Åke Edwardson - Death Angels

“Or it could be mine,” Halders said.

“What?”

“My car was stolen again, and this time I didn’t catch the S.O.B. who did it.”

Winter longed for a cup of coffee and a cigarillo. “We’re going to call him in for questioning again,” he said.

“Good,” Ringmar said.

“We’ve got some new information to ask him about.”

“He’s not home,” Möllerström said.

“Find him,” Winter said. “He’s not off the hook, no matter what he might think. If worst comes to worst, we’ll try a photo lineup and hope we can get him arrested that way. And we’ve got to know more about his personal life. Friends, acquaintances, what he does at night. Clubs, bars, movies.”

He thought about the photos on the wall in Vikingsson’s kitchen.

He turned to Bergenhem. The guy looked sick. Winter couldn’t remember him ever being so skinny. Had he sent him on a fool’s errand? Or was he a bundle of nerves because his wife was about to have a baby? Winter was clueless when it came to that kind of thing.

“Lars?”

Bergenhem glanced at Winter as if by accident. “Yes?”

“What do you have to say?”

“I have a source, and it might lead to something.”

He acts like he’s got a hangover, Winter thought.

“The porn industry seems to be reeling from something, or was reeling from something up until very recently… something completely new.”

“New?”

“A kind of anxiety. And I don’t think it’s just because I’m going around asking questions. It’s like somebody has the answer but isn’t talking.”

“Has anyone told you that?”

“I might be able to come up with a name.”

They all waited. Just a simple name, and everybody would finally be able to relax over that cup of coffee, close Ringmar’s folder and Möllerström’s database.

“Somebody who has the answer,” Bergenhem repeated.

Bergenhem drove back over the bridge and caught Martina by surprise. She stood in the kitchen looking down at the floor as if she expected her water to break and splash onto the tile. It wouldn’t be long now.

He kissed her and put his arms around her. She smelled like apples and cotton. He placed his hand on her belly.

“Aren’t you on duty?”

“You’re not going to turn me in, are you?”

She laughed. “Do you want something to eat?”

“Do we have any pork chops?”

“Pork chops?”

“I want some fried pork chops. I feel like I haven’t had an appetite in weeks.”

“You haven’t had an appetite in weeks.”

“Fried pork chops with onion gravy and boiled potatoes and absolutely no vegetables.”

“That’s not very PC.”

“What’s not?”

“To leave out the vegetables.”

“I can go to the grocery store.”

“If you want pork chops, that’s your best bet. We don’t have any.”

He walked down to the familiar corner and turned left. Three teenagers whirled by on skateboards. They’re playing hooky too, he thought.

The sky was breathtaking. Not a cloud in sight. He passed a school and heard a loud bell. It sounds just like it used to, he thought. Education reforms come and go but the bells never change. All those hours that I just sat at my desk waiting for it to ring. Waiting and waiting.

He felt like he had woken up from a confused dream, the darkness dispelled by the cold.

Was it that Winter had come back? Are you so fucking dependent on him? Who are you, anyway? Things may not be so hazy now, but you’re still asking yourself the same questions. It’s like you have to prove something to yourself and everyone else. I’ll show them… I’ll show them. Who are you, Lars?

The store appeared on the right. The newspaper placards in the window were the color of coltsfoot blossoms. In two or three years the baby would run in with the first fistful, and they would put it in a vase and finally press it between volumes A and B of the encyclopedia.

Who are you besides a rookie cop on his way to buy a pound of pork chops with a guilty conscience for something he hasn’t actually done?

He thought of her as Angel, as Marianne, as Angel again. He didn’t know anymore who was attracted and who was doing the attracting. It’s like a drug, he thought. Is it over? Is what over?

You’ve got things under control, he told himself. Nobody can say you’re not doing your job. You even wrote a report.

Östergaard sat in the kitchen and tested Maria on her French. As far as she could tell, her daughter’s pronunciation was perfect.

She was thinking of renting a house in Normandy for a couple of weeks the following summer. The form was already completed. The name of the village was Roncey, and it was near the town of Coutances. She had been there once, before Maria was born. The cathedral was the highest point but had survived the bombs-the only unscathed church in northern Normandy. It stretched out a finger to God. She wanted to go in and light another candle, seventeen years later or however long it had been: a servant of God from Gothenburg and her daughter.

When they were finished with the pronunciation exercises, Maria read the paragraph out loud and translated it. Her French was better than her mother’s. They could order a meal at the village restaurant. Un vin blanc, une orange, merci . Buy picnic food for the deserted beach. When the tide ebbed, the oyster farms glittered in the sun. They would walk along the white sand, dig for French-speaking crabs with their toes.

She looked up and Maria was gone. The television went on in the living room, a raucous guest.

Un vin blanc . She opened the refrigerator and took out an open bottle. The sides of the glass misted over when she poured it. She took a sip. It was too cold. She put the glass down and left the bottle on the counter.

It was Thursday night. The outdoor thermometer showed twenty-six degrees. Last week the crocuses had been out and now they were iced over. The question was how the summer lilac was faring.

She heard the sirens again on Korsvägen Street. It’s like a training camp down there, she thought.

Maria would be at handball camp all weekend, and Östergaard was looking forward to having some time for herself-a rare treat for a minister. She would go to a movie, read a book, make some fish soup, put on three layers of clothing, take the long hike around Lake Delsjön and come home with a warm glow on her face that would last all evening long.

“Did you mend my track suit?” Maria shouted from the living room.

“Yes,” she shouted back.

“How about my white jersey, did you wash it?”

“Yes, and if you want anything else, you’ll have to come in here.”

“What?”

“If you want anything else, you’ll have to come in here.”

She heard Maria giggle, once more engrossed in the movie.

The week had exhausted her. She hadn’t been able to set her own priorities or break away from all those sessions with the officers.

A traffic accident on Tuesday, conversations afterward that could have sent a younger woman home in despair.

Was it really a job for a woman? That was just like asking whether it was a job for a man. It wasn’t a question of muscles or how big you were. It was a question of humanity. Sometimes she wondered if it was a job for anyone.

She got up and went into the living room. “I’m going to take a bath,” she said to Maria. “If anyone calls, tell them I’ll call back later.”

Maria nodded with her eyes on the TV. Östergaard glanced at the screen. Four people were talking at the same time. Everybody looked upset. A family.

She took the glass of wine into the bathroom and plugged the tub, adjusting the temperature of the water until it was the way she liked it. Throwing her clothes into the laundry basket, she drank some wine, then set the glass on the edge of the bathtub. She turned around and looked in the mirror on the door of the medicine cabinet.