Sail of Stone

26

Forsblad knew that they could hold him for six hours plus six hours. He wanted to get out before then. He squirmed on the chair in the interrogation room. He wasn’t comfortable there. It wasn’t pleasant.

“What is your occupation, Hans?” asked Halders.

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Just answer the question, please.”

Forsblad was silent.

“Is it a secret? Your job?”

“What is this? What do you mean?”

“Clearly you don’t want to tell us.”

“I’m a lawyer at the district court.”

“What kind of law?”

“Sorry?”

“Do you work with civil rights or with-”

“I thought all policemen knew our lawyers,” said Forsblad.

“Do you know us, Hans?” asked Halders.

“Uh, no.”

“We asked around about you a little, and you’re as unfamiliar to the other lawyers as you are to us. As a lawyer, that is. Are you with me, Hans?”

“Uh… it… I don’t understand.”

“You’re an archivist, aren’t you? Nothing wrong with that. But you don’t need a law degree for that job.”

“I’m a lawyer,” said Forsblad. “I have the degree.”

Aneta could tell by looking at him that he was telling the truth, but a truth that belonged only to him.

“Your job is to be an archivist,” said Halders. “But you have expressed a wish to attend courtroom proceedings. That’s unusual.”

“I’ve noticed how the job could be done better,” said Forsblad. “I’m the one who’s slaved away retrieving the documents, aren’t I? I’m the one who’s done the work. I’ve read all the documents. I’ve made thousands of copies of them.”

Have you read all the copies, too? wondered Halders.

“What have I gotten for it?” said Forsblad. Aneta noticed that a little bubble of saliva had formed at one corner of his mouth. Suddenly Forsblad noticed that she had noticed. He gave her a look that said he realized she had noticed. It was a dark look. It said that he didn’t forgive her. For seeing him as a shady guy. For despising him just like everyone else despised him. He hated her. She was the enemy, one of the many in the army that marched against him.

Is that how it is? Am I reading all of that into that look? In any case, it’s nasty. He’s looking at me again. There’s a message.

Forsblad licked the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t like your job?” asked Halders.

Forsblad snorted, twice.

“Are they nasty to you at your job?” asked Halders.

Forsblad snorted again.

“Are there more people who have been nasty to you?” asked Halders.

Forsblad looked away, at the wall, which was painted a gaudy shade of green. We do not look our best in this room, and that’s the point, thought Aneta. Fredrik looks like a death camp commander.

“Was Anette nasty to you?” said Halders.

“Don’t bring her into this,” said Forsblad.

“Oh?”

Forsblad looked at the recorder, which was small and like a part of the table. There was no video camera this time. Maybe next time.

“Don’t bring her into it,” Forsblad repeated.

“Are you at all aware of why we’re having this conversation?” said Halders.

“No,” Forsblad said, and smiled.

Halders looked at Aneta. No, Fredrik. You can’t hit him for answering like that. You gave yourself away.

“We have spoken to Anette,” said Halders.

“I have, too,” said Forsblad.

Halders chose to ignore that comment.

“We told her that we want to help.”

“Help with what?”

Halders looked at him. Forsblad looked back. He doesn’t really seem to be following the conversation, thought Aneta. He’s drifting in and out of it.

“Protect her,” said Halders.

“Protect her? Protect her from what?”

“From you,” said Halders.

Forsblad said something they didn’t hear.

“Sorry?” said Halders.

“I’m not the one,” said Forsblad. “It’s not me.”

“Is there someone else who’s threatening Anette?”

Forsblad nodded twice, up and down. Like a child. He acts like a child, thought Aneta. This is like interrogating a child.

Forsblad nodded again. She could see that Fredrik saw what she saw. She saw what Fredrik was thinking: Hanzi shouldn’t be sitting here, he should be in the madhouse.

But there were no madhouses anymore.

The lunatics were sitting here instead.

Willkommen. Bienvenu. Welcome.

“Who is threatening Anette?” asked Halders.

Forsblad didn’t look at him; he was looking at Aneta, who was sitting behind and to the left of Halders.

Suddenly he stretched out his hand and pointed at her.

Halders abruptly turned around.

“My colleague? What do you mean, Forsblad?”

“She’s threatening her with all these questions. Running about and sniffing around. Everywhere. Doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand.”

“What doesn’t she understand?” said Halders.

Forsblad gave a sudden laugh. It was an ugly laugh.

“What don’t I understand?” said Halders.

“That would be quite a bit,” said Forsblad.

“Anette has been subjected to assault. We have witnesses. Who is it that has subjected her to this assault?”

“A physical assault?” asked Forsblad.

Every answer is an adventure, thought Aneta. We don’t know from question to question and answer to answer where we’ll end up. But maybe we’ll end up somewhere. Maybe Forsblad isn’t lying. Maybe it’s worse.

“There isn’t anything known as solely physical assault,” said Halders. “It’s all connected.”

“Interesting,” said Forsblad. “Interesting that you should say that.”

Aneta could see the pulse pounding in Fredrik’s neck. Take it easy, now. Easy.

“We’re not done talking to Anette,” said Halders.

“Me neither,” said Forsblad.

The pulse was visible in Fredrik’s neck.

“Starting now, we will know where you are,” said Halders. “Where you go.”

“Is that a threat?” said Forsblad, and smiled.

Halders’s pulse hammered. His hand jerked.

“Fredrik!” said Aneta, and Halders jerked his hand back and looked at it as though he had seen it for the first time. He seemed, for one second, not to be there.

“I suggest we take a break,” said Aneta.

“He’s trying to mess with me, that bastard,” said Halders. They were sitting in the break room. Halders was trying to drink a scalding-hot cup of coffee. Once it cooled, it was undrinkable.

“He’s afraid,” said Aneta.

“Afraid of me?”

“Afraid of everything.”

“You’ll have to explain that.”

Halders tried to drink again, and he grimaced.

“Afraid at his work, afraid of other people, afraid of… I don’t know,” said Aneta.

“Someone else who’s threatening him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is he protecting someone else?”

“It’s as though there’s someone else here, too.”

“The dad? The Lindsten guy?”

“Maybe.”

“He’s definitely fucking shady.”

“I was thinking about that break-in, or whatever it was, the theft from the apartment out in Kortedala. Could Forsblad have known about it?”

“Yes, why not?”

“Or the dad. Sigge Lindsten.”

“Why not both?” said Halders.

“Would he steal from himself?” asked Aneta. “Lindsten?”

“He didn’t steal from himself,” said Halders. “He stole from his daughter.”

Aneta thought of Halders’s words. She watched him drink. Drink coffee and survive.

“What are we really trying to figure out, Fredrik?” she said after a little while.

“Well, not the theft, anyway. Not in my case.”

“You don’t think it has to do with this?”

“If by ‘this’ you mean the assault, then I don’t think so.”

“And what is ‘this’ for you?”

Halders pushed his paper cup away with yet another grimace.

He scratched his chin, which had nearly a day’s stubble.

He was blue under the eyes. The unforgiving light in the break room shone through his crew cut and revealed his scalp. He had called home once to make sure that the babysitter had everything she needed to stay overnight tonight. He scratched his chin again.

“I’ve almost gotten to be like you were about this, Aneta.” He looked at her with tired eyes. “But I’m not sure that Forsblad is really a wife beater. Or that we’re protecting his wife by clamping down on him.” Halders grew quiet. He looked as though he were listening intensively to the hissing air up by the intake behind them. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. He ran his hand over the back of his close-cropped head. “There’s something damn suspicious about all of this. About all of them. Everyone involved.”

Aneta nodded.

“Something more than we know,” said Halders. “Much more.”

“Forsblad?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Lindsten?”

“The dad? Yes, it’s possible.”

“Anette?”

Halders didn’t answer; he seemed to be listening to the rush of the ventilation system again, the tittle-tattle in the corner. He looked at Aneta again.

“We don’t know anything about Anette, do we?”

Forsblad looked like he’d been sleeping when their colleague from the jail brought him into the room again. He still had his jacket on, and his tie, the white shirt, the odd pants, which weren’t particularly wrinkly, the shoes, which were no longer shiny. Forsblad’s thick hair looked recently combed, but in a way that suggested he had just run his hand through his hair and it was done.

“Why were you sitting in your sister’s car outside the house in Kortedala?” asked Halders.

“That’s my right as a citizen,” said Forsblad.

“Why there in particular?”

“I recognized the place.”

Halders looked at the recorder to make sure it was turning. He looked like he wanted to reassure himself that it was working so he could listen to the answer later and analyze it.

“Why then, in particular?”

Forsblad shrugged.

“Was it because my colleague and I were in there?”

“How should I have known that you were there?”

“Where are you living now, Hans?”

“With my sister.”

“She says that you aren’t.”

“I see.”

“Do you have any permanent residence?”

“I’m working on it,” he said.

“Where?”

“It will work out.”

“You know that there’s a restraining order against you?” said Halders. It was a lie, but not for long. “Our short-term decision has been extended by the prosecutor.”

Forsblad looked like he wasn’t listening or didn’t care. As though all of that had happened a long time ago. He seemed to be listening for other voices inside his head, or to the air-conditioning that was hissing in there.

He looked up. He fixed his eyes on Aneta.

“Maybe I can live with you,” he said.

Aneta didn’t answer. She avoided his gaze. You should never make eye contact. In Africa there were crazy apes that had rabies, and they tried to make eye contact, and when they did it was dangerous; it was very, very dangerous.

“You’ve been clinging to me this whole time, after all,” said Forsblad. “I’m starting to wonder what it is you actually want.”

He was released after midnight. To go home, but in this case that was just an expression. Or else he had a home, or a bed, a sofa, an air mattress.

“In an hour we ought to break down the door in Kortedala and wake him from his beauty sleep,” said Halders.

They were on the way home to Aneta’s place. Halders was driving fast but avoiding the few boozers who stumbled out into the road, on their way home from that evening’s entertainment.

“If we hit someone we’ll pretend it’s a badger,” he said.

“If he’s sleeping in that apartment, then Anette’s dad is in on it,” said Aneta. “We can’t tromp in there again.”

“Of course we can,” said Halders. “But not tonight.”

Aneta looked around when they parked. She couldn’t see the glow of any cigarettes in any front seats, no silhouettes.

“Do you think he was serious?” she said.

“About sleeping at your place?”

“Did you think it was funny?”

“Oh, Aneta, it was just another way to provoke us.”

“You didn’t see his eyes.”

“I did, too.”

“He was trying to make eye contact with me,” she said.

Halders opened the front door.

“He wouldn’t dare come here,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Because I told him I’d kill him if he did. It was when you were inside and I was outside waving good-bye.”

The morning was light and warm. There were people smiling on Vasagatan. The sun was round and kind. The sky was blue. Birds were singing.

Winter was walking to the Palace. He saw the temperature on the gauge over Heden: sixty degrees. Already. No one was playing soccer on the fields at Heden. A mistake on a morning like this. The air was easy to breathe in and breathe out. He yearned to sacrifice an ankle.

The sun shone in. Ringmar stuck in his head after Winter had sat down and started to go over the cases: thefts, assault, homicide, robberies, threats, more thefts, criminal damage, another homicide, two more robberies. Reports, testimonies, statements. Papers, cassette tapes, videotapes. Many cases, all at once. A suspected murder. A confessed murderer. A drunk dispute in a neighborhood in Gamlestaden. Almost all homicides and almost all murders looked like that. Case open and closed within twenty-four hours.

“Do you have a minute?” said Ringmar.

“No, I have two,” said Winter, putting down a sheet of paper.

Ringmar sat down. His face was sharply lined. He was twelve years older than Winter, which meant that he had some hard years behind him that Winter had in front of him. Maybe the hardest. And Ringmar had twelve years more of duty as ombudsman and protector to the public in front of him. How would the lines in his face look then? And Winter had twenty-four years left, t-w-e-n-t-y-f-o-u-r years in front of him, in the same role. Dear God. A third of a life the same way as this. Lift me up, take me away.

At the same time, this was his life. He knew this life. He was good. He had knowledge and aggression, maybe not as much aggression as Halders, but more knowledge. He had patience. He could work hard. He could think. That was that. One could think here; it was still possible to take time for thoughts. And thinking could lead to results. A person who didn’t think well didn’t get results. Not the big results, the ones you got from thinking outside the routine. Thinking outside the beautiful melodies. Winter listened to Coltrane when Coltrane was in his most discordant period, and it was a similar atonal platform that he, Winter, started out from. It never worked to think in a straight line. It was possible to follow logic, but it was logic that couldn’t be followed by anyone else. It was his logic, the same way it was Coltrane’s logic, Pharoah Sanders’s logic, or Miles Davis’s logic. He had sent off for a book from Bokus.com and he’d received it yesterday: Kind of Blue: The Making of the Miles Davis Masterpiece, by Ashley Kahn, and he was going to try to start reading it tonight if he had time to listen first, which he was starting to do now. The Panasonic was on the floor. He was playing Kind of Blue for the thousandth time.

“‘So What,’” said Ringmar.

The first song. Ringmar knew Kind of Blue. It was simply part of a general education to know that album. Winter didn’t really understand people who didn’t understand it. There was nothing to understand, incidentally. You just had to listen.

“The woman from Donsö called half an hour ago,” said Ringmar. “Möllerström transferred it to me.”

“Good.”

“It was this Johanna, in other words.”

“I understand that, Bertil. What did she want?”

“Just to ask if we’d heard anything.”

“Have we?”

“No.”

“Has Möllerström checked with the national control center?”

“I assume so.”

“How did she sound?” said Winter.

“Calm, I think. But of course he’s been gone a few weeks now, her father.”

“Yes. Something has happened.”

“Must have,” said Ringmar.

The music continued, “Freddie Freeloader.” Winter thought of Johanna Osvald, of her brother, her father, her grandfather. He thought of Scotland, of Steve Macdonald.

Ringmar rubbed his hand over the lines in his face.

“How’s it going, Bertil?”

“Not bad. Moa has a new apartment on the way. Good for her, I suppose. But for my part, she could have lived at home for a while longer.”

Winter looked at him.

“You’ll understand in twenty years,” said Ringmar.

“Okay, we’ll discuss it then.” Winter fingered for his pack of Corps, but no. He wanted to be strong. There were many years left.

“Where is she moving to?” he asked.

“Kortedala,” said Ringmar.