Never End

27

Winter drove toward the town center. The exhaust fumes that had built up in the tunnel irritated his nose. Halders started coughing.

Halders had taken his CD with him and put it into Winter's player.

"Modern country," Halders said. "Julie Miller."

"Sad stuff," said Winter. "'Out in the Rain,' isn't it?"

"Cools you down," said Halders.

They circled yet another roundabout.

What did the boy who'd disappeared know? Did he know anything about why and how? Who was he? Had he been strangled, the same as Angelika Hansson and Anne Nöjd? And Beatrice Wägner. Don't forget Beatrice.

Don't forget Jeanette Bielke either. Nor her father.

Nor her mother.

"What impression have you gotten of Jeanette's mother?" Winter asked. Halders coughed again.

"Not much," he said, after yet another coughing fit. "She's sort of a shadow." He cleared his throat, opened the window, and spat into the slipstream. "She's kept out of the way whenever I've been there."

They stopped at a red light outside the Opera House. Sails were slack on boats in the marina. Bronzed bodies in bathing suits sat in the sidewalk cafes. Everything was blue, white, yellow, brown, brick red.

"There's an awful lot of innuendo in this case," Winter said.

"You can say that again," said Halders.

"It's time we dug more deeply into that."

"Unless it's just sidetracks."

"Sidetracks are there to be followed until you come to the dead end."

Halders didn't respond. He was watching two families crossing the street in front of them. Two men about thirty, each pushing a baby carriage. "You can say that about most things in this life," he said, when they moved off again.

"What, exactly?"

"Well… most things are really sidetracks that are there for you to follow, and they nearly always lead to a dead end."

Winter didn't respond. The death of Margareta hadn't changed Halders's philosophy of life.

At the same time, it summed up their work. Sidetracks. Dead ends. Sidetracks. Dead ends. In the end there would be no more dead ends left, but if they worked hard and had a bit of luck, there would be one last track, and they'd follow it, and this one wouldn't lead to a dead end. That was where they were heading, all the time. That was their job. Follow tracks as far as hell, where they might find some answers. Not answers to everything. You never find that, he thought. Seldom explanations. There aren't too many explanations for people's secrets. Who has ever had life explained to them? There is no ultimate summary of life. Life simply comes to an end, just like that, much too early for some; it simply stopped, like a sun suddenly falling out of the heavens.

Yngvesson was working in his sound studio when Winter arrived. The studio was a little room inside another little room. There was a jagged line dancing on one of the computer screens, like a heartbeat.

"Not pleasant listening," said Yngvesson, turning to face Winter.

"What can you hear?"

"Well, the particular sound made by a noose being tightened around somebody's neck, for one thing."

"What did she say before that happened?"

Yngvesson swung around to face the control console, which, like the room itself, was surprisingly small.

"It's mainly a struggle. Moaning. No specific cries for help."

"A struggle? Is there any doubt in the attacker's mind about how it'll end, do you think?"

"What do you think yourself, from what you've heard so far?"

"No."

"No," repeated Yngvesson. "But in cases of rape there's often a moment when the victim sees an opportunity of escaping. Of breaking free. Lots of victims have talked about that, afterward. It's as if there's a sort of… gap in the struggle, or the assault, when the attacker hesitates, or seems to hesitate."

"Apologizes?"

"No. That comes later," said Yngvesson. "If at all."

"What do you hear in this case?"

"I don't hear any doubt," Yngvesson said. "No doubt at all."

It was silent in the studio. Winter could hear nothing from the world outside.

"I'm wondering if she knew him," Winter said.

"How do you mean?"

"If there's any way you can hear that she recognized him. Knew him."

"That I can't say," said Yngvesson. "Not yet at least." He looked at Winter again. "You'll have to rely on your detective work for that. And the clever way in which you phrase the questions you put to those who knew her."

"Yes, OK."

"What I can tell you, though, is that he says something to her," Yngvesson said.

"Can you figure out what he says?"

"If I can filter it out from the sound image when it's at its clearest."

"When's that?"

"When they're close to her bag. That's when the sound is best."

"So he definitely says something to her?"

"Or to himself. Do you want to hear?"

Winter nodded, and sat down on the chair next to the biggest computer.

The voice came over the loudspeaker. This isn't heavy metal, Winter thought. This is the real thing.

"NNAAAAIEIEIEYRRRRYY!"

"RREIEIYYYYH"

Winter looked at Yngvesson. His profile was sharp, calm, professional. God only knows what he was thinking.

"He might be saying her name," said Yngvesson, without turning his head. "She was named Anne. 'AAAIEIEIE' … that could be her name."

Winter listened.

"Can you make it any clearer?"

"I'm trying, I'm trying. Not yet. I need to do some more work on the high register, try to lower it. There's a lot of background stuff that needs washing out as well."

"Such as?"

"Various hums and buzzes. The wind, presumably. Traffic noise."

"Traffic noise?"

"Yes, traffic noise. A car goes by. About thirty meters away, maybe fifty."

"It's several hundred meters to the main road."

"Not on this tape. I think it's a car, and it's close by, as I said."

"It's possible to drive a car along the bike path there."

"There you are, then."

"So a car might have driven by while it was happening?"

"It seems so."

"They should've seen the bike lying on the ground," said Winter.

"People pay no attention to such things," said Yngvesson.

"Somebody in the car should've seen something of what was happening," Winter said.

"In that case you'd better start looking for another witness."

"Can you tell what make of car it is?"

"Of course," said Yngvesson dryly. "Hang on a minute and the computer will tell you its license plate number as well."

Yngvesson played the sequence one more time.

"There." He rewound, then played it again. "There. That's a sentence of some kind. Or a sequence of words, at least. Not just a mad burbling."

Winter could hear the burbling. It sounded worse every time he heard it. Like watching a snuff movie. People being killed for real. A snuff tape. A real murder.

"I'll crack this, by God, I will," said Yngvesson.

"Can you tell if he's young or old?" Winter asked.

"One thing at a time."

"But will it be possible?"

The technician shrugged, barely visibly, once again absorbed in his work.

Ringmar went to fetch some coffee. He muttered something as he headed for the half-open door.

"Come on, it's your turn," Winter shouted after him.

Ringmar came back, but had forgotten the milk. He had to go back again. Winter was at the window, smoking. Mercators weren't as good as Corps. You could import Corps yourself from Belgium. Maybe ask one of the thousands at EU headquarters who commute between Sweden and Brussels.

A canoe passed by on the river. Winter watched the ripples from the paddle-the only movement out there this afternoon. No cars, no streetcars, no airplanes, no pedestrians; no sound, no wind, no smell, nothing except the man paddling eastward with the sun like a spear in his back as rays found their way through the buildings at Drottningtorget.

"OK?" said Ringmar from behind him, putting the cup of coffee on Winter's desk.

"What do you say to putting a tail on Mr. Samic, the club and restaurant king?" asked Winter, without turning around. He took a last drag on his cigarillo before stubbing it in the ashtray on the window ledge.

"Why not?" said Ringmar. "If we're smart about it."

"I was thinking of Sara," Winter said.

Sara Helander. One of the new detectives, already an inspector and on her way to higher things. Relatively unknown about town. Good-looking, without being stunning. Nobody should look too stunning in this job, Winter thought. Except me. But that's in the past now.

He glanced down at his khaki shirt, shorts, and bare feet in deck shoes.

"Have you spoken to her?" Ringmar asked.

"Yes," said Winter, turning to face him. "She knows as much as the rest of us, and is up for doing it."

"When?"

"Starting now." Winter checked his watch. "Exactly now."

"Then why bother to ask me?"

Winter shrugged. Ringmar drank his coffee. "Is she on her own?" "So far. Then we'll have to see." "Put somebody else on it, Erik." "I don't have anybody else right now." "Find somebody else." "OK, OK."

"Which car are you giving her?" "Yours," said Winter.

Ringmar choked and spat out half a mouthful of coffee over Winter's desk, thankfully missing all the paper.

The shadows were long and stretched when he drove to the Bielkes'. The old houses were in the dark behind neatly trimmed hedges that held at bay the light trying to force its way into the gardens.

The big verandah was deserted. Winter parked close by it. The gravel crunched under his feet as he walked from the car to the steps.

Irma Bielke emerged from a door on the right before Winter got as far as the verandah. Just for a second he thought she looked very much like the girl in the photograph from Angelika's party. The same age. He looked again, but the similarity had gone.

She was fifty, but looked younger. He would've thought she was about his age.

He hadn't called in advance, just showed up.

"Jeanette's not at home," she said. "Neither is Kurt."

"I've come to chat with you, actually," Winter said.

"With me? What about?"

"Can we sit down for a few minutes?"

"I'm on my way out."

On her way to the verandah, Winter thought. What she was wearing was equally suitable for lounging around at home, or for going out-the same as everybody else: shirt or blouse, shorts, and bare feet in comfortable shoes.

A candle was burning in the room behind her. Winter could see it through the door. It was on a little table near the window.

"Are you allowed to just drop in on people like this?" she asked.

"Can we sit down for a few minutes?" Winter asked again.

"There's nothing else to be said," she replied. "Not to Jeanette, not to Kurt, and most of all not to me."

"I'm not going to lay down the law," said Winter. "I just want to ask a few questions."

"Are you suggesting that there are any questions left to ask?" she said.

"It won't take long."

She gestured toward the cane furniture farther back on the verandah.

"Please spare me all the crap about this being for Jeanette's sake," she said. There was a sudden trace of steel in her voice. "Going on about how the rapists, or whatever euphemism you might use, will be arrested more quickly the sooner we help you, by answering all the questions that come raining in from all sides."

Winter said nothing. He sat down. She remained standing, leaning against the wall. Her eyes were dead. Winter stood up, remained standing. There was a smell of trees and dry grass. The candle seemed brighter now.

"How is she?"

"How do you think?"

OK, Winter thought. Let's stop beating about the bush.

"She won't be going to university," said Irma Bielke.

"Really?"

"The application had been sent, and she'd been accepted, but she's decided to turn it down."

"What's she going to do instead?"

"Nothing, as far as I know."

"Go in for something else?"

"I said, nothing."

She sat down and looked at him.

"Aren't you going to ask me how I feel?"

"How do you feel?"

She looked at the room where the candle was burning.

"It wasn't the end of the world. There are worse things to worry about." She looked up at Winter as he sat down. "Aren't you going to ask me about what worse things?"

"What worse things?"

"HIV, for instance," she said. "We got the test results this morning."

Winter waited.

"Negative," she said. "Thank God. I've never known it to be so positive to have a negative response." Winter thought she gave a curt laugh. "You've chosen a good time to visit. We're happy again."

She moved into half shadow. Winter wondered what to say next.

"Where is Jeanette this evening?"

"She's gone swimming with a friend," she said. "It's the first time… since it happened."

"What about your husband?"

"Kurt? Why do you ask?"

Winter said nothing.

"Why do you ask?" she said again.

Here we go, Winter thought. The candle had gone out. There was a smell of sea, all the stronger now.

She was looking past him, at something in the garden. Winter could hear the wind, sounding like something moving through the treetops. Her face was expressionless. "I don't know where he is." She seemed to give a laugh, or it might have been something else: "I seldom do."

"Is he with Jeanette?"

"I don't think so."

She stood up.

"Is that all, then?"

"Not really."

"I have no desire to talk to you anymore."

"When did you last hear from Mattias?"

She stopped in her tracks. Like freezing a video frame, Winter thought, but more sharply focused.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Mattias. He's apparently found it difficult to stay away from here."

"Are you referring to Jeanette's former boyfriend?"

"Are there several Mattiases?"

"Not that I know of."

"I'm referring to the boyfriend," Winter said.

"I've forgotten what you asked."

"When did you last hear from him?"

"I… I don't know."

"What happened between them?"

"Why is that important?" She seemed surprised; her face had surprise written all over it. "Why does that matter? Now?"

"Don't you realize?" he asked.

"No."

"Haven't you ever thought about it?"

She thought, thought.

"Mattias? No. That's not possible."

Winter said nothing. She looked at him, straight at him.

"Surely you can't think that? That Mattias… that he might have done something to Jeanette?"

No, Winter thought. Not him. But he didn't answer her question. Instead he commented on the sound of a car in the street.

"Is that your husband coming home?"

"It's his car," she said, going past him again.

A car door opened and closed. Footsteps on the gravel, on the steps, a voice.

"What's he doing here again?"

Winter turned around. Kurt Bielke was standing at the top of the steps. He was wearing a white shirt, gray pants, and black loafers. There was sweat on his face. He came closer. Winter could smell the alcohol on his breath. Bielke must realize he could smell it. He didn't care.

"I can't even turn my back without you or some other pig-police officer-showing up," he said. He took a step forward, swayed for a tenth of a second, took another step, looked at his wife.

"What did he say?"

She didn't answer.

Bielke looked at Winter.

"What did she say?"

"Where's Jeanette?" Winter said.

Bielke turned to his wife. "Can you get me a beer?" She looked at Winter. "I mean one beer," said Bielke, nodding at Winter. "The inspector can't have one. He's just leaving, and you shouldn't drink and drive."

Calm down, Winter thought. This is an important moment. It's telling me something. It's saying something about Bielke and his wife. Perhaps about Jeanette as well.

Irma Bielke hadn't moved.

"Am I going to have to go myself?" said Bielke. He smiled and turned toward Winter. Bielke switched on an outside light on the verandah. His face was white in the glare. He nodded at Winter, raised his eyebrows, and laughed, as if at a joke somebody had told him in his head.