17

Patrik waited for the snow plow to pass. There wasn’t enough snow for that, surely? No doubt they’d been told off again. The local authority. Whenever it snowed in Gothenburg the local authority was always told off for not getting the plows out to clear it soon enough. So here they were already, cruising around town even though there was barely enough snow to turn the streets white. Patrik checked his watch, then pulled his sleeve down over his freezing hand. His gloves were at home, doing an excellent job on the shelf in the hall, ha, ha.

He unloaded Beck from his Walkman, replaced it with Boy with the Arab Strap and sauntered over Aschebergsgatan while the music washed away the city sounds. That was good. He sometimes had more cassettes with him than newspapers, but they were all his own choices and it helped to keep changing, often. It made time pass more quickly. The sounds of the city were transformed into something else. Not that there were so many of them. The first trams. A few taxis, some of them apparently being driven by madmen. Drunken men and women yelling for taxis, especially on Friday and Saturday evenings.

And sounds like now, the snow plow attachment scraping against the tarmac, vibrations shuddering their way through the road surface until they caught up with him, then continuing up his legs and taking possession of his whole body.

He removed The Boy and replaced it with Gomez. Music was his life. He was a millennium ahead of everybody else. He was before his time. People listened to Eminem. Even some people he knew. Or used to know. Previously known people. He could feel himself making a face when he listened to Eminem. He felt provoked by Eminem. He had seen a television interview with Eminem devoid of intelligence and conducted by a couple of girls. Maria had been watching and he could see that she liked it, so he’d gone to his room and put on “Walking into Clarksdale ” at top volume. That was wicked stuff. That was a millennium ahead of its time. Page and Plant, who would soon be sixty and still way ahead of everybody else, who hadn’t a clue and started laughing when he played them. It was almost the same with Morrissey, but not quite as bad.

The electronic lock on the front door wasn’t working properly, as usual. He had to key in the code twice. There was a smell of old age in the stairwell and he started to feel tired, as there were so many stairs left to climb before he’d delivered all the newspapers. He always started to think along those lines when he’d got this far. He was on the third floor. For the last few days he’d paused here and asked himself what seemed amiss. He switched off his Walkman now and took away the earphones.

It was several days ago, when he was about to push the newspaper through the mail slot. He thought back to that occasion, again. Some newspapers had landed on end and were blocking the slot. He’d had to push quite hard and he’d heard the music coming from inside the apartment. It was five in the morning, just like now. There were no lights on in the apartment, but he’d heard the music. Listening to metal at five in the morning! Death metal, eh! Or black. Somebody was sitting there, listening to metal, but whoever it was didn’t read his newspapers, nor did he open his mail.

It said VALKER on the door. Nothing else. Valker. He couldn’t even get the newspaper through the slot anymore. He squatted down and could see the darkness inside the apartment and hear the music as usual. But there was something else now-you couldn’t miss it, couldn’t avoid it. A smell that was worse than… he didn’t know, worse than… he couldn’t think of anything worse, but he could smell it and had been able to smell it for several days now and not only in the morning. He’d felt obliged to go back several times and check. Hell’s bells, he had to admit it. He was curious. Maria had been with him the day before.

“Can you smell it?”

“Yes, phew!”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know what I think it is?”

“Maybe.”

“What, then?”

“Somebody… inside there.”

“Right.”

“Somebody dead.”

“It could be.”

“And still listening to… to that stuff.”

“Well… it could be part of the point. Listening to it. I mean, they don’t call it death metal for nothing.”

“Ha, ha.”

“It seems to be on repeat. Or auto-reverse. It’s playing all the time.”

“Doesn’t it drive the neighbors crazy?”

“There are thick walls, floors, and ceilings in this building. What do you think we should do?”

“I don’t know. Is that noise really music?”

“Yes.”

“Can you call that music? It’s so… repulsive.”

“You’d never believe how many people in Gothenburg listen to that crap.”

“Such as whoever lives in this apartment. What exactly is it? I mean, you know everything. Even about stuff you can’t stand.”

“I’m not sure. Quite a lot of stuff sounds like that. Could be…”

A man walked past, and they moved away from the door. He had no idea what was going on. He looked at them over his shoulder. Patrik started walking downstairs and Maria followed him.

“You’ve been here lots of times, haven’t you?” Maria asked. “I mean, you’ve noticed it. You’d better report it. I think you should.”

He stood in front of the door, thinking over what she had said. He was forced to put the newspaper on the floor outside the door, just as he’d done yesterday. It couldn’t go on like this. He thought again about what to do. The smell seemed stronger than before. It seemed to be everywhere, just like the music that was seeping through the thick walls. Odd that the neighbors weren’t up in arms about it.

He left the newspaper on the floor and delivered to the rest of the apartments, then checked to see if the list of residents’ names by the front door gave any information about a caretaker.

He went back out into the street. It was just as dark, but there were more passengers in the trams now. He was behind schedule, but that wasn’t surprising. He’d lost interest in his Walkman, left it in his pocket and continued toward Vasaplatsen. He went into the apartment building that he and Maria had been looking at before, the one where that detective lived, with his girlfriend. He ought to know that if anybody did, delivering newspapers every day all week long. He’d told Maria, or reminded her about it.

It was the same sort of big, black building as the other one. There was the same kind of echo when the elevator clattered its way up.

The call was passed from the central control to the Lorensberg station, on to the constable who dealt with incoming calls, and from him to the duty officer. He listened, asked a few questions, and made a note.

It was Friday evening. Another half-hour and it would be eight o‘clock, when the station closed to the general public.

The duty officer checked his rotation list and went out to the front desk, where the constable was talking to a woman who had just come in from the street. He waited. The woman left, taking a form with her. He had seen her there before. A dog was waiting outside, wrapped up in God only knows what. It barked a welcome as she opened the door. The duty officer turned to his younger colleague.

“Send Morelius to me as soon as he comes back from the gym. Bartram as well. I need to see them urgently.”

A quarter of an hour later they were in the car driving west toward Aschebergsgatan. The caretaker was waiting for them outside. He was elderly, gray-haired. His last year in the job, and now this had happened.

“The third floor,” he said. “The elevator isn’t working, I’m afraid. I’ve phoned the repair-”

“Was it you who called the police?” asked Morelius, cutting him short.

“Well, yes. I suppose so.”

“What do you mean?”