Åke Edwardson - Frozen Tracks

“We can check their halls, though,” said Bergenhem. “The one where Kaite and Stillman live.”

“Their rooms are in different halls,” said Halders.

“Kaite said something odd when I spoke to him,” Winter said. He fumbled for his pack of cigarillos in his breast pocket, and noticed Halders staring hard at him. “We were talking about Smedsberg having seen a newspaper delivery boy, and Kaite was wide enough awake to ask how the fake one could have known that he wouldn’t run into the real one.”

“Maybe he just took a chance and risked it,” said Bergenhem. “The fake one, that is.”

“That’s not the point,” said Winter. “The thing is that Kaite said ‘her’ when he was referring to the usual delivery person. ‘He could have bumped into her,’ he said. How could he know that it was a woman?”

“Maybe a slip of the tongue,” said Bergenhem.

“Don’t you think that’s a very odd slip of the tongue?” said Winter.

“It could be that in a guy’s world, it’s always women who deliver newspapers,” said Halders. “In his dreams. He lies awake and hopes they are going to drop in on him in the wee hours.”

“How does this fit in with the gay theory?” wondered Bergenhem.

“Don’t ask me,” said Halders. “That’s yours and Erik’s theory, isn’t it?”

BERGENHEM CROSSED SVEAPLAN WITH A STRONG WIND BEHIND him. A sheet of newspaper went flying past the corner shop.

The buildings around the square looked black in the dusk. A streetcar rattled past to his right, a cold, yellow light. Two magpies took off as he rang the bell next to the nameplate. He heard a distant answer.

“I’m looking for Krister Peters. My name is Lars Bergenhem, from the Gothenburg CID.”

No response, but a humming sound came from the door and he pulled it open. There was no smell in the stairwell, as if the wind had blown in and cleansed it. The walls on each side were as dark as the building’s facade.

Bergenhem waited for an elevator that never appeared.

He walked up the stairs and rang the bell next to the door labeled Peters. The door opened a couple of inches after the second ring. The man peering though the crack could’ve been the same age as Bergenhem. Five or six years older than the students.

He stared at Bergenhem. His dark hair hung down over his forehead in a way that looked intentional, fixed with some kind of gel or spray. It looked as if he hadn’t shaved for three or four days. He was wearing a white vest that stood out against his tanned and muscular body. Of course, Bergenhem thought. No, you shouldn’t be prejudiced. The guy is just uncombed and unshaven and fit.

“Can I see your ID,” said the man.

Bergenhem produced his card and asked, “Krister Peters?”

The man nodded and gestured toward Bergenhem’s right hand holding the plastic pocket with his ID:

“That could be a fake.”

“Can I come in for a few minutes?”

“You could be anybody,” said Peters.

“Have you had bad experience with people knocking on your door?” asked Bergenhem.

Peters gave a little laugh, then opened the door fully, turned his back on apartment Bergenhem and went into his apartment, which opened out in all directions from the hall. Bergenhem could see the buildings on the other side of the square. The sky looked lighter from inside here, more blue, as if the apartment building soared up above the clouds.

He followed Peters, who sat down on a dark gray, expensive-looking sofa. A pile of magazines stood on a low glass table. To the right of the magazines was a glass and a bottle, and a misty little carafe containing what could have been water. Bergenhem sat down on an armchair that matched the sofa.

Peters stood up.

“I’m forgetting my manners,” he said, left the room, and came back with another glass. He sat down again and held up the bottle. “A drop of whiskey?”

“I don’t think I should,” said Bergenhem.

“It’s after twelve,” said Peters.

“It’s always after twelve somewhere or other,” said Bergenhem.

“Hell, it’s noon in Miami, as Hemingway said when he started drinking at eleven o’clock.”

“I’ll pass this time,” said Bergenhem. “I came by car and I have to drive home when I leave here.”

Peters shrugged, poured a couple of fingers into his glass, and topped it up with water.

“You’re missing a pretty decent Springbank,” he said.

“There might be other times,” said Bergenhem.

“Perhaps,” said Peters. He took a drink, put down his glass, and looked at Bergenhem: “When are you going to get to the point?”

“What time was it when Jens Book left you?” Bergenhem asked.

“Nasty business,” said Peters. “Will Jens ever be able to walk again?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s unbelievable. Only a couple of blocks away from here.” Peters took another drink, and Bergenhem could smell the alcohol. He could always leave the car here and take a taxi home. Hell, it’s noon in Torslanda.

“You were in the vicinity when it happened,” said Bergenhem.

“Yes, it appears so.”

“Jens wasn’t especially forthcoming about that,” said Bergenhem.

“About what?”

“That he’d been to see you.”

“Really.”

“That he was with you shortly before the attack.”

“Really.”

Bergenhem said nothing.

Peters held his glass in his hand but didn’t drink from it.

“I hope you don’t think I beat him up?” he said. “That I crippled him and he knows I did but is protecting me?” Peters took a drink. Bergenhem couldn’t see any sign of intoxication.

“Is that what you think?” Peters repeated.

“I don’t think anything at all,” said Bergenhem. “I’m simply trying to find out what actually happened.”

“Facts,” said Peters. “Always the facts.”

“According to Jens you separated about half an hour before he was clubbed down.”

“That could be,” said Peters. “I don’t know exactly when it happened, of course. When was he attacked?”

“Where was that?” asked Bergenhem. “Where did you separate?” He glanced down at his notebook, where it said “just past Sveaplan,” as Book had told Ringmar.

“It was just outside here,” said Peters, gesturing toward the window. “A little ways down the street from Sveaplan.”

“Exactly where?”

“I can point it out to you later if it’s important.”

“Good.”

Peters seemed to be racking his memory.

“What happened next?” asked Bergenhem.

“What happened next? You know what happened next.”

“What did you do immediately after Jens had left?”

“What did I do? I smoked a cigarette, then came back in and listened to a CD, and then I took a shower and went to bed and fell asleep.”

“Why did you go out into the street with him?”

“I needed some air,” said Peters. “And it was a pleasant night. It was only blowing half a gale at that point.”

“Did you see anybody else out there?” asked Bergenhem.

“No pedestrians,” said Peters. “A few cars went by. In both directions.”

“Were you watching Jens?”

“While I was smoking the cigarette, yes. He even turned around at one point and waved. I waved back, finished the cigarette, and went back in.”

“And you didn’t see anybody else in the street?”

“No.”

“Nobody else walking down the street?”

“No.”

Bergenhem could hear sounds from the street down below, which was one of the busiest in Gothenburg. Suddenly he heard an ambulance siren. The hospital was not far away. Then he recognized the music Peters was playing.

“The Only Ones,” he said.