Åke Edwardson - Never End

He glanced down at his khaki shirt, shorts, and bare feet in deck shoes.

"Have you spoken to her?" Ringmar asked.

"Yes," said Winter, turning to face him. "She knows as much as the rest of us, and is up for doing it."

"When?"

"Starting now." Winter checked his watch. "Exactly now."

"Then why bother to ask me?"

Winter shrugged. Ringmar drank his coffee. "Is she on her own?" "So far. Then we'll have to see." "Put somebody else on it, Erik." "I don't have anybody else right now." "Find somebody else." "OK, OK."

"Which car are you giving her?" "Yours," said Winter.

Ringmar choked and spat out half a mouthful of coffee over Winter's desk, thankfully missing all the paper.

The shadows were long and stretched when he drove to the Bielkes'. The old houses were in the dark behind neatly trimmed hedges that held at bay the light trying to force its way into the gardens.

The big verandah was deserted. Winter parked close by it. The gravel crunched under his feet as he walked from the car to the steps.

Irma Bielke emerged from a door on the right before Winter got as far as the verandah. Just for a second he thought she looked very much like the girl in the photograph from Angelika's party. The same age. He looked again, but the similarity had gone.

She was fifty, but looked younger. He would've thought she was about his age.

He hadn't called in advance, just showed up.

"Jeanette's not at home," she said. "Neither is Kurt."

"I've come to chat with you, actually," Winter said.

"With me? What about?"

"Can we sit down for a few minutes?"

"I'm on my way out."

On her way to the verandah, Winter thought. What she was wearing was equally suitable for lounging around at home, or for going out-the same as everybody else: shirt or blouse, shorts, and bare feet in comfortable shoes.

A candle was burning in the room behind her. Winter could see it through the door. It was on a little table near the window.

"Are you allowed to just drop in on people like this?" she asked.

"Can we sit down for a few minutes?" Winter asked again.

"There's nothing else to be said," she replied. "Not to Jeanette, not to Kurt, and most of all not to me."

"I'm not going to lay down the law," said Winter. "I just want to ask a few questions."

"Are you suggesting that there are any questions left to ask?" she said.

"It won't take long."

She gestured toward the cane furniture farther back on the verandah.

"Please spare me all the crap about this being for Jeanette's sake," she said. There was a sudden trace of steel in her voice. "Going on about how the rapists, or whatever euphemism you might use, will be arrested more quickly the sooner we help you, by answering all the questions that come raining in from all sides."

Winter said nothing. He sat down. She remained standing, leaning against the wall. Her eyes were dead. Winter stood up, remained standing. There was a smell of trees and dry grass. The candle seemed brighter now.

"How is she?"

"How do you think?"

OK, Winter thought. Let's stop beating about the bush.

"She won't be going to university," said Irma Bielke.

"Really?"

"The application had been sent, and she'd been accepted, but she's decided to turn it down."

"What's she going to do instead?"

"Nothing, as far as I know."

"Go in for something else?"

"I said, nothing."

She sat down and looked at him.

"Aren't you going to ask me how I feel?"

"How do you feel?"

She looked at the room where the candle was burning.

"It wasn't the end of the world. There are worse things to worry about." She looked up at Winter as he sat down. "Aren't you going to ask me about what worse things?"

"What worse things?"

"HIV, for instance," she said. "We got the test results this morning."

Winter waited.

"Negative," she said. "Thank God. I've never known it to be so positive to have a negative response." Winter thought she gave a curt laugh. "You've chosen a good time to visit. We're happy again."

She moved into half shadow. Winter wondered what to say next.

"Where is Jeanette this evening?"

"She's gone swimming with a friend," she said. "It's the first time… since it happened."

"What about your husband?"

"Kurt? Why do you ask?"

Winter said nothing.

"Why do you ask?" she said again.

Here we go, Winter thought. The candle had gone out. There was a smell of sea, all the stronger now.

She was looking past him, at something in the garden. Winter could hear the wind, sounding like something moving through the treetops. Her face was expressionless. "I don't know where he is." She seemed to give a laugh, or it might have been something else: "I seldom do."

"Is he with Jeanette?"

"I don't think so."

She stood up.

"Is that all, then?"

"Not really."

"I have no desire to talk to you anymore."

"When did you last hear from Mattias?"

She stopped in her tracks. Like freezing a video frame, Winter thought, but more sharply focused.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Mattias. He's apparently found it difficult to stay away from here."

"Are you referring to Jeanette's former boyfriend?"

"Are there several Mattiases?"

"Not that I know of."

"I'm referring to the boyfriend," Winter said.

"I've forgotten what you asked."

"When did you last hear from him?"

"I… I don't know."

"What happened between them?"

"Why is that important?" She seemed surprised; her face had surprise written all over it. "Why does that matter? Now?"

"Don't you realize?" he asked.

"No."

"Haven't you ever thought about it?"

She thought, thought.

"Mattias? No. That's not possible."

Winter said nothing. She looked at him, straight at him.

"Surely you can't think that? That Mattias… that he might have done something to Jeanette?"

No, Winter thought. Not him. But he didn't answer her question. Instead he commented on the sound of a car in the street.

"Is that your husband coming home?"

"It's his car," she said, going past him again.

A car door opened and closed. Footsteps on the gravel, on the steps, a voice.

"What's he doing here again?"

Winter turned around. Kurt Bielke was standing at the top of the steps. He was wearing a white shirt, gray pants, and black loafers. There was sweat on his face. He came closer. Winter could smell the alcohol on his breath. Bielke must realize he could smell it. He didn't care.

"I can't even turn my back without you or some other pig-police officer-showing up," he said. He took a step forward, swayed for a tenth of a second, took another step, looked at his wife.

"What did he say?"

She didn't answer.

Bielke looked at Winter.

"What did she say?"

"Where's Jeanette?" Winter said.

Bielke turned to his wife. "Can you get me a beer?" She looked at Winter. "I mean one beer," said Bielke, nodding at Winter. "The inspector can't have one. He's just leaving, and you shouldn't drink and drive."

Calm down, Winter thought. This is an important moment. It's telling me something. It's saying something about Bielke and his wife. Perhaps about Jeanette as well.

Irma Bielke hadn't moved.

"Am I going to have to go myself?" said Bielke. He smiled and turned toward Winter. Bielke switched on an outside light on the verandah. His face was white in the glare. He nodded at Winter, raised his eyebrows, and laughed, as if at a joke somebody had told him in his head.

Sara Helander was out walkingthrough the warm evening. Two couples were sitting on the steps leading down to the canal, snuggled up close. The moon was reflected in the water, a band of gold. The outlines of surrounding buildings stood out sharply against the sky, like charcoal drawings. Scents wafted past her as she crossed over one of the harbor streets. A taxi glided slowly southward, its sign leaving a streak of light behind it. A lot of people were sitting at outdoor cafes. She could hear the sound of glasses and dishes and voices combining to form that special mixed language common to all outdoor cafes in all countries all around the world.