Åke Edwardson - Sun and Shadow

“Can you smell it?”

“Yes, phew!”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know what I think it is?”

“Maybe.”

“What, then?”

“Somebody… inside there.”

“Right.”

“Somebody dead.”

“It could be.”

“And still listening to… to that stuff.”

“Well… it could be part of the point. Listening to it. I mean, they don’t call it death metal for nothing.”

“Ha, ha.”

“It seems to be on repeat. Or auto-reverse. It’s playing all the time.”

“Doesn’t it drive the neighbors crazy?”

“There are thick walls, floors, and ceilings in this building. What do you think we should do?”

“I don’t know. Is that noise really music?”

“Yes.”

“Can you call that music? It’s so… repulsive.”

“You’d never believe how many people in Gothenburg listen to that crap.”

“Such as whoever lives in this apartment. What exactly is it? I mean, you know everything. Even about stuff you can’t stand.”

“I’m not sure. Quite a lot of stuff sounds like that. Could be…”

A man walked past, and they moved away from the door. He had no idea what was going on. He looked at them over his shoulder. Patrik started walking downstairs and Maria followed him.

“You’ve been here lots of times, haven’t you?” Maria asked. “I mean, you’ve noticed it. You’d better report it. I think you should.”

He stood in front of the door, thinking over what she had said. He was forced to put the newspaper on the floor outside the door, just as he’d done yesterday. It couldn’t go on like this. He thought again about what to do. The smell seemed stronger than before. It seemed to be everywhere, just like the music that was seeping through the thick walls. Odd that the neighbors weren’t up in arms about it.

He left the newspaper on the floor and delivered to the rest of the apartments, then checked to see if the list of residents’ names by the front door gave any information about a caretaker.

He went back out into the street. It was just as dark, but there were more passengers in the trams now. He was behind schedule, but that wasn’t surprising. He’d lost interest in his Walkman, left it in his pocket and continued toward Vasaplatsen. He went into the apartment building that he and Maria had been looking at before, the one where that detective lived, with his girlfriend. He ought to know that if anybody did, delivering newspapers every day all week long. He’d told Maria, or reminded her about it.

It was the same sort of big, black building as the other one. There was the same kind of echo when the elevator clattered its way up.

The call was passed from the central control to the Lorensberg station, on to the constable who dealt with incoming calls, and from him to the duty officer. He listened, asked a few questions, and made a note.

It was Friday evening. Another half-hour and it would be eight o‘clock, when the station closed to the general public.

The duty officer checked his rotation list and went out to the front desk, where the constable was talking to a woman who had just come in from the street. He waited. The woman left, taking a form with her. He had seen her there before. A dog was waiting outside, wrapped up in God only knows what. It barked a welcome as she opened the door. The duty officer turned to his younger colleague.

“Send Morelius to me as soon as he comes back from the gym. Bartram as well. I need to see them urgently.”

A quarter of an hour later they were in the car driving west toward Aschebergsgatan. The caretaker was waiting for them outside. He was elderly, gray-haired. His last year in the job, and now this had happened.

“The third floor,” he said. “The elevator isn’t working, I’m afraid. I’ve phoned the repair-”

“Was it you who called the police?” asked Morelius, cutting him short.

“Well, yes. I suppose so.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d thought of calling sooner… thought there was something odd going on… and then I phoned and reported it.” He was breathing heavily. “Here it is, anyway.”

“Hmm.” Morelius eyed the newspapers piled up on the floor; one was sticking out of the letter box. “Have you rung the bell?”

“Yes. Several times these last few days.” He gestured toward the door. “But nobody answered.”

“Who lives here?” Morelius looked at the nameplate. “Valker. Somebody living on their own? A single tenant?”

“It’s a couple-at least, I think it is. You can never be sure nowadays… But I’ve seen two people. A man and a woman.”

Morelius rang the bell. They could hear some sort of music coming from inside the apartment. He rang again, but there was no answer. He looked at Bartram and then bent down and opened the mail slot.

“Oh, damn!”

“I’ve smelled it as well,” the caretaker said.

“What’s wrong?” Bartram wondered.

“Smell for yourself,” said Morelius, moving out of the way.

“Just say what it is,” Bartram said.

“It’s impossible to describe,” said Morelius, looking at the caretaker again.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“There’s a noise coming from inside. What is it?”

“I don’t know what it is either. But it’s been going for ages now.”

“Ages?”

“Evidently. According to the newspaper boy, at least. And I suppose I’ve heard it myself as well, when I’ve been here wondering… wondering what’s going on. But one’s reluctant to interfere.”

“Open the door,” Morelius said.

“Shouldn’t we wait?” Bartram asked.

“What for?” Morelius turned to the caretaker. “Come on, open up.”

Morelius looked at the door. He had no feelings just now. It could be any door at all. Any people at all. The light on the landing was very bright. It didn’t worry him.

The man fumbled with a bunch of keys, picked one out, put it in the lock and turned.

Winter had mashed the anchovies and mixed in olive oil and garlic when the telephone rang, piercing Charlie Haden’s bass.

“I’ll get it,” said Angela, on her way through the hall from the bathroom.

She came back into the kitchen.

“It’s for you. I’ll hang up the receiver in the hall.”

Winter picked up the phone.

There were two cars parked outside the apartment building. Winter could see them the moment he stepped outside the entrance door of his own building. They were only a few yards away.

Walking distance from the scene of the crime. You could have mixed feelings about that. He rubbed his chin and could smell garlic and anchovies. It felt as if crime had intruded onto his home ground, his home.

There was a young constable he didn’t recognize in the entrance hall. Cars braked behind him as he went in through the front door, and he knew there would soon be lots of people in there. Outside as well.

Welcome home, Chief Inspector.

He went up the stairs.

“Hello, Winter.”

“It’s you, is it, Bartram? Long time no see.”

“We took the emergency call.”

“Who’s that?” asked Winter, gesturing toward the elderly man leaning against a wall.

“The caretaker.”

“He looks in a bad way. Get him to the station and I’ll have a word with him later.”

“Okay.”

“Who’s inside the apartment?”

“Morelius. Simon Morelius. We were the first. And now you.”

Winter went in through the open door. He had to step over a pile of mail and newspapers. The hall was dark, long and narrow, not unlike his own. There was no sign of a light on anywhere. He knew that these officers were experienced enough not to touch the walls and switches.