Winter put on his gloves and took the elevator down. It was the first time he’d collected proof material in his own building. The world was getting closer.
He had to wait a few minutes until the man arrived.
“I didn’t realize it was so important,” he said. “Good thing I mentioned it.”
He unlocked the door.
“Look. No scrape marks around the lock as far as I can see.”
Winter agreed.
“This is a rapid response by the police, I must say.” He opened the door. “You evidently take everything seriously.”
“Yes,” Winter said. No, he thought. This was a response he didn’t really understand himself. Angela’s worries. Some silent telepl one calls. Somebody who shouldn’t be there sitting in the cubbyhole drinking soda. A case for Detective Chief Inspector Winter.
They were Zingo bottles.
“I’ll take them,” said Winter, picking up all three in his gloved left hand.
“I can see you’ve worked as a waiter,” the caretaker said.
Bergenhem regained consciousness and looked around the room. If this was paradise, it looked remarkably like the world he’d just left.
He could focus his gaze. There wasn’t the same burning sensation in his head. Martina’s face was distinct, close. She said something, but he couldn’t hear what. He tried to sit up. She said it again.
“Lie still, Lars. You have to be careful.”
Somebody in white was hovering behind her. It could be an angel, and in a way that’s what it was. He recognized her face first, then her voice.
“I just called in on my way past,” Angela said.
Same here, he thought.
“You look better.”
I have nothing to compare with, he thought.
“Where am I?”
“In a ward at the Sahlgren Hospital.”
Now I remember. Now I can ask the big question.
“Has the tumor gone?”
“The tumor?”
“The brain tumor. Did you take it out?”
Perhaps he detected a little smile in the midst of all the solemnity. She turned to another angel in white, who seemed to nod.
“We suspected encephalitis at first, but it turned out to be the nasti est attack of migraine imaginable.”
“Migraine? But I’ve never suffered from migraine.”
Beier had the bottles. I didn’t know they still sold Zingo, he’d said. Is this another message for us, do you think? he’d asked. Winter had waved a hand dismissively: end of messages.
He listened to Sacrament again and read the text. The singer was wading through blood in Lower Manhatten, but managed to get away and head for the outer Cosmos. Winter had listened to it so many times by now that he could make out more and more words without the crib sheet. Or perhaps he was just imagining that.
Whenever he was walking through the town he used to listen for black metal, for echoes of roars from predatory animals in the Muzak in department stores or in record shops. He would react whenever anybody passed by listening to a Walkman. A lot of people did. They all sounded the same, a rhythmical buzzing noise, shut in the earphones. They would occasionally remove one of the phones, or the earpiece. Never black metal. But always very loud.
Winter had never listened using earphones. He wanted to move in time with his music, but from a longer distance away. Now that he was looking out for such things he noticed that several colleagues came to work with portable CD players.
He had spoken to Lareda again, briefly. They were in his office.
“Was he interrupted?”
“No.”
“What happened, then?”
She didn’t answer at frst. She was standing by the window. It was lighter than it had been at the same time on the previous occasion. February was approaching, within reach outside the window.
“He’s on the way to… somewhere else,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t really know myself.” She was watching the sun starting to set. “Either he lost interest halfway through, or it was the intention from the start. Wait…”
“How can I make progress with this investigation?”
“Think about the words,” she said. “The words on the wall.”
“Is that a more important clue now? Wall Street?”
“I think so.”
“I don’t know.”
“Try following it.”
“Following it?”
“It won’t be taking you away from him.”
“Will he make another attempt?”
“The same type of crime? No. I don’t think so. Not any more.”
“Why not?”
“Do you remember what I said about one world governed by God and another world governed by Satan?”
“I will never forget it.”
“Something has happened in the world. His world.”
“Something has happened? What do you mean ‘happened’? Has somebody taken it over?”
“Perhaps.”
“Who? God?”
“More likely the other one.”
“The Devil? That would mean a world without hope, that’s what you said last time.”
She nodded and sat down again. Winter had switched on his desk lamp. His desk was clear.
“In a world without hope there’s no longer any point fighting on,” she said. “That means he can’t get any farther. It no longer makes any difference what he does.”
“So he’ll stop.”
“He might.”
“So our hope lies in a world without hope, governed by Satan?”
Ringmar had been in touch with Swedish Television. They were making a film in Gothenburg about crime and punishment.
“They’ve been around for quite a while. Several months in fact, with a break. The interesting thing is that it involves forty police officers in uniform.”
“Forty? Forty actors?” Winter asked.
“No. Extras.”
“Are they filming at the moment?”
“Yes. I talked to the boss. He’s the one in charge.”
“Ah,” Winter said, with a smile.
“What I mean is, he’s the one who arranged for the costumes.”
The location was within walking distance, so they walked. The team was busy in the extensive car park outside the Gamla Ullevi stadium. Six-foot walls of snow lined the edge of the car park along the Allé. There were cameras and microphones everywhere, and two women were shouting into megaphones. A group of police officers were leaning against a panda car. Extras, Winter thought.
Ringmar went off and came back accompanied by a tall man with mutton-chop whiskers, wearing a green woolly hat and a brown leather jacket, and carrying a folder.
“We’re innocent, honest,” he said, and looked at Winter. “Interesting that you want to take a look at what we’re doing here.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well… the film’s about a DCI in Gothenburg, and his adventures.”
“You don’t say.”
“A guy about your age, in fact.”
“There aren’t any,” Ringmar said. “Erik’s the youngest in Sweden.”
“This is a film.”
“Ah, of course.”
“So you’re making a film about a detective chief inspector, are you?” Winter said.
“It’s a series for television about stark reality in Gothenburg and Sweden in general. STV drama.”
“When will it be shown?”
“Probably in a year or so.”
Winter looked around at the actors and technicians.
“What’s happening here just now?”
“At the moment we’re recording a scene in which the DCI visits a television team to ask some questions in connection with a case he’s working on.”
“All right,” Winter said, and went to peer into a nearby camera. “Let’s get started.” He pointed at the squad car and the group of extras wandering around close to it. “Are you the one who procured those uniforms?”
“Yes. But not from you.”
“No, I’d gathered that.”
“The Gothenburg police are hopeless when it comes to that kind of thing.”
“Quite right too,” Ringmar said.
“Where did you get them from?”
“Swed Int, the supply depot in Södertälje.”
“How many did you order from there?”
“Forty-one, to be precise. One in reserve.”
“Can you account for them all?”
“How do you mean?”
“Could any of them be stolen?”
‘Anything can be stolen. It’s possible to break into the costumes store. But, obviously, when we’ve finished, I’ll check that they’re all there before we send them back to Södertälje.“ He looked at the squad car. ”I’ve already done that once. This is the second round of recordings we’re into.“
“How much longer will you be doing this?”
“Until we’ve finished.” He turned to Winter. They were more or less the same height, but he was about ten years younger than Winter. “Could be another month. Maybe longer. You can ask the director.”
Winter nodded.
“So you always know where your props and costumes are?” Ringmar asked.
“Well… I won’t pretend I’m a hundred percent certain while we’re actually shooting. Not every second.”
“So somebody could take a costume home in between takes, or whatever they’re called?” Winter asked.
“Well… I suppose it’s possible.”
“Has it happened?”
“I expect so. If we’re working late and have to start early the next morning… well… it could be that not all the uniforms spend the night in the costumes store. I don’t actually know, now that you mention it.”
“All right.”
“I do know one thing, though.” He tucked the folder under his arm and rubbed his hands to warm them up. “These scenes we’re shooting… some of them… take place in the suburbs and involve immi grants, ethnic groups that are a part of the plot, I mean.”
Winter nodded.
“I don’t want any more problems than necessary… No more than all the crap that can be flying around when we’re shooting, that is. So I mean… here we have forty extras running around in police uniforms and sometimes they nearly all appear at the same time… out in Ham markullen or Biskopsgården say, and I don’t want to run any risks now, do I? Are you with me? That some bastard says something to an immigrant, or something. Makes the most of his opportunity, if you like.”
“You mean that one of the extras might turn out to be a racist?”
“Exactly.”
“And?”
“And so I’ve sent in all the… let’s call them ‘police extras’… all their ID numbers in.” He held up the file. “We’ve got all their names and addresses.”
“Sent them in? Sent them to the police, do you mean?”
“Yes. For a check, so to speak. To be on the safe side. You’ve got their details already.”
Beier had received the results of the DNA test from the lab in Link öping.
“It was Mr. Martell’s sperm.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ringmar said. Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap, he thought.
“How is his wife?” Beier asked.
“In a bad way,” Winter said.
“Still more dead than alive,” Ringmar said.
“I don’t like that expression,” said Beier. “You’re either dead or you’re alive. There’s nothing in between.”
“Have you seen her?” asked Ringmar.
“No.”
Ringmar said nothing, and it was an eloquent silence.
Winter broke it.
“The Elfvegrens are coming in again tomorrow.”
Winter dialed Patrik’s home number. The boy’s father answered, as if he’d been standing next to the telephone. Winter said who he was.
He had consulted the social services: the family was notorious, but there was no history of abuse.
Winter had been thinking about Patrik. It was his duty to report a suspected case of ill treatment. It was his duty, his obligation. Nevertheless he had hesitated, spoken to the authorities. But now he had filed the report. He didn’t say anything to the man.
“I’m looking for Patrik.”
“Can’t you leave us alone?”
“Is Patrik at home?”
“You’re the second damn cop who’s phoned today and asked for him.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The third, in fact.”
The murder investigation, Winter thought. But three cops?
“Who were they?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Did Patrik speak to them?”
“He’s not at home.”
“Can I speak to him now?”
“He’s not at home, I keep fucking telling you.”
The weather was fine again when they drove to Landvetter. There was not much traffic about as early as this in the afternoon.
“Blue skies both here and there,” his mother said. She turned to look at her son. “I’ll come back when the baby’s arrived.”
They drove around the terminal and parked in his usual place. He got a cart and they went into the departure lounge.
“There doesn’t seem to be any delay,” his mother said, then burst into tears.
He gave her a hug.
“This is the first time… the first time I’ve flown down there on my own,” she said in a faint voice. She looked up at him. “I know you want me to stay here, but I need to go. Can you understand that?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“I mean, that’s where… where your father is.”
Winter could visualize the grave, the grove, the mountain, the hill, the sea, the soil.
“He’s there and he’s also… here.”
“Of course he is, Erik.”
Let’s not go into it now, he thought, but he is here. Perhaps it’s easier this way.
She waved from the escalator up to customs and the departure gates. She was late.
He waited by the car until the plane rose like a heavy migrating bird of silver. It was sucked into the blue five thousand feet up.