Åke Edwardson - Never End

"No."

"But Angela said that…"

"Angela said what?"

He could hear the sharpness in his voice.

"What's the matter, Erik?"

"What do you mean? What did Angela say?"

"She just said that you might be looking for something in the autumn. Maybe."

"Really?"

"What's the matter, Erik?"

"Nothing. It's hot, that's all. Hot, and there's a lot to do."

"I know."

"Oh, do you?"

He could hear the rustling on the line again, the fragmentary chatter from a hundred thousand voices all over Europe.

"Erik?"

"Yes, I'm still here."

"Is everything alright with you? With you and Angela?"

It was silent. Winter braced himselfto listen to a murder.

He'd brought a new Pat Metheny CD with him the day before yesterday, but he still hadn't played it. It was on the pile on the shelf above the Panasonic, to the left of the window.

He put the tape recorder on the table. The birds had stopped singing outside. He turned on the message from Anne Nöjd's answering machine.

Screams and… and that other voice, like something from hell. Like something totally inhuman, he thought. Would they be able to separate the voices? Put them side by side and then listen?

There was a message there, unintentional. There's a message in everything.

Jeanette had talked about something her attacker had said. Three times perhaps, the same thing. She hadn't seen his face, but she had heard his voice. The sound. Assuming it was the same attacker.

Were there any words there? Real, actual words? Would it be possible to separate everything and hear the words, if there were any? Or parts of sentences? Filter the sounds? It should be possible. There were technicians in the building, only fifty meters away, and if they couldn't do it, there were always the sound technicians at Swedish Radio.

There was a knock on the door, and Ringmar came in. He was not alone. She looked scared.

Jeanette listened to the recorded message. Winter had tried to prepare her for it as much as possible. It wasn't possible.

"I don't want to," she said after three seconds.

"It hasn't even started yet."

"I know what it is, though."

"You kno-"

"Can't you leave me alone!?" she shouted. She got to her feet.

Winter stood up. Jeanette suddenly toppled over backward and hit the floor hard. Winter rushed around the table. She lay with her eyes closed. He bent down, and she opened them.

"I broke my fall with my hand," she said, wiggling her wrist. She looked at Winter. "OK, turn the tape back on."

"You don't have to."

"That's why I'm here, isn't it?"

Winter looked at her eyes. He didn't recognize her. She was there but not there.

She took a seat, looked at the tape recorder, then at Winter. He started the tape.

She listened: "nnaaaaieieieierryyy…"

Winter stopped the tape.

"I don't recognize it at all," she said, in a voice that sounded rehearsed, as if it too was recorded on tape. She looked at Winter.

"It's horrible. Is it really genuine?"

Bergenhem and Mollerstrom were looking into who had owned the place. It was taking time. Barock hadn't been registered in the usual way. Some of their colleagues knew of it, of course, but it wasn't at all clear who had owned it. There had been registered owners. Several names and faces, but they'd had no luck yet. They would eventually, but it was painstaking work, took days, and involved many interviews.

"There are a lot of names, said Mollerstrom.

But there was one particular name that stood out. It was linked to a dance restaurant-the kind with music and old-fashioned ballroom dancing-south of the river. The name was one of the most familiar in the Gothenburg restaurant world, had been for ages. One of several, and they'd worked their way down the list and come to the name, and they would ask the person in question before they went back to the list. Bergenhem had no great hopes.

"What is a dance restaurant nowadays?" asked Mollerstrom.

"A place where people eat and dance," Bergenhem said.

"Isn't that something from another era?"

"Eating and dancing?"

Mollerstrom grinned.

"Proper dancing. Makes me think of the Royal Hotel back home."

"We'll soon find out," said Bergenhem.

They drove through the hordes of tourists. Many of them looked tired and lost as they passed in front of the car. Visitors from faraway towns. Mollerstrom thought again of the Royal Hotel in the town where he had grown up.

The oil storage tanks were gleaming on the other side of the river. The place they were looking for was in one of the sand-colored brick buildings in one of the dockland streets.

Inside it smelled of dust and stale smoke, and the premises looked like a dance restaurant: a large dance floor in a semicircle around a stage; beyond it chairs and tables in another semicircle; and farthest back, a horseshoe-shaped bar. The tables had white cloths, and on every one was a flower in a bud vase.

There was nobody behind the bar. There were musical instruments on the stage. A woman was pushing a gray rag on a stick over the floor. She dipped the rag in a bucket of water. A few rays of sun came in through one of the windows and lit up her face as if she was on the stage ten meters away, starting to sing the first love song of the evening. She turned her head away from the sunlight and stared down at the floor, which was black-and-white checked. It was dark in the big room, but as light as it would ever be. A beam of sun suddenly fell on a saxophone in its stand on the stage, and it glistened like gold.

"Dance restaurant," said Mollerstrom.

A door opened to the left of the bar; a man came out and walked over to them. He stretched out his hand and introduced himself. He was tall, taller than either Bergenhem or Mollerstrom, bald headed and sideburns trimmed. He was wearing a white T-shirt under a dark jacket, and smart black pants. There was something familiar about him. Bergenhem shook hands and introduced himself and Mollerstrom.

"Pleased to meet you," said Johan Samic.

Bergenhem explained why they were there.

"You've come to the right place," Samic said.

Bergenhem waited. Mollerstrom looked surprised.

"We had that place in its final years," said Samic. "That's not exactly a secret."

"We never said anything about it being a secret."

"Barock was a decent club," said Samic.

What the hell does he mean by that? wondered Bergenhem.

"We turned it into a respectable place."

"Wasn't it respectable before?"

Samic smiled.

"Can we take a look around?" Bergenhem asked.

"No."

"No?"

"I don't like any old Tom, Dick, or Harry wandering in before we're open and looking around," said Samic.

"We're investigating some serious crimes," said Mollerstrom.

"I know, but what's that got to do with my restaurant?"

"We've just explained."

"Exactly. So what are you doing here?"

"We've got a few more questions to ask you," Bergenhem said.

"Well?"

"Maybe we'll ask them down at our place."

"Down at your place?"

"At the police station."

"Very funny."

"OK, let's go. Are you ready?"

"What the hell-"

"You can't refuse to come, Samic. I'm sure you know that."

"OK… for God's sake, it's just that I have a lot to do right now, but go wander around and poke your noses wherever you like." He looked around.

"The bathrooms are over there." He pointed with his thumb. "You have my permission to visit the ladies' as well."

"Arrogant bastard," said Mollerstrom, as they drove past more groups of tourists. Or maybe it's the same people going around and around in circles all day, he thought.