45

Morelius turned right at the roundabout. The traffic had intensified during the afternoon. Somebody flashed his lights in greeting. Perhaps there was a general feeling of benevolence toward the police.

“It wasn’t much worse than any other street party,” Bartram said. They were talking about the millennium celebrations.

‘A few more people.“

“A lot more people. But reasonably well behaved, even so.”

“Did you go off duty early?” Morelius asked.

“What do you mean?” Bartram turned to face his colleague.

“I didn’t see you at three.”

“There was a bit of trouble outside the Park Hotel.”

“I never got that far.”

“You didn’t miss much.”

“There was a bit of trouble with unlicensed taxis as well.”

“So I heard. The Africans had overstepped their bounds.”

Most drivers of unlicensed taxis in Gothenburg were foreign and were far from integrated into Swedish society. They’d divided the center of town among themselves. Iranians, Iraqis, and former Yugoslavs operated in the Avenue, as far as the moat. The Africans ruled the roost in Östra Nordstan. The borderline between them was strictly imposed.

The radio crackled into life. Bartram responded. A drunk on a number-three tram at Vasa/Viktoria. Possibly two. The driver had tried to offload him for causing serious disruption.

“Roger,” Bartram said. “We’ll take it.”

The tram was standing in Vasagatan just where it was due to turn right. Cars were able to pass normally. The passengers had disembarked and were dotted around outside. The drunk was clinging on to the rail at the entrance.

A woman was beside him, presumably they were together. Bartram and Morelius parked on the cycle track and approached the tram. The man was brandishing a broken bottle. The woman was trying to take the bottle from him, but melted away as the police came closer.

“Put that down,” Bartram said.

The drunk gurgled some kind of response and swung the bottle at Bartram, but lost his balance and fell out of the tram, doing a half-forward roll and collapsing in the slush. He made no attempt to move. The woman screamed and stared at the police officers. She was drunk, but more mobile than he. The man was now grasping at fresh air, hoping to find something to hold on to to help him to sit up. Morelius couldn’t see any blood. The man managed to get onto all fours, then stand up unsteadily.

“I’d like to get going again,” said the tram driver, who was standing next to Bartram.

“That’s fine,” Bartram said. “We’ll take it from here.”

Angela had started to waddle, really waddle. It was a nice feeling. Both of them were visible now, she and the child. They waddled out of the elevator and unlocked the front door.

If it was a girl, she’d be called Elsa. Perhaps. They weren’t sure about boys’ names. Erik had suggested Sture, Göte, or Sune. Why not all three? she’d said. Or if we call him Göte he can change his surname and become Göte Borg. Sounds like a great idea, he’d said, then gone back to his repulsive murder investigation.

She tried to avoid thinking about the apartment building up the street. The caretaker there also looked after their building. He’d given her a knowing smile when they’d met in the entrance the other day, as if they shared a secret.

The telephone rang. She took the call with her overcoat still on. She was sweating after coming from the wet snow outside into the higher temperature of the elevator.

“Hello?”

No reply, and she shuddered, felt suddenly cold, as if the sweat had turned to ice.

“Hello?”

She’d almost forgotten, it was months ago.

She could hear somebody breathing, somebody was listening. Her hand had started to tremble. She felt a movement in her stomach, then another. There was a click and the line was free again.

There was a scraping noise outside the door and then it opened. She gave a start.

“Angela!”

Siv Winter was standing in the doorway, key in hand.

“I didn’t think there was anybody in.”

Angela replaced the receiver.

“What’s the matter?” asked Siv. ‘Are you sick?“

“Yes.”

“Come on, take off your coat and sit down.” She helped Angela with her coat and boots. “Would you like a glass of water?”

“Yes, please.”

Siv went to the kitchen and returned with a glass.

“You should take things easier. Do you have to keep working until the last minute?”

“It’s not that.”

“What is it, then?”

“Some bastard keeps phoning this number. But never says anything.”

“Really? Nuisance calls?”

“I wouldn’t call them that.” She took a drink and kept the glass in her hand. “It’s horrible. The last one was some time ago, but this-”

“Did you get one of those calls just now?” Siv asked, interrupting her.

“Yes.”

“What does Erik say about it?”

Angela took another drink. Well, what did he say? They’d agreed that the calls had stopped, but they’d have to do something about them now.

“That we should wait, but now I’m not so sure about that.”

“You have to tell him.”

Bergenhem’s head was burning as if the sky were on fire. All the fireworks seemed to have eased the pain, but now it was much worse. Far worse.

He’d screamed out loud during the night, talked in his sleep, rambled. Then he’d dozed off and when he woke the pain was still there, but more like a muffled swishing noise.

His vision had started to blur. That happened in fits and starts.

Martina came back from next door. Ada had simply laughed and waved. He was all dressed and ready, sitting in the hall, fastening his shoes.

“I’ll drive,” she said.

He closed one eye as they drove over the bridge. A ferry was just leaving. The roofs were weighed down with snow. White caps, Ada had said the other day, pointing up at them.

He started to feel terrible. Martina was driving like an ambulance driver.

They were attended to immediately. X-rays, cold light, lamps shining into his eyes. He knew what it was, had known for some days. That’s perhaps what had been dictating his mood all year, his restless worry. He thought he could hear them talking about the operation. The words were bouncing and thudding all around him.

“I want to keep my sight.”

Everybody was dressed in white. White caps. He tried to get through to them. Please spare my eyesight.

The Elfvegrens had eventually wriggled off the hook, got away from Halders. They hadn’t admitted anything, but they had left their fingerprints.

“I refuse,” Per Elfvegren had said. “You have no right to do this.”

“When we are conducting an investigation we have the right to take fingerprints for purposes of comparison,” Winter said. “For specific purposes.”

“Who decides that? Who makes the decision?”

“The person in charge of the investigation.”

“And who’s that?”

“Me.”

They were waiting for answers. Beier’s team was just as eager.

“Sensitive stuff, this,” Halders said.

“What stuff? Their leisure activities?” Winter asked.

“Nobody wants to talk to a few cops about their screwing activities.”

“No, obviously not.”

“They should have thought of that before they went in for it,” said Halders.

“You’ll have to hold your horses for a while,” Winter said. “It’s possible that they’ve never been there. At the Valkers’ place.”

Elfvegren had said, during the very first interview a long time ago, that they’d been around at the Valkers’ once, but he claimed later that his memory had let him down. He’d changed his mind. They had never set foot in the Valkers’ apartment.

“A load of crap,” Halders said. “I’ll bet on it.”

“What’s the prize?”

“A year’s subscription to The Beano.”