Åke Edwardson - Sun and Shadow

“Somebody from the force lives in that area. A police officer.”

“Well?”

“It’s a very long shot,” Ringmar said. “We must keep calm about it.”

“Who is it?” Winter asked.

“Morelius. Simon Morelius. He’s a pol-”

“I know who he is,” Winter said.

“Keep calm now.”

He was calm. God was holding his hand.

“Do you know where Morelius comes from?” he asked.

“No.”

“Is he on duty at the moment?”

“I checked that. He’s free.”

“Is he at home?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t try to phone him. I didn’t know what to say.”

“Have you got the number there?”

Winter called but there was no reply

He asked the switchboard to put him through to the Lorensberg police station.

“Hello, Winter here. Yes… I know… there’s somethi… yes, exactly…”

He asked about Morelius, as Bertil had just done. Back tomorrow. In Ivarsson’s group. A bit of extra time off after New Year. Do you need to get hold of him?

“Yes.”

“He might be at home.”

“No.”

“Have you tried Kungsbacka?”

“Eh? No.”

“That’s where he’s from, you see.”

“Kungsbacka?”

“Yes. Somebody mentioned it only the other day. I think it was him himself, come to think of it.” Winter could hear the sound of conversation in the background at the station in Chalmersgatan, telephones, boots clomping over hard floors. “It came up in connection with that murder. She was from Kungsbacka, wasn’t she? The woman who was murdered?”

“Yes,” Winter said, and looked at Ringmar, who was listening with bated breath. Winter concluded the call, then took the telephone directory from one of the bookshelves.

There was just one Morelius in Kungsbacka. Elna Morelius. Mrs. She answered after the third ring. No, her son wasn’t at home. What was it about? Something to do with work? Of course she would tell him to get in touch, but she hadn’t heard from him for a while. He ought to contact her more often. Yes, that’s the way it is. When was the last time? Well, not too long ago. He wasn’t feeling well. He wasn’t too good.

Winter tried to think.

“What does your husband do, Mrs. Morelius?”

“My husband? What kind of question is that? My husband’s dead.” Silence. Winter waited. “My husband was a vicar,” she said eventually.

Morelius. Winter could picture his face, hovering over his uniform. In a squad car on patrol up and down Vasaplatsen.

A real police officer. Patrik. Maria. Always at hand when something happened.

When Winter arrived at the Valkers’ apartment Morelius had been standing inside it. The silhouette. Pointing at the wall.

Winter thought about Lareda Veitz, what she’d said. She’d phoned the other day but he didn’t have the strength, not just now.

Winter turned to Ringmar.

“Let’s go there,” Winter said. “Now.” He stood up and checked his gun, which was pressing against his ribs.

“To Morelius’s place? Askim?”

“Where else, for Christ’s sake?”

“Erik…”

“You can stay here if you like,” Winter said, taking his overcoat from its hanger. He felt like running through the corridors, running like a madman, flying.

Ringmar phoned again, but nobody answered.

“Should we ask them to send a car from Frölunda?”

“Yes, but nobody goes in until we get there.”

Winter’s hands were shaking, he’d checked his SIG-Sauer again. They were running now, both of them.

“I’ll drive,” Ringmar said.

It was evening now. Ringmar drove fast through the homebound traffic. Winter put the flashing light on the roof when they were caught in a line of cars near Liseberg and Ringmar switched on the siren as they came to the highway.

Two feet of mist were creeping over the fields on either side of the road. Ringmar turned off before coming to the Järnbrott intersection. Winter thought of the Elfvegrens in their pretty estate on the other side of the junction. They hadn’t said anything else about the man Louise Valker had spoken about. Louise Valker from Kungsbacka. He glanced at Ringmar. If there was nobody in, the next stop this evening would be the Elfvegrens’ house.

They saw the flashing light on the radio car from the Frölunda station. A group of young boys had already gathered. The light was illuminating their faces.

“Switch it off,” Winter said when he reached the car.

“Number seven,” said Ringmar behind him, and Winter turned around. Ringmar was pointing at the entrance to 7D. The apartment buildings were in brick, possibly red. Three or four stories, it didn’t matter.

“He lives on the second floor,” Ringmar said.

The entrance door was open, fastened to the wall by a chain. A man carrying a box emerged from the basement as they went in. He nodded at them, and released the chain.

Nobody answered when they rang the bell. The name MORELIUS was in white letters against a black background on the flap of the mail slot. Winter rang again and heard the sound echoing through the apartment, but he could hear no footsteps, no voices. He shouted through the mail slot, listened. Then he drew his pistol and fired a shot through the wooden door, next to the lock.

Winter put his hand through the hole he’d made in the door and unlocked it. He flung the door open. His brain was detached from his body now, everything was animal instinct. The cordite was irritating his nose. He regretted nothing.

There was mail on the hall floor, an envelope, a newspaper.

The apartment was lit up by lights from the main road and the estate. All was silent. No guitars, no drums, no hissing.

No Angela. They went from room to room. Everything was neat and tidy. The sink was clean and glinted in the light from the kitchen window. Nothing on the table.

There were two men’s magazines on the bedside table, next to an alarm clock. Aktuell Rapport. In the living room was a bookcase filled with stacks of paperbacks, an imitation leather sofa, two armchairs facing a large television set. Neat and tidy. Total control.

“Hmm,” said Ringmar, seeming disappointed as he looked, first around the room and then at Winter.

Winter could feel his face starting to twitch, and the shock and tension gradually ebbed away. Ringmar’s disappointed face. The empty apartment. The shot. The feeling of confusion, disappointment, and infinite relief. Infinite relief. He was twitching, shaking; he gave vent to a sound that could have been a sob or a laugh and what came first was laughter, loud and abandoned: You should see your face, Bertil! He noticed that Ringmar took a step toward him, like a nurse, and he had another attack and then it was over and he held up the hand that wasn’t holding his pistol and said, “Let’s get out of here, Bertil,” and he set off through the hall.

Winter gave instructions to the two police officers from Frölunda, a man and a woman.

“I’ll drive this time,” Winter said.

“How are you feeling, Erik?”

“Better,” he said as he drove through the Järnbrott intersection.

“Where are we going?”

“To the Elfvegrens.”

“It’s nearly midnight.”

Winter didn’t reply, but drove through the little streets and Ringmar asked yet again for the address. All small houses looked the same. It was like entering another age, the 1950s. Small houses, big gardens.

The Elfvegrens’ house was in darkness. Winter rang the bell. Ringmar stood behind him, waiting to see what happened, as if expecting to draw another blank.

Nobody opened the door, nobody switched on a light. Winter pounded on the door then turned on his heel and went down the stairs.