Åke Edwardson - Never End

She looked at him. There were lots of tears still to come.

"I went… I went to see Jeanette today." Tears burst forth. "For God's sake." She looked at Winter. "Why wasn't I here?"

"Where were you?"

"Out… driving around." She blew her nose and put the handkerchief in a pocket in her calf-length skirt. "I've been out driving around a lot recently."

Winter allowed it to seep away, down through the garden that would never be the same again for this family.

"We're getting divorced," she said out of the blue.

Winter waited. More was to come.

"I've spoken to a real estate agent. About the house." She turned to Winter. "Would you want to stay here?"

"What does your husband say?"

"Eh." She said it in a neutral tone, no exclamation mark.

"You visited him yesterday, didn't you?"

"That's why I wanted to… to talk to you." She took out her handkerchief again and carefully blew her nose. Winter didn't move, and she looked at him as if she couldn't see him sitting on the bamboo chair with the flowery cushions. "What should I do?" she said. "It's so hopeless. So awful. What should I do?"

"Tell me about it."

She said nothing, seemed to have forgotten.

"Fru Bielke? Irma?"

"Mattias is Kurt's son," she said, staring straight ahead.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Mattias. Jeanette's boyfriend. Or ex. He's Kurt's son from another relationship."

Winter's mind was racing. Was Irma Bielke just as sick as her husband?

"You're telling me that Mattias is Kurt Bielke's son?" Winter asked.

"Everybody knew except me," she said.

"Everybody knew?"

"He told Mattias when he found out that… that he and Jeanette were seeing each other. They were seeing each other… long before we knew anything about it. And then… then he told her. Jeanette."

"When?"

She shrugged.

"Just before she told him. It must have been," she said.

"She? Who's she? The 'she' who told Kurt. Mattias's mother. Who's she?"

"No, I mean that Jeanette told Mattias."

"But surely your husband had already told him by then?"

She looked Winter in the eye.

"Neither of them believed it," she said.

"What's the situation now, then?" he asked.

"Apparently he could prove it," she said.

"How?"

"I don't know." She looked Winter in the eye again. "You'd better ask him."

Winter heard a lawn mower starting up. He heard a helicopter and looked up to see it flying westward, out to sea. He tried to catch her eye again.

"When did he tell you?"

"He hasn't told me," she said, lifting up a book lying on the table. Underneath it was a handwritten letter that had been folded then smoothed out again, thousands of times.

"Hasn't told you?" said Winter, looking at the letter.

"I took this with me from your police station yesterday," she said. "It's from Kurt, and I smuggled it out." She looked at Winter. "He said I shouldn't show it to anybody."

"Go on."

"He knew full well that I would."

"Why… now?" Winter leaned forward. "Why tell you now?"

"Haven't you noticed what he's been like since he heard about… about Jeanette? When he heard about her attempted suicide?"

We've been trying to exploit it, Winter thought. Now we've succeeded, it seems, just a little bit. Everything's collapsing for the Bielke family, and we're exploiting it.

"Do you know where Mattias is now?" Winter asked. She didn't reply, seemed to be gazing into other worlds that she hoped could mitigate the disaster her life was turning out to be. "Irma. Where's Mattias? It's extremely important that we find him."

"He's where she is."

"What… what did you say?"

"He's done what she did. He's done the same as my little Jeanette diiid…" she screamed, sobbed, her head on her knees, bared as her skirt worked its way up."

"Do you know that?" Winter asked, leaning over her, trying to help, holding her shoulders.

"What else could he have done? How could he li… live with that…"

"Jeanette isn't dead," said Winter.

She said nothing. Then mumbled something he couldn't hear.

"I couldn't hear what you said."

"My little girl," she said.

"I have to ask you," said Winter, "if you know what your husband has done."

"What has he done?"

"Don't you know?"

"I can't believe it," she said. "I don't want to live with that man any more, never again, but I can't believe that. That he killed anybody. He might have gone to some porno club or whatever it was, but not the rest of it." She shook her head. "But it's enough for me even so." She shook her head again. "Jeanette and I are going to move."

"May I read the letter?" Winter asked.

"It's there."

He picked it up and read it, handwriting that flew over the page like black seagulls. It said no more than she'd told him.

Could it all be lunatic fantasies?

"Who's the mother?" he asked.

She didn't answer. Winter repeated the question.

"I told you, he hasn't told me anything." She looked up. "He kept that secret between him and her all these years, and I don't know who she is. I don't want to know. I could… I could…," but she let it drop without explaining what she could do to the woman who had shared her husband all those years ago.

Winter needed to get back to the police station, to Kurt Bielke, before he sank into eternal silence.

He took out the photograph from Angelika's graduation party. Irma Bielke looked away.

"You must look," said Winter.

She looked at the woman's profile. Winter could see the relief in her face. Note how important it has been over the whole span of our evolutionary history to be able to recognize other individuals and to read intentions and emotions in their faces, he thought.

"I've never seen her before," said Irma Bielke, turning to Winter. "I don't know her. Who is she?"

"I don't know. So far, it's just a face we've got. We don't yet know where it fits in."

"There's something I've forgotten all about," she said suddenly. "Good Lord. That was really why."

"Why what?"

"Why I wanted to talk to you. Or why I wanted to meet you."

Is there more? he thought. The floodgates are evidently not yet completely open.

"Thank you," she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Thank you. You saved her life. OK, I know she's not yet out of danger; but she's still alive, and she's going to live. I'll make sure that she lives."

Winter didn't know what to say. She reached out and put her hand on his right shoulder. He gave a start.

"You're a good man."

A good man in the right place. He could feel the pain in his elbow. It had started again, at this very moment. Time for another Voltaren.

She dried her eyes, blew her nose, stood up. Something was over. Over and out, but there was hope there. He could see it. There would be something else after hell, something cooler and stronger.

"You must have something to drink before you go. And your police officer waiting outside as well."

His mobile rang on the way back. His elbow was aching something awful, even though he used his other hand to answer the phone.

"I've managed to produce a few more words," said Yngvesson. "The same voice, more words."

"What words?" Winter asked.

"You'll have to come here and listen. I've gotten about as far as I can go."

"I'm on my way."

He hung up and found himself having to squint as the sun suddenly shone straight into his eyes. One more hour, maybe two. One day. He could see Halders's damned face in his mind's eye. There was no other face. I'll be seeing you.

The APB on Samic had gone outseveral days ago. The headlines on the news placards filled all the available space, black on yellow, like dark clouds obscuring the sun. There were reporters everywhere. Winter tried to ignore the media attention as something that didn't affect him, had nothing to do with him, with his world. He wanted to think his way into a world that was bright and full of summer, evenings spent in cafes where the buzz of activity increased then declined as darkness set in. Playful dips in the sea with salt left in your eyebrows afterward on the rocks when the waves had dried on your body. All that kind of thing.