44

He had no memory of any words, no screams. Everything had been an enormous weight bearing down on him like a mountain.

Over the threshold and into the room and then he’d gotten him.

There was a noise… and the light outside had become stronger and stronger and he could no longer see. It seemed like hours. Somebody was waiting.

Somebody was running up or down the stairs, shouting. The light was still as strong as ever.

Was it the light that put a stop to it?

It had been like the last time. They’d eyed him up and down. This time she didn’t laugh. He was the one who’d laughed. Laughed away any chance of mercy.

There was a whistling noise in his eardrums.

In the elevator on the way down he kept his face averted. The light outside had become normal. He slipped as he walked over the street. There wasn’t far to go.

He had saved something. He knew now. It grew lighter again, looked different.

Ringmar was loitering by the window. His face was marked by lack of sleep. He looked out. The afternoon emitted an air of calm. It had never been as quiet as this.

“A happy New Year, Erik.”

“And to you.”

Winter rubbed his face, over his eyes. He’d phoned home. Angela sounded worried. His world had become hers in a much more straightforward way now. Maybe that was a good thing, for their future together. His absence wasn’t only his. It wasn’t just him who shot off into the night like a lost soul. A year or so ago Angela had said that he seemed to prefer living among the dead than the living. That was at the end of a discussion that had grown more and more desultory as the night wore on, and they hadn’t referred to it the next morning. But he’d never forgotten her phrase: a life among the dead.

She’d witnessed his life at close quarters now, the brutality it involved. The cruel telephone call in the early hours. Rarely did they come at any other time. Fumbling for his underpants as the adrenaline started to flow.

“Börjesson hadn’t found anything called Manhattan here in Gothenburg when I visited him.”

Winter scraped his hand over his chin and reached for his cigarillos. He rubbed his eyes again. He had a burning sensation in his eyes.

“Our man could well be wearing a uniform,” he said. “I was sitting here before you came, thinking about that.”

“Really?”

“Two neighbors said they thought they saw somebody in uniform not long after midnight. A bit vague about when. And a bit vague about how sober they were by that time.”

“Was there any trouble in the area?”

“A bit of a disturbance. The Mölndal police had sent a car to somewhere just a few blocks away.”

“Could they be the ones the neighbors saw?”

“I don’t know. As I said, they were a few blocks away. Why should they leave their car and go there? I don’t know. I haven’t had time to talk to the guys yet.”

Winter stood up without lighting his Corps and started pacing up and down.

“Where can you get hold of a uniform? We’ll assume that we’re talking about police uniforms.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just assume that, Bertil.”

Winter struck a match.

“But you’re not assuming that it’s a police officer?”

“If it is, I’ll resign on the spot.”

“Hmm.”

“Do we have to start investigating two thousand police officers?”

“No, no. The whole business is diffuse enough already.”

“What do you mean?”

“Uniforms. The boy’s just making assumptions.”

“A bit more than that. It’s a bit more than that. Patrik had spent ages thinking about this. Waiting for insight to strike him.” Winter drew on his cigarillo and looked at Ringmar. ‘And we spoke a moment ago about the neighbors in Mölndal.“

“Okay. Uniforms. Some idiot or other could have thrown his old one in the trash can instead of sending it off to be burned.”

“Hmm. Or somebody could have had one made. Police uniforms are not copyrighted.”

“Had one made? Privately, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“But they’re not made in Sweden anymore, surely?”

Winter didn’t answer. He had an idea.

“Doesn’t the City Theatre keep uniforms? For the plays they put on?”

“If they’re police plays,” Ringmar said.

‘And films. Police films certainly exist, no doubt about that.“ The smoke from his cigarillo was invisible in the thin winter light coming in through the window. ”Didn’t I read something about some film or other being shot in Gothenburg? A thriller? I seem to remember reading that. In GP.“

“I’ve no idea what you read,” Ringmar said.

“Haven’t you seen anything about that?”

“Certainly not.” He turned to look at Winter. “But if you think we might have loaned police uniforms to some film company, you can forget it. Our madam police chief has said no to anything of the sort.”

“I know.”

“A good thing, too, I think,” Ringmar said.

“I’ll follow up all this, but first there’s something else I need to see to,” Winter said, putting his cigarillo in the ashtray and going to get his overcoat.

Not many people were out and about. He drove past Ullevi Stadium, which cast a shadow over the canal covered in gray-black ice. The sun glinted on Lunden Hill.

He parked in the quiet street. A dog started barking in the distance. It sounded as if somebody was shoveling snow, and when he walked around to the back of the house he saw it was Benny Vennerhag.

The gangster was wearing a red woolly hat and a black suit. He was shoveling away some icy lumps of snow with considerable skill.

“You’re always working when I come to see you,” Winter said. “If it’s not pruning roses, it’s shoveling snow.”

Vennerhag was panting heavily and leaned on his shovel.

“I thought I’d make the place look good, ready for your arrival.” Vennerhag stood the shovel against the wall, took off his woolly hat, and slicked back his thin blond hair with the aid of some sweat from his brow. “It was a big surprise when you called.”

“For me too when you answered. I thought you’d chartered a yacht in the West Indies.”

Vennerhag eyed Winter up and down.

“You thought almost right.” He opened the back door. “Something cropped up and got in the way.”

“What was that, Benny?”

“Business. You know. How’s Lotta, by the way?”

“Enough of that.”

Benny Vennerhag had once been married to Winter’s sister, but it had lasted only a few days. The memory lingered with Lotta Winter as a vague nightmare.

Vennerhag led the way into a big room facing the garden. The picture windows stretched almost from floor to ceiling.

“I’m afraid the swimming pool is snowed over,” Vennerhag said. “But you can have a sauna if you like.”

There were bottles on the tables, and glasses. The room smelled of smoke.

“I haven’t gotten around to cleaning up, only snow shoveling.” He picked up a bottle and held it to the light. The whisky glinted like amber. “It tasted good last night, but I don’t know about now.” He looked at Winter. “Would you like a coffee or something?”

Winter shook his head.

“You look a bit under the weather, if I can put it like that.”

“I had to get up early this morning.”

“I heard something on the lunchtime news.”

“What did you hear?”

“Something about a murder, in Mölndal. That’s about all they said.” He looked at Winter again, more closely this time. “You don’t think that I-”

“No. But I need some information.”

“What about?”

Winter thought for a moment.

“This business,” he said. “The murder. Or murders. There’ve been several.”

“Really?”

“How are things on the stolen goods front nowadays?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Have you got tabs on what’s being passed around?”

“No.” He asked Winter again if he wanted something to drink, and Winter said no. Vennerhag excused himself and went to the kitchen to get a bottle of mineral water. “Where were we? Trafficking in stolen goods? That’s not a nice thing to do.”