Frozen Moment (23 page)

    'Are
they wondering where you are?'

    
'Hmm.
They just can't do without me. They're like kids
without a babysitter as soon as I turn my back.'

    She
watched him in silence as he helped himself to some breakfast.

    'Is
this going to be a problem for you, Christian?'

    'Probably,'
he said, shrugging his shoulders. 'We can talk about it some other time. I
really have to go.'

    By
way of illustration he quickly took a couple of gulps of coffee and burned his
tongue. He caught sight of his unshaven face in the mirror.

    
'Bathroom?'

    
'Outside toilet.'

    He
laughed. 'You're just a woodland troll!'

    Her
expression became serious. 'But you do want to see me again?'

    'Of
course,' he heard himself saying as he stopped to kiss her. She took his face
between her hands and gazed into his eyes as if trying to ascertain whether he
was telling the truth. She seemed to decide he was as she caressed his rough
cheek.

    'Good.
I would have been very sad otherwise.'

    Honesty
seemed to come naturally to her, and a disinclination to play the kind of games
he was used to in his dealings with women. He found it liberating.

    Bärneflod
shook his head. There was something going on with his colleague, even if he
couldn't quite work out what it was. Tell wasn't the type to give anything away
about his life outside work - if he actually had a life outside work. But
oversleeping, not being available by phone during the most important phase of a
murder investigation, it wasn't like him, Bärneflod thought, even if it was
quite satisfying to see his team leader for once letting go of his wearying
performance anxiety. And for some unfathomable reason Tell's dip in performance
had a stimulating effect on Bärneflod. It was a long time since he had regarded
the job as anything other than exhausting, but right now he was feeling
extremely positive.

    Was
Tell in love? The thought was certainly amusing.

    There
was no doubt Reino Edell was a paranoid bastard, but he was right about one
thing - Zachariasson definitely was gay. It wasn't just the pale pink shirt
hanging loosely over his jeans, despite the fact that the man must have been
getting on for fifty, or the fact that his jeans were skin tight. Nor was it
the fact that Zachariasson's manner was effeminate. He had met Bärneflod's eye
when they shook hands, but he hadn't tried anything. No, it was just a feeling.
Bärneflod had a well-developed gaydar, which he liked to boast about. He could
spot a gay man in a group of people from twenty metres away. There was
something about the way they moved, he would have claimed if anyone had asked
him to define this particular talent in more detail.
Gentle
movements, like those of a woman.

    Bärneflod
had been a copper for almost forty years. As he saw it, knowing about people
was part of the job; it was just a shame the younger generation didn't have the
sense to value experience. In terms of salary he was worse off than Beckman,
for example, and he was well aware of it. It wasn't difficult to work out why
Karin Beckman was shooting up the hierarchy with consummate ease, what with
quotas and all this talk of equality.

    No,
they would soon be
extinct,
the coppers who valued
good old honest police work. Nowadays it was all about who was best at brown-
nosing. Who was a happy little soul, changing their methods every other year to
fit in with some astonishing new computer program that would no doubt be
scrapped a couple of years later. He could certainly teach the management a
thing or two about cost-effectiveness. And what would last in the long term:
the old, tried and tested methods.

    In
another situation Bärneflod would have assumed that a woman's hand was
responsible for the kitchen in which he found himself. It was warm and cosy but
tasteful, as his wife Ulla would say. He would never be able to create a
pleasant home - not that anyone would entrust him with such a task - the way
Ulla had. He had to give her credit for that.

    He
was the first to admit that there were a number of areas in which women were
superior to men. It was all about the details, something men generally missed.
Ulla would sometimes accuse him of not appreciating such things, or not even
noticing them, but she was wrong. He noticed the flowers at Easter. The butter
dish and milk jug instead of the margarine tub and milk carton on the table.
The children's birthdays.
He could go on for ever. He even
had a tear in his eye at the thought. And to think there were those who said he
was an insensitive bastard.

    Bärneflod
wiped his eyes discreetly with his shirt sleeve as he became aware of
Zachariasson's enquiring expression.

    Pull
yourself together.

    In
order to be sure that his voice would hold, he barked out somewhat more
fiercely than necessary, 'You know why I'm here?'

    'Yes,'
said Zachariasson calmly. If he was surprised at Bärneflod's volatility, he
chose to hide it.

    'I
imagine it has something to do with Lasse's death.'

    A
pet name - just what you'd expect.

    'Lise-Lott
rang me not long after it happened. Lasse and I were quite close.'

    That
was one way of putting it.

    'It's
just terrible. It really upset me.'

    Bärneflod
raised his eyebrows and made a great performance of taking out his notebook in
order to jot down something. In fact he wrote
Ulla-flowers
on the top
line because he was still thinking along the same lines as earlier.

    'What
was your relationship with Ulla like?'

    'Ulla?'

    
'Waltz.
I mean Lars Waltz. You said you were close?'

    'Yes,
we were. We grew up together.
Went to the same school.'

    Bärneflod
nodded, and this time he did actually write:
Check school.

    
'In Majorna.
Our mothers spent time together too, at least
when we were little. We went to the same nursery - we used to go together.

    Then,
when we specialised in different subjects at grammar school, we carried on
meeting up in our spare time.'

    'Did
your relationship ever change, for example when you were adults?'

    Zachariasson
wriggled out of the question by becoming philosophical.

    'Isn't
a meaningful relationship always in a state of flux? I mean, it's affected by
the current situation of both parties, wouldn't you say?'

    Bärneflod's
expression was comment enough, and Zachariasson was quick to clarify his point.

    'I
mean, there was a time when we didn't see much of each other - that was during
the 8os when our lives were very different. Lasse was working a lot, and when
he got together with his friends it was in a way I didn't particularly enjoy:
lots of drinking and… well… Then, a few years later, when he was going through
his divorce, he got in touch and we found a way back to our friendship.'

    Bärneflod
gave an inward sigh. This was proving more difficult than he'd expected.

    'What
did you do together, you and Lars Waltz?'

    'The
same as most people, I suppose. We'd meet up, have a chat. We spoke on the
telephone when we were both busy. Sometimes we'd go for a beer, but I've never
been all that keen on pubs. I think Lasse had grown tired of that kind of life
as well, towards the end.'

    'I
thought your sort loved the party lifestyle,' Bärneflod spat out.

    Zachariasson
immediately became more reserved.

    'I
presume,' he said, a noticeable chill in his voice, 'that by "your
sort" you are referring to the fact that I am a homosexual. As indeed I
am. However, it is rather simplistic to assume that homosexuality is restricted
to a certain type of person. We are all very different from one another,
Constable. Just like those of you who are straight. Some like the good life;
others live in a terraced house and play bingo. Some like going for long walks
in the forest; others like to have sex with strangers in public places. Some
are absolute geniuses; others are as thick as two short planks.'

    The
latter phrase was emphasised quite deliberately, knocking Bärneflod completely
off balance.

    'It's
Inspector,' he said feebly. For simplicity's sake he decided to allow the
possible slur on his intelligence to pass. After all, it was nearly lunchtime
and he certainly didn't want to spend any longer than necessary in this man's
house.
Particularly as he hadn't even had the manners to
offer him something to eat with his coffee.

    That
was one thing that definitely showed the lack of a woman's hand in this house.
Ulla would never have let a guest sit there without the offer of a biscuit or a
piece of cake.

    The
thought of lunch suddenly made him tire of games.

    'Were
you and Waltz having a relationship or not? I just want a yes or no.'

    'I
wasn't aware you'd asked the question, Constable - forgive me - Inspector.'

    'I'm
asking it now.'

    'Lasse
lived with Lise-
Lott,
I thought you already knew that.
He was married to a woman called Maria before that, but I presume you know that
as well. I live alone, since I have yet to find a man to share my life with.'

    He
smiled at Bärneflod, defiant rather than roguish. Bärneflod regarded him with
distaste.

    'As
you yourself just said, you gays are no different from straight people, and
straight people sometimes stray. So I'm asking you again, as you still haven't
answered my question: were you and Lars Waltz having a relationship?'

    'We
were not having a relationship. And if we had been, what's that got to do with
Lasses murder?'

    Bärneflod
shrugged his shoulders. 'Well, say he refuses to leave his wife, and you, the
jealous lover, have had enough. If you can't have him, no one will.'

    Bärneflod
was pleased with himself but Zachariasson shook his head as if he couldn't
believe his ears.

    'You're
just being embarrassing now. You're also implying that a gay man can't be
friends with a straight
guy
without trying to turn
him. I don't even feel flattered that you're assuming I succeeded. One more
time: we were not having a relationship.'

    'Someone
else has a different view.'

    
'A crazy farmer who wants to get his hands on Lise-Lott's land.
Yes, I know. Lasse was pretty upset about it for a while. He even made a
complaint when the whole thing started to get out of hand.'

    'Would
you say Lars seemed frightened of Reino Edell?'

    Zachariasson
got up and poured himself a cup of coffee. He didn't offer Bärneflod a top-up.

    Bärneflod
pushed his empty cup away demonstratively.
Mean bastard.

    'I
wouldn't say frightened, exactly,' said Zachariasson. 'Angry, more like. The
farmer had evidently threatened him at some stage. He made the complaint mostly
to show him that enough was enough.
To get him to come to his
senses.'
Zachariasson looked at his watch. 'I really do have to go. I
start work in twenty minutes.'

    'OK.
I'd just like to know when you last saw Lars Waltz.'

    Zachariasson
thought it over.

    'It
must have been a couple of days before Lucia. Lasse was doing some errand or
other around Frölunda Torg. We bumped into one another and went for a coffee.'

    'Was
there anything unusual about him? Anything you noticed? Anything he said?'

    'No.
He was the same as always. Talked about a trip Lise-Lott was going on. He was
worried about his finances, as usual, but not enough to let it destroy his good
mood. Look, I really do have to go; I'm already late for work.'

    'Where
were you on Monday night?'