Never End

30

The music flowed over them. From where she was lying she could see the contours of the buildings opposite, the outline of the rooftops. Something round that might be a tree. The music was soft: an acoustic guitar, viola, cello, a piano.

"It's beautiful," she said.

"A map of the world," he said.

"Hmm?"

"That's what the CD's called. A Map of the World. Pat Metheny. Film music, I think."

"I haven't seen it in your collection before," she said.

"I bought it today. This is the first time I've listened to it."

"What do you think?"

"It's good. Not something I would've discovered myself, but Winter had recommended it."

Aneta Djanali didn't answer. She moved slightly to the right, a bit closer to Halders, who was lying still on his back in bed.

The children were asleep, had been for hours. He'd slept, twenty minutes maybe. It seemed like it at least. She hadn't slept.

How had they gotten into this position?

Why not?

They still had their clothes on. It wasn't… like that. Not yet, at least, she thought, as a new track started, just the guitar now.

What would she have done if Fredrik had unfastened the top button of her blouse?

He would never do that. She wasn't even completely sure that he would want to. But maybe he would. Maybe he'd been about to do it. Should she do it? Or should they continue being almost like brother and sister? With the difference that grown-up brothers and sisters aren't together all day and all evening and half the night, as they were doing now.

Did he love his wife? He had in the beginning. He must have. Then they'd lost each other.

She raised her right wrist and checked the fluorescent hands of her watch: 2:00 a.m. It was starting to be morning out there. She moved her head slightly to see better. The night was weak now, the light stronger. It was taking over. It had been the other way around for some hours, and Fredrik had quoted Dylan Thomas, as he had done another evening, possibly wrongly, possibly correctly: "Do not step gently into the good night." "It's the only part of the poem I know," he'd said, "but I remember it from the sleeve of a record Chris Hillman made a few years ago."

He was wheezing beside her now, the man who got his literary education from the sleeves of country records.

He had loved his wife, and perhaps still did, when he was alone; but that was not something he spoke about. There were the children to consider. He talked about the children. Sometimes a lot, sometimes not so much. It was the children he cared most about now. The children were here, in their rooms on the other side of the hall. He kept going in to see them, when it was time for bed, and when they were asleep.

She sometimes thought that that was all that mattered for Fredrik Halders. He didn't show it, didn't speak about it. He was one of those men who long for company but are scared of actual contact. Who hide behind words that are hard and slippery and sure and empty.

Who can do away with themselves? she now thought, as the first signs of the sun appeared over the rooftops. Who suddenly wanted to leave, fast, right now, wanted to run away, as quickly as they could.

Winter had driven westward in the light of morning. Bengt and Lisen had had coffee waiting for him, which he'd drunk in the kitchen. There was a smell of freshly baked buns, and he accepted one from a tray, still warm. "When Beatrice… left us, I spent hours baking," said Lisen Wägner. "Baked and baked away like a madwoman. Fruitcake in the middle of the night, croissants, bread rolls. I threw it away: while it was still hot, I threw it all away," she said, looking at the baking tray.

Winter chewed the bun.

How the hell was he going to put this?

Was Beatrice a stripper in her spare time, as far as you know? Was that the in thing among high school girls five years ago?

He'd seen the looks on their faces, and it was obvious that they didn't know, hadn't known.

Had he and his colleagues checked thoroughly enough with the other relatives? They hadn't made house calls on everybody associated with Beatrice and her family. At that time they hadn't had the photograph of Beatrice sitting in the same place as Angelika five years later.

He'd finished chewing, swallowed, and took out the photograph again.

"We can't find this place," he said. "We've searched all of Gothenburg."

"Then it can't be here," Bengt Wägner said.

"I think it is," Winter replied. He mentioned Angelika's name again and produced the photograph of her as well.

"Hmm. I suppose that makes it more likely," Wägner said.

"It might be in a private house," said Winter.

"Whose?" asked Lisen Wägner.

"I don't suppose it could be somebody you know?"

"Eh? Who on earth would that be?" she wondered.

"For God's sake," her husband exclaimed. "What kind of an answer is that?"

She had turned away to look at the table with the tray of buns cooling down. He had looked at Winter.

"If we'd recognized it we'd have said so right away, of course. It doesn't matter whether it's in somebody's house, or where it is."

"No."

"Can I keep this photograph?"

"Of course."

"You never know."

Winter handed over the copy. He'd intended to do that anyway.

He'd been to see Lars-Olof and Ann Hansson late last night. That conversation had been a replica of this one.

Sara Helander was sitting at the big table in the conference room. She was tanned, browner than he was.

"And then along came the ferry, just in time," she said. "I ran to catch it and it took off, and I had them in view the entire journey."

"Well done, Sara."

"Their boat was moored ten meters from the ferry stop, and when I got off I saw them leaving their boat."

Winter waited. Halders waited, Ringmar and Bergenhem waited, Aneta Djanali, Mollerstrom, everybody.

Helander had told them about the woman; the pictures from Angelika's graduation party had done the rounds again. It's her all right, Helander had said. It's her.

"And so I followed them," she said. "It wasn't very far. There were quite a lot of people going to and from the jetty and the ferry stop, so it was no problem."

"There should never be any problem," said Halders.

"Then it became a bit more difficult,… but naturally no problem then, either," said Helander, glancing toward Halders. "And then… well, they went into a house on the other side of the road and I kept on walking past it." She looked around. "A pretty big house, built of wood."

"Did they both go in?"

"Yes."

"Could Samic be the Southern European-looking man in the party picture here?"

"Could be," said Ringmar. "With a good toupee, it could be him. But we haven't been able to check all that thoroughly."

"Our toupee experts have said that it isn't a toupee," said Halders with a sort of smile.

I wonder what Fredrik would look like in a toupee, Djanali thought briefly. God awful. A man in a toupee's nothing to go for. Neither is a man with a comb-over either.

Samic hadn't been wearing a toupee on the boat or in the restaurant. Why should he be wearing one at that party, she wondered, assuming it was him? And if he had been there-why?

"We'd better take a look at that mansion," Winter said.

"I'll go," said Halders. He looked at the others.

"He'll be suspicious if he sees you, won't he?" said Bergenhem.

"He won't see me."

"Oh, no?"

"That's where my new toupee comes in handy."

Somebody chortled, but soon stopped.

"Shouldn't there be several of us?" Helander asked.

Winter thought about it. Caution. Yes. Either they marched in and brought Samic to the station for questioning-six hours minimum, because that is what the investigation needed-or they waited. They were looking for an unknown address, and they had an unknown name, and there might be a connection. Possibly. That's the way they worked. It was no coincidence that Helander had seen Samic and followed him. If the ferry hadn't shown up they would've found the house anyway, but it would have taken them longer.

Samic was lying, but lots of other people were too.

He wanted to know what was inside the house before they reacted.

"You and Fredrik," he told Sara Helander.

"When?"

"Tonight."

"What should we d-"

"That's enough now, Sara," said Halders getting to his feet. "Let's do some thinking for ourselves, OK?"

Yngvesson called as Winter was on his way to his office. The ring tone echoed around the empty corridor.

"I might have something for you," the technician said.

Winter was there within five minutes.

"Listen to this," said Yngvesson.

He started the tape. Winter listened: there was less to listen to now. Yngvesson had filtered the sound image, taken away as much as he could of what he called "the porridge." Winter was reminded of the noise on the beach the previous evening, fragments of other voices.

He looked at the tape. Where he had heard a park before, he now seemed to be hearing a room, a barren room.

He heard the girl, Anne. "Oh, oh, oh, no… no, no, no nooooo, nooooooo," a scream, something from inside her throat, choking noises when… something was squeezed around her neck.

A mumbling now, like a prayer, like a devilish prayer, a sort of mantra loud, louder than when there had been other noises there, noises that came from that park and the traffic around it. These sounds were different, they didn't belong, sounds that ought to be eradicated, Winter thought, nobody should be forced to listen to this.

But he was here. The girl was there. He couldn't turn anything off.

"Here it comes," said Yngvesson.

Winter listened. At first to what he'd heard before, but clearer, the same… cries, but as if they'd been trumpeted through a horn and down a long tunnel, straight at him, "nnaaaaeieieierr, naaieieieierrayy… NAEEEIEIEE… NEEEER… neewaaiyggee… never… neveragi!! nevaragi!!!

Yngvesson turned it off.

"Neveragi?" said Winter.

"Never again."

"Yes."

"I don't think I can get any closer than that."

"Never again," Winter said.

Yngvesson turned back to his computer. It was humming away merrily, totally unaware of how smart it was. It must be pretty good, being a computer at times, Winter thought. Efficient, and always merry and carefree.

"It can't be her, I suppose?" Winter said.

"What do you mean?"

"She can't be the one speaking?"

"No."

"Never again," said Winter. "Our murderer says 'Never again.'"

"That was the last murder. For the time being, at least."

"That's not what it's about."

"I don't dare speculate."

"He's not saying it to himself," said Winter. "He's… showing her that it will never happen again."

"What won't ever happen again?" Yngvesson swung around in his chair to face Winter. "It won't happen again? Never again?"

"What she's done. He's punishing her for what she's done."

"For what she's done… to him?"

Winter thought. He would listen to the tape again in a moment; he was thinking and preparing himself.

"Yes. Either directly or… indirectly."

"Indirectly? For what she's done to others?"

Winter suddenly felt depressed, infinitely depressed. He wanted to sink down into the ocean and never rise up again. The sun could rise, but not him.

"I don't know, Yngvesson. It's going around and around. I need to sit down while it spins." He sat on the other chair. "What did we say? Indirect? She's done something he's punishing her for."

"Hmm."

"For God's sake, Yngvesson, 1 don't know what to say about this. We'll have to see later if anything I do say is relevant."

"But this isn't… personal, is it? Not in that way? He didn't know her, did he?"

"He knew her, or didn't know her. I don't know."

"It does make a difference, doesn't it?"

Sara Helander and Halders were sitting in his car, about seventy-five meters from the house that Samic and the woman had disappeared into.

The house was built of wood, as tall as an apartment building, Halders thought. Four or five stories, and no doubt a huge basement stretching under the whole thing.

It was one of four similar houses in a row. They blocked out the sun, but only to a degree. Some rays were shining directly into their faces. Sara Helander was squinting with one hand over her eyes. Halders was wearing sunglasses.

"Maybe we should have parked behind the house," she said.

"No."

"No, you're right. This side is where the traffic is."

There wasn't much traffic, but a few cars passed at regular intervals, on the way to the ferries and the new apartment buildings that were only a few meters from the water's edge.

There was a car parked in the driveway. The garage was out of sync with the house. Seemed to have been built in a different century. Maybe even two centuries between them. Halders kept his eyes on the house, on all the windows that were almost invisible against the light.

It was darker now. Sara Helander had brought something to eat and drink. No sun in their eyes now. Nobody had entered or left the house. Halders was biting into a sandwich that might have been egg and mayonnaise, or ham and cucumber, he couldn't taste anything. He checked his watch. Almost midnight.

Two cars drove by slowly, but continued past the house. Then they came back from the other direction, despite the fact that it was a one-way street.

"Down," said Halders, and they both ducked out of sight. The headlights on the first of the cars were shining directly at them. They heard voices, but no words. Car doors were opened and closed carefully. The engines were still running. Then the cars set off again, their lights just a few centimeters over the two police officers' heads.

"Exciting, eh?" Halders muttered.

"Somebody went in."

They waited, then cautiously sat up again. Everything was as before, except that there was now a light on in a ground-floor window.

"Were there lights in many of the rooms when you were here last night?" Halders asked.

"No."

"More than this?"

"Yes."

"Hmm."

"Do you think it was Samic who just went in?"

"Doesn't he come by boat and on foot?"

She didn't answer. They sat quiet for some minutes.

It was getting darker all the time. It was a little darker now than it had been at the same time last night. Just as warm, but darker. The darkness for a new season was moving in. "Do not step gently into the good night," thought Halders.

"Here comes another car," Helander said.

It was approaching from behind them.

"Keep sitting up," said Halders. He ducked down just a little bit.

The car stopped outside the house. The door opened. A woman emerged from the car.

"Is that her?" asked Halders, speaking mainly to himself.

"No."

The woman seemed young. She went into the house. No more lights were turned on. The car left.

They waited. Halders drank some coffee, which steamed shyly as he poured it out from his Thermos.

"Somebody's coming," Helander said. "On foot."

Somebody emerged from the shadows below them, from the river. He climbed up the steps to the street. The steps were almost directly opposite the house. It was a man, and he looked around before crossing the empty street that was now lit up by the moon and the stars and the streetlights, or was it the sky? He was wearing a light-colored suit and his hair was the same color as the streetlights. He wasn't a young man. He turned right and seemed to be looking straight at them, as they sat hidden in the darkness of their car.

"He can't see us," said Halders. "Sit still." He'd placed a piece of paper over the steaming cups.

The man turned toward the house and went in.

"Kurt Bielke," said Halders softly.