Åke Edwardson - Sun and Shadow

“I hope I’m not calling at an inconvenient moment.” It was Benny Vennerhag.

“If you’ve phoned here it must be something important,” Winter said. Vennerhag had been given a new unlisted telephone number.

“I don’t know, but there is something. As you can probably imagine, some of my… business colleagues are very good at recognizing the police officers in Gothenburg.”

“You keep tabs on us just as we keep tags on you.”

“Hmm. My acquaintances might go a bit further than that definition. But all right. I asked around a bit and there wasn’t a lot of solid resistance, if I can put it like that. What’s been happening doesn’t do anybody any good. People get worried. Your boys can get a bit inquisitive, if you see what I mean.”

“So you did some asking around.”

“All right, Erik. Somebody has been seen a couple of times wandering about in a police uniform, but he hasn’t been recognized. He might be a cop, of course, but I don’t think so.”

“Go on.”

“That’s about it. A couple of times. But it was some time ago now.”

“Where and when? Who?”

“You can’t ask me to disclose a source of information, Erik. But I’m happy to continue helping. I’ve asked a lot of questions, in fact.”

“Where and when, then?”

“In several places in the center of town.”

“Day or night?”

“Night… both times.”

“When?”

Vennerhag mentioned several dates.

“That was it. I hope it’s useful.”

“Now I need a face and a name. Or an address.”

“Don’t we all?”

“You’ve taken this seriously, Benny. Keep on doing so.”

“I can’t see what else I can do. Am I supposed to attach a shadow to the fake cop if he’s seen again?”

“That would be good.”

‘Are you joking?“

“No. Tell that to everybody.”

It was light in the morning. Nearly March. On March 5 he’d be forty. Less than a month later he’d be a father, and life would really start.

They’d listened to the CD from Steve last night and Winter was going to buy everything else by the same guy, when he found the time. I think he made a new one last year, Angela had said. His first for several years. Last year. Last year was the twentieth century, now they had to remember to say two thousand. The naughties, Halders had said.

“Can I take the car today as well?” Angela asked.

“Of course.”

“I can’t cope with the tram anymore.”

“You ought to stay at home.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

She could take a taxi, but she preferred to drive. A bit of freedom. The Mercedes gave her a feeling of security, the smells, the soft, dark colors inside.

The investigation material was growing in breadth and height, with names, addresses, transcripts of interviews.

“We still haven’t been able to get hold of some of the people who replied to the advertisement,” Ringmar said.

“So I see.”

“Several of them didn’t give their real names, but we usually discover that when we check the address.”

“Some helpful neighbor who lets them use his name or address?”

“Hmm, that’s a thought.”

“Maybe we should go a step further. Bring in the neighbors as well.”

“Huh?” Ringmar said.

Winter was studying the lists on his desk. He was wearing his reading glasses.

Six days to go now, and he’d be forty.

“There’s something odd about these two addresses,” Winter said. “Call me paranoid, but I requested the home addresses of the entire Gothenburg police force and… well, if you compare them there is none among them that matches any of these four ad replies.”

“Yes, we’d established that. Good, isn’t it?”

“In a way. Möllerström has been working with the addresses of the film extras, and with this lot as well. Sture gave the green light for a few more officers. When he smells something in the air he smells something in the air, as he put it.”

“And?”

“It’s the uniforms…” Winter thought of Vennerhag, but he wasn’t a hundred percent convinced that there was somebody dressing up as a police officer.

Bartram was tapping away at the computer. It was clicking and swishing. He could see a manual hanging on the notice board and smiled. Some people never learned. Some used to come to him, because he was best. Especially this last year when there was panic as the millennium approached. All the files not properly tucked away, the back ups, security, copies everywhere out there in the electronic night.

He didn’t want to show how good he really was. That could cause problems. He would have to answer all the idiotic questions.

If only he’d been in the crime unit, or the new city squad. But he’d never been asked. Never.

Bartram was a hacker. It wasn’t difficult for anybody who knew what he was doing. He liked the word. Hacker. Hack into wherever you like, then withdraw, discreetly, with knowledge.

Morelius emerged from the toilet. Pale. Perhaps he was having stomach problems again. The kid should be doing something else. Maybe that’s what he was planning.

Bartram continued tapping away.

He changed files and then he was inside his home computer. It was still interesting suddenly to find yourself in your own computer while you were still at work, gliding around all the software.

The lists with the forty film extras flickered on his screen, borrowed from the internal network. Disappeared the moment he saw anybody in the corner of his eye. He’d take a closer look at them tonight. Detective Inspector Greger Bartram. Or Detective Chief Inspector, like Winter, who thought he was somebody. Or his registrar. Greger Bartram was a better registrar. Just wait and see.

Halders stopped at the late-night supermarket.

“This is where I had my car stolen,” he said to Djanali in the passenger seat. “I just popped in for a couple of seconds and he got my car.”

“I know, Fredrik.”

Halders got out.

“I must get some chewing tobacco. Guard the car.”

Djanali rolled down the window and breathed in the smell of exhaust fumes and dry, late winter, or early spring. The sun glinted on the Tower of Babel, which was still standing after New Year’s Eve, at the north end of Heden, like a symbol of something she didn’t understand. Were they going to use it for some other occasion? It was only a hovel on a hill, after all. There probably wasn’t enough money to pull the pile of crap down. The hangover always kicks in afterward.

She could see Halders talking to the man at the counter. Halders turned to look at her, as if to make sure that she hadn’t let anybody steal the car.

“He was telling me about the problems they’ve been having with goddamn shoplifters,” Halders said as he sat behind the wheel and pulled out into Södra Vägen. “Somebody came in this morning and stole a bag of chips.”

“Maybe they shouldn’t stock chips,” Djanali said.

“Maybe they shouldn’t stock anything at all,” Halders said. “That’s the way things are going.”

“Toward empty late-night supermarkets, you mean?”

“Yes. The big void. All those damned minimarkets and so on are signs of the times, they reflect the approaching death of society,” Halders said, turning right again at Lorensberg. “Nothing but chips and tobacco and other shit, and videos.”

“I gather you’re their best customer,” Djanali said.

“I’m a victim. Take the films. People do their best to deaden their senses in front of the VCR.” They were in the Avenue now. “Harry Martinson was right. Films are temples for those who can’t cope with life.”

“Harry Martinson?” said Djanali, sounding confused.