Åke Edwardson - Sun and Shadow

He closed one eye as they drove over the bridge. A ferry was just leaving. The roofs were weighed down with snow. White caps, Ada had said the other day, pointing up at them.

He started to feel terrible. Martina was driving like an ambulance driver.

They were attended to immediately. X-rays, cold light, lamps shining into his eyes. He knew what it was, had known for some days. That’s perhaps what had been dictating his mood all year, his restless worry. He thought he could hear them talking about the operation. The words were bouncing and thudding all around him.

“I want to keep my sight.”

Everybody was dressed in white. White caps. He tried to get through to them. Please spare my eyesight.

The Elfvegrens had eventually wriggled off the hook, got away from Halders. They hadn’t admitted anything, but they had left their fingerprints.

“I refuse,” Per Elfvegren had said. “You have no right to do this.”

“When we are conducting an investigation we have the right to take fingerprints for purposes of comparison,” Winter said. “For specific purposes.”

“Who decides that? Who makes the decision?”

“The person in charge of the investigation.”

“And who’s that?”

“Me.”

They were waiting for answers. Beier’s team was just as eager.

“Sensitive stuff, this,” Halders said.

“What stuff? Their leisure activities?” Winter asked.

“Nobody wants to talk to a few cops about their screwing activities.”

“No, obviously not.”

“They should have thought of that before they went in for it,” said Halders.

“You’ll have to hold your horses for a while,” Winter said. “It’s possible that they’ve never been there. At the Valkers’ place.”

Elfvegren had said, during the very first interview a long time ago, that they’d been around at the Valkers’ once, but he claimed later that his memory had let him down. He’d changed his mind. They had never set foot in the Valkers’ apartment.

“A load of crap,” Halders said. “I’ll bet on it.”

“What’s the prize?”

“A year’s subscription to The Beano.”

Beier phoned.

“They match,” he said. “They’ve been in the apartment.”

“What about the Martells?”

“Nothing there.”

Winter winked at Halders and replaced the receiver.

“Did you take the bet?”

“We’ll bring them in again,” Winter said.

“Blood tests,” Halders said. “Don’t forget the sperm stains.”

“We can’t do that yet.”

“Are you sure?”

Winter was sure. The prosecutor would never agree to blood tests. That needed convincingly specific evidence, and all they had was a couple of witnesses, sort of witnesses.

“Copulating witnesses,” Halders said. “Two-backed monsters.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Fredrik. Maybe they only had coffee.”

It was the last time. She’d spent more time on him than he was worth. That’s the way he saw it.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said.

“No problem.”

“We had to take a drunk to the cells.”

“Was it difficult?”

“He fell asleep in the car.” He sat down. “We knew him, incidentally. Indirectly, at least.”

“Meaning what?”

“It was Patrik Strömblad’s father. I’ve come across Patrik once or twice and it was-”

“Don’t remind me,” Hanne said.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Morelius said.

He didn’t need to remind her. Maria seemed to be a changed character now, but the memory was crystal-clear and so were the after-effects. The investigation by the Social Services. “Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.”

They left the subject of Patrik and his father and spoke about Morelius himself.

He told her about his visions again.

“I can’t stop thinking back to that… accident,” he said.

Hanne nodded. Morelius looked down at the table. He wasn’t looking at her now, he was avoiding her eyes.

“She’s haunting me. That poor-”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said she was haunting you.”

“Did I?” He looked out the window. “Sometimes I don’t know what I’m saying. I mean that the experience I went through that day is haunting me, and maybe not only that. Other things that have happened.”

Later he said that he felt there was no point in continuing as a police officer.

The caretaker sat in his usual office, waiting for Winter.

“Newspapers? Magazines? I don’t have anything to do with newspapers and magazines.”

“You mean people take them to the trash room themselves?”

“Always.”

“Okay”

“I want to make a little report, incidentally.”

“Go on.”

“Somebody keeps getting into my little… cubbyhole in your building, and he sits there eating or drinking soda.”

“Your cubbyhole? You mean your office down in the basement?”

“Somebody keeps getting in there.”

“Breaking in?”

“It’s happened several times lately, in fact. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Is the door damaged?”

“No. It must be somebody with a key. Unless he picks the lock.”

“Has anything been stolen?”

“Not as far as I can see.” The man seemed to be keen that Winter didn’t downplay the crime. “It’s not very nice, is it? You can’t go around doing things like that, can you?”

“No. You should make an official complaint.”

“I’m doing that now.”

“Okay. But you should contact the police station in Chalmersgatan as well, so that the formalities can be completed.”

Winter said good-night and walked the few yards home. He took a deep breath. January would soon give way to February, and there’d be a whiff of something else in the air.

They’ll be well on the way to spring already in London, he thought. A few years ago he’d worked on a distressing case there. He didn’t want to think about it now. Instead he thought about the fact that the old guy hadn’t smoked a single cigarette while Winter was with him.

His mother shouted something from the kitchen as he entered the hall.

“Angela’s gone out to buy some bread,” she said when he came into the kitchen.

Winter went to meet Angela when she came back.

“There’s been another phone call,” she said.

“What do you mean? Who called?”

“Whoever it is that rings and breathes and doesn’t put the phone down again.”

“Shit!”

“What should we do?”

“It’s probably best to get a new number. Unlisted.”

“Good.”

“I’ve thought about doing that before.”

“Just do it now.”

That should put a stop to it, at least. But what’s going on? Should I speak to Birgersson and ask for an official bug? For what? It’s part of the investigation, Sture. He suddenly thought of what Lareda Veitz had said. He saw Angela’s profile in the door. Convex. He thought about the cellar.

He checked his notebook and rang the number of the office he’d just left. The old man was still there.

“You said that somebody had been in your office, drinking soda.”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“The bottle was still there. It’s happened several times. Several bottles.”

“Have you kept them?”

“Kept and kept. I’ve put three to one side. I was going to take them away tomorrow.”

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.”