Åke Edwardson - Sun and Shadow

“I hope so.”

“But there are cases.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maria has a friend by the name of Patrik.”

“Yes… how do you know that?”

“I was told by my colleagues who met Maria. It’s nothing special. They spend a lot of time wandering around the center of town and all that. But what I’m interested in is Patrik, who we’ve been speaking to because he delivers newspapers in the building where those murders took place. You’ve no doubt read about it in the papers.”

She nodded.

“Was Patrik a witness to something?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“But he was there?”

“He delivered newspapers, yes. But what I wanted to say is that he’s got into a bit of a mess, in a different way. He was here, and he’d clearly been beaten. His cheek was black and blue. I sent him off to the hospital to get it treated.”

“What had happened?”

“I think he was beaten up at home.”

“That could well be,” she said, her face becoming serious.

“Have you seen anything like that before?” he asked.

“Not really, but he has looked a bit tousled on some of the few occasions he’s been to see us. To see Maria. Which isn’t very often.”

“Has he said anything to you?”

“No. Not directly, but I have had thoughts.”

“His father is maltreating him. We can’t prove it, but that’s the way it is.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“We’ll have to see. Patrik will have to sort out what he wants to do about it.”

“That’s terrible.”

“I must do something to help.”

Winter went to the CD player. “I’d like you to listen to this.” He started the Sacrament disc. He was familiar with the music by now. For a brief moment he even thought he might be able to hear a tune, like a vague sort of message inside the cement mixer. Like Coltrane’s meditations.

Hanne Ostegaard listened with her eyes closed. She has a teenager at home. This is nothing so unusual to her. He switched it off after a minute.

“Not exactly what I like listening to,” she said. “What is it?”

He filled her in and gave her the text that came with the CD.

“Patrik has played metal for us at home.”

She scrutinized the cover, the black line tracing the coast, the sky, the silvery gleam. Winter had written out the text from the leaflet in a readable form.

He asked her to read the words for the first of the songs. She seemed almost to smile, despite the seriousness of it all.

“A large dollop of imagination,” she said.

“You can say that again.”

“A wide scope. All the way, from bottom to top, as it were.”

“From hell to heaven.”

‘And then they make a little corner available for one of the prophets.“

‘And that brings us to the real reason why I wanted to talk to you, Hanne.“ He gestured toward the first page of the leaflet that had accompanied the CD.

“Habakkuk? You want to know about Habakkuk?”

“Yes.”

“Erik, I’m not that kind of theological expert. He was an honest professional prophet, but that’s just about all I know. Have you read what he wrote? In the Bible?”

“Yes. Did he have a daughter?”

“I’ve no idea. I don’t think anything is known about his life. You’ll have to look at the theological literature. Exegesis. The exegetic reference works.”

“Okay. I’d thought of turning to the university. Religious studies.”

“Yes. There’s something called an Interpreter’s Bible. And similar stuff. That’s where you’ll find whatever is known about Habakkuk.” She looked at the cover. “How on earth could he get involved in something like this? Habakkuk?”

“The murders, you mean?”

“Or just this CD cover. That’s enough.” She looked at Winter. “What are you going to make of this?”

“For starters, we will try to avoid making anything of anything, and concentrate on establishing some facts.”

“Heaven and hell.”

“That’s what it looks like right now.”

“But perhaps it’s just a game. This band, Sacrament-are they really trying to say something serious with all this trash?”

“That may not be important. But somebody is using it to mean something.”

“I read an article in one of the Sunday papers last week,” Hanne said. “It was about the spirit of the age. It went on about there being only a couple of weeks left until the new millennium, when all concepts would have to be redefined.”

“Fin de siècle. ”

“Yes. The end of the century, in spades: the end of the millennium. We’re a bit lost about where we go from here.”

“Whether we’re on our way up or down, you mean?”

“Yes. Heaven or hell.”

“And we finish up with a remarkable mixture of both,” Winter said. “The world is being pulled in different directions.”

“Not my world,” said Hanne, and smiled again. “In my world we spend all our energy on fighting against evil.”

“But does it produce results?” Winter closed his eyes; then looked again at Hanne. “ ‘Our Lord, how long must I call for your help before you listen? How long before you save us from all this violence?”’

“That sounds like the Old Testament. I’d guess Habakkuk.”

“Right the first time.”

“Are there any quotations here? From the Bible?” she asked, holding up the printouts of the text.

“Not as far as I can see. Not literal quotations.”

She put down the leaflet.

“More and more people are looking for some kind of guidance in life, some kind of comfort or consolation,” she said. “In their different ways.”

“Everybody wants a box of chocolates and a red rose,” Winter said.

“Isn’t that reasonable?”

“I suppose so.”

“Or a bowl of soup,” she said. “Our parish runs a pretty good soup kitchen.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Isn’t that awful?”

“The soup kitchen? I don’t know about that. If you didn’t do it people would starve out there in the darkness.”

As he said that she turned and looked out the window.

“Light will soon be back,” she said.

Morelius stopped at a red light. The town theater was attractively illuminated. The same applied to the whole city. One week to go to Christmas, and the light was intense when it grew dark.

A Santa Claus went past, and bowed in the direction of the police car.

“Do Santas bow?” Bartram asked.

Morelius didn’t answer. The light changed to green.

The Avenue was full of people carrying packages.

“Have you bought any Christmas presents?” Bartram asked.

“Not yet.”

‘Are you staying in Gothenburg for Christmas?“

“Why do you want to know?”

“I was only asking.”

Morelius turned into Södra Vägen. The council workers were busy on Heden, building a stage that would be used for the New Year celebrations. Gothenburg would enter 2000 with bright lights and a fanfare of trumpets. That applied to the whole city. Everybody would be on their feet, apart from those who had already fallen over before the clock struck midnight, thought Morelius. And he would be standing in the midst of them.

“All right. I’m going to spend Christmas with my mom.”

“Kungälv?”

“Kungsbacka.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. You’re from Kungsbacka. I don’t suppose you knew the woman who was murdered? Louise?”

“No.”

“I guess the town isn’t all that small.”

“No.”

‘Are they talking much about it? In Kungsbacka, I mean?“

“Mom phoned but she hadn’t heard anything.” Morelius waited while several people carrying parcels walked over the pedestrian crossing. “She didn’t know her, either, this… Louise.” He set off again. The city center was packed, and driving was a nightmare.