Åke Edwardson - Never End

"Wig?"

"Or a toupee." He looked at Winter. "Surely that can be established?"

"How?"

"Aren't there any experts who can tell us if hair is real or false?"

"By looking at a photograph?"

"There are experts at everything," said Bergenhem.

Except finding murderers before panic breaks out among the general public, Winter thought. He also thought about the reporter, Hans Billow. Winter had read the article that morning. Seen the picture of the boy in the photographs, the one who might be the father of Angelika's child. Nobody had called in yet.

"I'll go there," said Winter.

"To Sarnie's place?"

Winter nodded. He studied the photograph again.

He had it in his inside pocket when he shook hands with Johan Samic half an hour later. A waiter was lifting chairs off the tables. There was a clinking noise from the bar, where the bartender was preparing ice and cutting up lemons.

"So, the boss has come in person," Samic said.

"Do you recognize this girl?" asked Winter, showing him the photograph of Angelika sitting in front of that wall. Samic looked at it; Winter was not able to see any change in his expression.

"Who is she?"

"I asked you if you recognized her."

"No."

"Has she been here?"

"No." Samic smiled. "She's too young."

"What do you think about the setting?"

"Ugly."

"More specific," said Winter.

"A bodega on the Costa del Sol, if you ask me," Samic said.

"Or a shady bar in Gothenburg."

"Could well be."

"Do you recognize any of it?" Winter said.

"Not a thing."

"You don't know where it is?"

"I don't see how I can express myself more clearly."

"Barock."

"Barock? That old dump?" "Yes."

"I went to Barock hundreds of times. This wasn't taken there." "No? Weren't you a part owner for a while?" "Yes." He looked at Winter. "What is this?" "Questions."

"Yes, yes. But Barock… huh! What next?"

"Another question. Where could this picture have been taken?" Winter asked.

Samic looked briefly at the photograph again.

"I haven't the slightest idea."

"What I need is help," Winter said. "This isn't an interrogation."

"You're turning it into one," Samic said. "It's becoming an interrogation."

We'll meet again soon, Winter thought on his way out.

Samic could have been wearing a toupee at that graduation party earlier in the summer; then, it might not be him in the picture at all. It was impossible to decide if he was the man in the photograph.

You could have fried an egg on the sidewalk.

Winter was hungry and went to a Vietnamese restaurant. He ordered one of the five specials, all of which seemed to be the same. He picked rice with minced meat, and found a table outside under the umbrellas. The streetcars seemed to be struggling to force their way through the heat. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. Airplanes were crisscrossing it. There was a smell of gas and asphalt, and maybe also a whiff of the river, which was not far away. People were wearing as little as possible. He was in shorts and a khaki shirt Angela had bought for him the previous week.

He hadn't thought about Angela for two hours. He'd thought about Elsa, but not about Angela.

The food arrived and he started eating, although he wasn't as hungry now. Everything tasted of glutamate and he slid the half-full plate to one side, drank his mineral water, lit a cigarillo, and looked up to glimpse Sarnie's profile as he drove past in a Mercedes the same color as Winter's, which was parked outside the department store across the street.

Benny Vennerhag must have quite a bit to say about Samic. Is he going somewhere as a result of our little chat?

A woman went past with two dogs, each on its own leash. She was wearing too many too-expensive clothes. One of the dogs squatted down and deposited a pile on the pavement while the woman looked around, waiting impatiently, then walked off, leaving the muck behind her. Winter considered calling her back and giving her a good telling off-why not? But instead he stayed where he was and watched the dogs strut off with their mistress.

They thought it was a dog leash. So did he. The murderer had tightened a leash round his victims' necks. Or a belt. Or a leash.

Did he have a dog? No. No dog. Just a leash that he always carried around with him. Maybe hanging loose when he walked through the park… like a dog owner who'd just let his dog run off for a while and was strolling along nonchalantly after it, and was just about to call it back again. A leash hanging loose. Over his arm, perhaps.

Back. Went back. Again. Wandered around with the leash. Or took it out when he was close, when he was as close as he could get. He had to be close. Back again.

His mobile rang in the breast pocket of his khaki shirt.

"Where are you?" Angela asked when he answered.

"In town, eating a pretty awful lunch."

"You could have come home."

"No time, Angela. I've been sitting here for too long already."

"Can we go swimming this evening?"

"Of course. Six o'clock. Be ready."

"Six down in the street?"

"Have everything packed and ready. Don't forget my swimming trunks. And the sardine sandwiches."

He hung up, but his mobile rang again immediately.

"Somebody's called in and claimed to recognize the boy from Angelika's photo," Bergenhem said.

"Only one?"

"Only one who seems reliable."

"Where?"

"Frolunda. In one of the high-rise buildings behind the square."

"Do you have the address?"

Bergenhem read it out; Winter paid his bill and drove off westward.

The big digital thermometer displayed in the square showed ninety-four degrees. The high-rise buildings lining the parking lot were colorless, and seemed to be hovering in air that was really layers of glass.

Bergenhem was standing by the newspaper kiosk. They walked over to the high-rise buildings. Clumps of people were sitting in the shade. Winter could smell the whiff of cooking. A lot of people here were immigrants, from the south. They'd be down by the sea tonight, staying much longer than the Swedes, who would all leave by seven. Apart from Winter and Angelika and Elsa. The smell of grilled meat. Enormous families, all ages, soccer, shouts, laughter, life,

They passed the Arts Center. Buildings became less frequent, lower. Bergenhem consulted a scrap of paper, pointed to an apartment building, went in, and rang the bell of an apartment on the second floor. A man in a string vest and Bermuda shorts opened the door. He was chewing on something.

Bergenhem introduced himself and Winter.

"I think he lives across the street," said the man, still chewing. "Lots of foreigners live around here." He finished chewing, and swallowed. "Far too many." He eyed Winter, who was behind Bergenhem. "What did he do?"

"Where exactly?"

"You what?"

"Can you show us exactly where he lives, please?"

"Yeah, OK. Hang on, I'll just get my sandals."

They walked through the courtyard. "Number eighteen," said the man. Two small children were playing on the swings in the sunshine. On the bench next to the swings was a woman dressed in black.

"Like I said, darkies wherever you look," said the man, indicating the children on the swing.

"Shut your trap," said Winter.

"Eh?…" said the man, stopping dead in his tracks. The children put their feet down and stopped the swings and stared at the men in front of them. "You don't talk like that around…," the man started to say.

Winter was striding toward number eighteen. Bergenhem followed him. The man turned to face him, and then Winter.

"I'll call your boss," shouted the man in the string vest.

They went inside and rang all the doorbells. About half of the occupants answered, but nobody recognized the boy's face. Bergenhem showed them the photo. Nobody had read the local newspaper.