Sun and Shadow (6 page)

“Yes.”

‘And?“

“He seems pretty ... well, strong.”

“That sounds encouraging.”

“Yes.”

“What was it like, seeing him again?”

“As if we’d been chatting only last week.”

“Sure?”

“Depends what you mean. We spoke about safe subjects.”

“Everything takes time. He has to get better first.”

“Hmm.”

“Are you tired?”

“Not so tired that I can’t indulge in a glass of duty-free whisky. What about you?”

“We’re fine.”

He took her “we” as a greeting from the new family: Angela and her ever-enlarging stomach.

“Take it easy at work.”

“I always do. The mergers have resulted in much better working conditions, as you know.”

“I know.”

“You are a genius.”

“Stop it, Angela. Give your stomach a hug from me instead.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“I’ll find somewhere for a bite to eat, then drive back to the hospital.”

“With whisky in your blood?”

“It stays in my brain. And, anyway, this is a different country.”

He could see the lights of ships plying the jet-black sea. The heat wafted into the car as he drove to the hospital. The eastern suburbs of Marbella were quieter now, with fewer cars in the streets. The streetlights, too far apart, helped to soften the darkness.

Winter had eaten a seafood meal in a modest bar near Hostal La Luna. Five men almost hidden by a cloud of smoke in front of a television set in the corner had been shouting and making obscene gestures at the footballers. Football spectators were the same the whole world over.

His father was awake again. His mother was on the chair, which she had moved closer to the bed.

“I’m going down to the cafeteria for a coffee,” she said when Winter arrived. “Can I get you anything?”

“Nothing for me, thank you.”

“You can bring me a Tanqueray and tonic,” his father said.

His mother smiled, and left. Winter sat down on the chair.

“I can hear that you’re fighting fit,” he said.

“It’s T and T time now,” his father said, who was lying with his head turned toward the window. ‘A little something cold and uplifting before dinner.“

“Isn’t it a bit late?” Winter said, pointing at his watch, which said nine o‘clock.

His father started coughing, and Winter waited. There was a clanking noise as a trolley passed by in the corridor. A woman’s voice asking something in Spanish, and a reply from a man. A snatch of guitar music. His father coughed again.

“We’ve adapted to Spanish customs.” He cleared his throat tentatively, as if to ease the pain of talking. “Do you see the outline of that mountaintop over there?”

“Yes.”

“It’s the Sierra Blanca. The White Mountain. A lovely name, don’t you think? I can see the same peak from our house. Funny, eh?”

“I don’t know about that. The mountain dominates the whole area, you could say.”

His father seemed to be pondering what he’d just said. He looked at his son. “I could have landed in a different room. Facing the other way. There’s a meaning behind this.”

“What, exactly?”

“That I’m here, in this room. That I can see the mountain peak. The same damn peak. It’s as if I were meant to see it from here too. This is my new home. I’ve moved into here now, and I’m never going to move out.”

“Of course you will.”

“Alive, Erik. I mean move out alive.”

“You seem better already. Keep going on as you are now.”

“I’m serious, Erik.”

“What does the doctor say?”

“Alcorta? He makes typical Spanish gestures that could mean anything at all.”

“Isn’t that what all doctors do?”

“Not like they do in Spain. Does Angela do it? How is she, by the way?”

“She’s fine.”

“And you’re going to be a father, Erik. Good Lord! I hope he gives me the strength to hang on long enough to see the miracle.”

“You’ll soon be back at home. Then you can study the mountain peak from the other side again.”

Morelius spent the first two hours or so of his evening shift working at the front desk. An officer who used to work on the beat would soon take over, hold the fort.

He was one of the worn-out, older officers who had been given desk jobs as a result of the latest reorganization. They’d done their duty and now just concentrated on keeping their noses clean. Lots of officers here had lost their drive like that. But this old officer was a very bitter man. Some people were born to take a top job, but those who reached retirement age and still hadn’t got one became bitter.

Time to go out on patrol now. Bartram strapped on his holster. He hadn’t lost his drive. He might seem worn out at times, or angry—but there were other reasons for that.

The control room had saved some interesting assignments they didn’t want to give to the day-shift patrols that were just about to go off duty. Many were break-ins that were more than met the eye. Like this one. A caretaker had noticed that somebody had broken into the basement of an apartment building in Rickertsgatan, over at Johanneberg. They set off in a patrol car, three of them: Morelius and Bartram plus Bo Vejehag, who really had lost his drive and couldn’t wait for his retirement day after thirty years of hard work on behalf of the general public.

The apartment buildings around Viktor Rydbergsgatan were often targeted for burglaries. Large, substantial buildings, wealthy inhabitants away in their holiday homes.

They pulled up outside the one that had just been broken into, and were met by the caretaker, who was evidently working overtime, or had stayed behind because he was fed up with all the burglaries, one after another, in his basements.

“Fuck this shitty weather,” Vejehag said, getting out of the car and turning up his jacket collar in an attempt to seal out the wind and the rain.

“There were some young thugs running up and down the stairs and then they went down into the basement,” the caretaker said.

“Did you see them?” Vejehag asked.

“No. But one of the tenants did.”

“When was that?”

“Just now.”

“Just now? We received the message hours ago.”

“That was then. Now they’ve come back again. I’ve only just called, and you’ve turned up here like greased lightning.”

“The message has just come over the radio,” shouted Bartram from the car, and responded to control: “We’re there already.”

“Has anything been stolen?” Vejehag asked.

“A few small items earlier this afternoon from one of the cellars. I don’t know about this time.”

“Which basement was it?”

“Do you mean now? Or this afternoon?”

“I mean now.”

“Down there,” said the caretaker, pointing to the nearest flight of stairs. The property was in need of a coat of paint. A gang of kids were standing fifty yards away, watching the police officers.

“We’d better go and take a look,” said Vejehag. Morelius got out of the car and followed him into the building.

Bartram stayed in the car, waiting for messages. He looked up at the sky: it was a dirty, grayish blue, streetlights mixed with dusk.

Winter looked at the sky over the mountains. It was lit up from the left by the city lights, but had turned darker, made a deeper color by what might have been rain clouds. The wind was getting up, rustling through the palms on the other side of the graveled courtyard.

“How’s work going?” His father’s voice sounded distant. “I’ve read about some of your cases in the Gothenburg papers we have sent out.”

“I try to do my best.”

“That seems to be more than good enough, as far as I can make out.”

“Hmm. I don’t know about that.”

“I could never work out what happened to that young woman who was murdered last year. The one you found in the lake at Delsjön.”

“Helene.”

“Was that her name?”

“Yes. What was unclear?”

“What happened to the child.”

“She was okay.”

“But she’d disappeared.”

“Not really. She was ... being looked after. Protected.”

His father didn’t ask any further. Winter listened to the sick man’s labored breathing, like a weak pair of bellows. He thought about his work. He’d never had any doubts about what he did ... or even thought that he did much at all, really. Or was it just the challenge that interested him? Might he just as well be doing something else? That thought had suddenly entered his head, in the car as he was driving to the hospital. It was a worrying thought. It could be constricting.

“I think I’ll have a nap,” his father said.

“I’ll be sitting here.”

“Shouldn’t you go back to your room and get some sleep? It was a long journey.”

“I’ll get some rest here, on the chair.”

He could hear the patter of rain on the window, gentle at first but growing louder.

“It’s raining,” his father mumbled. “That’ll please a lot of people.”

Bartram was daydreaming when the door to the basement stairs was flung open and two youths came racing out and ran off to the left.

Bartram leaped out of the car, shot over the flowerbed, and tackled one of them with a kick on the shin.

The other boy disappeared down the next flight of stairs. Bartram looked down at his captive squirming on the ground, glanced around, then slammed his foot down on the youth’s back.

“Ouch! You bast—”

“Shut up.”

“Take your foot off—”

“Shut up,
I said.”

Vejehag and Morelius emerged from the basement and ran over to Bartram and the boy.

“What happened down there?” Bartram asked.

“We caught ‘em red-handed,” Vejehag said.

“That’s bullshit!
I
caught ‘em red-handed,” said Bartram, pressing his foot down harder on the kid’s back.

“That’s enough of that,” Vejehag said. “Where’s the other one?”

“Ran down the basement stairs over there,” Bartram said, pointing.

“Get up,” Vejehag said to the boy, gesturing to Bartram to take his foot away.

A patrol car was approaching.

“This bunch is from the emergency call-out squad,” Morelius said.

“Have you been yakking over the radio?” asked Vejehag, glaring at Bartram.

“Of course I haven‘t, goddam it!”

The car drew up alongside them. The driver’s window was wound down and a very young face appeared—the officer looked about twenty-five.

“What’s going on, Granddad?”

“We’ve lost a nightshirt and a nightcap and thought we might find them in the basement here.”

“Ha, ha.”

“And what are you lot doing here?” Vejehag said.

“Who’s that?” asked the constable in the patrol car, nodding toward the youth slumped between Bartram and Morelius.

“It’s my young brother,” Vejehag said, and at that very moment the door behind them flew open and out charged the other youth. Bartram let go and raced after the second kid and tackled him after only ten yards. The constable’s jaw dropped. Somebody said something inside the car, but it was impossible to see anything through the tinted windows. There was some faint applause.

The young constable looked at Vejehag.

“Another brother of yours?”

“We’re gathering the family together for a party. It’ll soon be Christmas.”

“Ha, ha.”

Bartram strolled up with the boy in handcuffs.

“Nice bit of work,” the constable said.

“Look and learn,” Vejehag said.

“Are there any more?”

“Eh?”

“If there are any more assembling for your party, you might need a bit of backup. I mean, all that violent resistance.”

“We’re not expecting any more violent resistance.”

“Oh no?”

“We normally capture the villains verbally.”

“Eh?”

“We try to talk to people. Even villains. We don’t expect violent resistance when we’re at work.”

“I can see that.”

Vejehag pretended not to hear. “If anybody thinks that violent resistance plays a significant part in our work, maybe they ought to think again about their choice of profession.”

“Be seeing you, Granddad,” said the young constable, and the car moved off. The buildings that comprise Rickertsgatan were reflected in its windows.

“What a bunch,” Vejehag said. “Six officers who can’t bear the thought of being parted from the other. Hiding behind tinted glass.” He looked at Morelius. “There’s something perverse about that, don’t you think?”

“Could be.”

“There’s something perverse about the whole idea of special call-out units,” Vejehag said. “They should be sent on Swedish-language courses instead of all that goddam macho nonsense. We talk every day, but it’s pretty rare that the Gothenburg police force gets to storm a Boeing 757. Even so, that bunch practices it every few days.”