its own accord. It’s just that he was… under stress. Now it was almost New Year’s Eve. The mother of all celebrations. He was on emergency call. Just as well. He would stay sober and watch the biggest fireworks display in the history of Gothenburg. They’d all be standing near the bridge, watching the display on the other side of the river, and he’d be among them. Unless he was needed somewhere else.
Ada was tired, and they went indoors. Darkness fell quickly. Ada went to sleep.
When she woke up he went out and lit the lantern and they sat by the window. There was a breeze, but it didn’t blow out the candle. Then came a stronger gust and he had to go out and relight it. It had grown noticeably colder during the last hour.
That night he dreamed about faces whirling around him in a circle. He recognized two of them. There was music he’d never heard before. He was angry with somebody, and the antagonism wouldn’t go away. Somebody was approaching his head.
He woke up, and it was worse than ever. He went to the bathroom and took three painkillers in half a glass of water, then went back to bed and waited for them to work.
The lights were out and there was nobody to blame. He’d have to go down to the cellar and test his way through the fuses.
As he went in, the police officer came out. He nodded. Looked as if he was going out to dinner. Elegant. He smiled and inhaled deeply. Did crooks work over the Christmas and New Year holidays? Surely your normal criminal had a break like everybody else? Maybe it wasn’t an attractive idea to plan something when you’d rather be at home having a good time. He’d had a good time, when he eventually got there.
Now the light was on in his cubbyhole. It was no more than a cubbyhole, even though he called it his office. The fact that his light was on meant that at least a third of the floors up above also had lights working. He checked the staircase but there was no light there. He kept on testing. Now his light went out, but it came right back on again.
He detected a funny smell.
He went further into his cubbyhole, which was big enough for him to be able to see into the shadows. The light had never been good in this office. Then again, he wasn’t there all that often. It didn’t really feel like his apartment building. It was in his own building that it was all at, as you might say.
This block was where the detective lived, so nothing could happen here.
On a bench, behind a few clamps, was a box from McDonald’s and an empty soda bottle. He poked at the hamburger carton and saw a few lettuce leaves, some ketchup stains, and some of that disgusting mayonnaise stuff. There was, in fact, a bit of soda left in the bottle, but no-thank-you.
Who the hell had been down here for a meal? It was a pleasant-enough cubbyhole, but not exactly a restaurant.
He’d never experienced this before, not anywhere. To start with, the door was locked. He checked the door, but there were no marks. Somebody had got in using either a key or a damn good pick, or a piece of steel wire. That was possible, of course.
Some youngster? Why the hell should some youngster come down here to eat a hamburger? Was it more fun than the school cafeteria? School dinners weren’t much fun, but even so. This was odd.
He poured the remains of the soda down the sink and put the bottle underneath. You didn’t throw bottles away where there was a deposit on them, but you threw away empty hamburger boxes, and he dropped it into the half-full bin next to the door.