Åke Edwardson - Sail of Stone

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

“But don’t you understand? He’s dangerous to her. He’s going to go after her again.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, yes I do.”

Halders got up and went over to the CD player, which had become silent. She heard him searching through the discs, ungraceful as always. She heard the rhythm and recognized it, of course, and the singer’s voice. It was her CD, after all. Gabin Dabiré. Afriki Djamana: Music from Burkina Faso. Afriki Djamana reminded him of her.

The music moved like a caravan through the desert, swaying, stepping and sinking. The song was called “Sénégal,” and it was about longing, maybe longing for the sea to the west.

“He’s not going to leave her alone,” said Aneta.

“What? Who?”

“Forsblad, of course. He can’t accept that she doesn’t want him.”

“But he’s already living with someone else.”

“Yeah, so he says.”

“Let him say so, then. Even if it’s not true, maybe it will help him.”

“How so?”

“I’m not a psychopath,” said Halders. “I don’t know how he thinks, but I can imagine-”

“It’s just more lies,” interrupted Aneta.

“I’m not a psychologist either, but if he’s creating a world for himself where he thinks that he’s with a new woman, maybe it’s a good thing.”

“A new woman he can beat?”

Halders didn’t answer.

“The guy is dangerous,” said Aneta. “We do happen to agree on that, you know.”

“Leave it,” said Halders. “Leave him and her and that entire family, whether it exists or not.”

She didn’t say anything.

“And the furniture.” Halders smiled.

“I haven’t even met Anette, not really,” mumbled Aneta, but Halders heard. “She hasn’t ever reported any assault herself,” she said, and she heard him sigh. “But the neighbors called. Several times. And the woman in the same stairwell saw injuries on her face.”

“Aneta. She doesn’t live there anymore. He doesn’t live there anymore. She lives at home, safe with her parents. He might be living with a new woman. Maybe he’s going after her, too, and in that case we’ll nab him right away. But now ca-”

“Do you know how many of these conversations you and I have had while there are new violent crimes happening?” she said. “Assault? While we, who are supposed to prevent crime, arrive at the conclusion that there’s no danger and hardly any reason to prevent this particular threat or crime, it happens. It happens again.”

“Do you want anything else to drink?”

“Are you listening to what I’m saying?”

“I’m listening.”

“Well, answer then, Fredrik.”

“I just don’t know what we can do in a situation like this,” he said, turning to her and reaching for her arm. “We actually can’t bring him in, not now.”

“We could keep him under surveillance.”

“Who would do that?” said Halders.

“Me.”

“Come off it. You’d be the last one.”

“Someone else, then. This isn’t personal, if that’s what you think.”

“Really?”

“Not personal in that way.”

“You know just as well as I do that Winter would never put people on something like this,” said Halders.

“It’s preventative. Erik is all for prevention.”

“He’s also for realism.”

“What is more realistic than a battered woman?”

“What do you want me to say to that, Aneta?”

“I don’t know, Fredrik.”

“And even if Winter gave the okay, Birgersson would say no.”

“Birgersson? Is he still around? I haven’t seen him in years.”

“That’s how he wants it,” said Halders.

Aneta got up and walked across the room.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she said.

Halders had made grilled sandwiches. She was still warm from the hot shower, relaxed, a bit comfortably numb after all of her thoughts earlier today. “I couldn’t find pineapple,” he said, “there was cheese and ham and mustard, but no pineapple.”

“You aren’t required to have pineapple on a warm sandwich, Fredrik.”

“Oh, really? Great. I was feeling like a failure there for a minute.”

“You’ve done well, Fredrik.”

“A cup of tea?” He held out the pot like the servant of a countess.

“You changed the disc,” she said, meaning the music.

“I will never cease to be amazed at all the guitars you collect,” he said, and she listened and understood what he meant when the guitar solo in “Comfortably Numb” arrived.

“I think he knows the people who stole that whole apartment,” she said.

“Oh, Aneta, please.”

“Who else would get the idea to do it? How did they get in?”

“Now drink your tea and relax for a minute.”

“Answer me. They just went in.”

“And then out.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t think he wants that crap,” said Halders.

“I think the exact opposite,” said Aneta. “If he can’t own her, he can at least own everything that is hers.”

Halders didn’t answer.

“You’re not answering.”

“I didn’t realize it was a question.”

“Come on, Fredrik!”

“That analysis seems, well, a little too homemade, if you want an honest opinion. And there’s another snag.”

“What?”

“Well, even if that crazy Forsblad guy is batshit insane, that doesn’t necessarily mean that the rest of the world is, does it? He had to convince those two characters you met that the apartment had to be emptied.”

“Like they needed a reason? Are you kidding? Do you mean that today, in this country, it’s difficult to get two criminal henchmen to empty an apartment? There are always people for sale who will do anything you need.”

“Can people really be so awful?” said Halders.

“Don’t joke away your naïveté, Fredrik.”

“Do you know what, Aneta,” said Halders, reaching for the teapot again. “There is no man born of a woman who can beat you in a debate.”

“Debate? Are we having a debate?”

Bergenhem walked across Sveaplan with a strong wind at his back. A sheet of newspaper flew in front of the neighborhood store.

The houses around the square looked black in the twilight. A streetcar passed to the right, a cold yellow light. Two magpies flapped up in front of him when he pushed the button next to the nameplate. He heard a distant answer.

It was just like last time.

But this time he wasn’t here on duty.

He didn’t know why he was standing here.

“I’m looking for Krister Peters. It’s Lars Bergenhem.”

“Who?”

“Lars Bergenhem. I was here last year, from the county CID.”

He didn’t get an answer, but the door buzzed and he opened it.

He went up the stairs. He rang the bell. The door was opened after the second ring. The man was Bergenhem’s age.

His dark hair hung down on his forehead just as it had last time. It looked as deliberate now as it had then. His face was unshaven now, as it had been then. Peters was wearing a white undershirt now, as he had then; it shone against his tanned and muscular body.

“Hi,” said Peters. “You came back.”

“I can have that whisky now,” said Bergenhem.

Bergenhem had worked on the investigation of a series of assaults. A friend of Krister Peters’s, Jens Book, had been attacked and seriously injured near Peters’s home.

Bergenhem had visited Peters and questioned him. Peters was innocent. Peters had offered him malt whisky. Bergenhem had declined.

“I’ll pass this time,” Bergenhem had said. “I have the car and I have to go right home when I’m done.”

“You’re missing a good Springbank,” Peters had said.