Sail of Stone (25 page)

“Am I supposed to believe that?”

Halders looked around.

“What will happen to this apartment now?”

“Nothing,” said Lindsten.

Bergenhem drove north. He passed Olskroken, Gamlestaden. He was driving aimlessly. He stopped for streetcars. They seemed to be running empty. They had had a problem with a streetcar driver last Christmas. “Problem” was not the word. It wasn’t even the first syllable. Where would it end? Your wall’s too high, sang John Kay inside the car. I can’t see, can’t seem to reach you, can’t set you free.

There was a rumbling out there somewhere. Could be thunder, could be cannons, could be fireworks. He passed the SKF factory. The façade looked threatening, like a black memory. People have good memories from there, he thought. All the Italians who came here in the sixties and built welfare for the Swedes. The record years. Now there are no more records left to break except this one: most trips around the city in one week, one month, one year. John Kay sang “Born to Be Wild.” No choppers passed him. Otherwise, he was in Chopperland. There were different laws here, chopper laws. Biker laws.
That
was the rumbling; he heard it again. Harleys in the courtyards among buildings that had been blown into the air, or would be. The sound of motors would remain, cylinders, wheels, gears. Though SKF wouldn’t remain, not here. They would be relocated to South America, maybe southern Italy. The residents of Kortedala would have to move to Calabria and produce new welfare for others. New record years.

Born to be wiiiiiiiiild. Bergenhem sang along; he had to do something. He passed giant buildings. Something strange had happened to Aneta in one of those. Brazen scoundrels who had pretended to be someone else, right in the face of the law. Stole a whole apartment right
in the face of a detective. Gothenburg’s Finest. It could have been him. It could have been here. He drove more slowly, read the street signs, saw the building that grew up out of the darkness and covered the whole sky, saw the lighting of the stairwell, the numbers. It
was
here. Sure as shit, it was here.

He backed up and read the street sign again.

Number five. He remembered number five. It was such a special story that he remembered the number. He drove forward again, a little bit. Number five. A car was parked where cars were not allowed to be. He thought he recognized the car. He stopped. It could be Halders’s unmarked police car.

He stood still twenty-five yards away. Steppenwolf was no longer singing. He could hear the streetcar passing far behind him; he saw its lights as a flash.

He saw another flash; a cigarette being lit in the front seat of a car that was parked ten yards behind Halders’s car, if it was in fact his.

Bergenhem took his binoculars out of the glove box. Yes. It was Halders’s car. He moved the binoculars. A man was sitting in the car behind it and the cigarette glowed as he took a drag. Now he was picking up a cell phone. Now he was putting it down. Now he was smoking again. Completely normal behavior. Now he was smoking again. He looked straight ahead, at door number five.

He’s waiting for someone, thought Bergenhem. Or he’s trying to decide whether to go in.

Or he’s waiting for someone to come out.

So he can go in.

Shit, I’m worse than Winter. Never letting it go. Seeing what might be happening when things aren’t as they should be. When they aren’t good. When there’s a reason to be suspicious.

Assume that everyone is a suspect. Act accordingly.

Assume that everyone is lying. Act accordingly.

Winter’s Law. And Halders’s Law, to be sure.

Now he was smoking in the car again.

Bergenhem got out his phone and called.

Halders’s breast pocket was ringing. They were on their way to the elevator. The door to the Lindstens’ apartment was closed behind them.
Lindsten was just going to drink up the coffee, as he said. Café ooh la la, said Halders when they’d left.

Halders took out his phone, which sounded loud in the bare, graffitied brick hall that shone with silver and gold. Halders read the screen. Blocked number.

“Yes?”

“Bergenhem here. Where are you?”

“What the … I’m in a cozy little villa in Kortedala. Some season address, I don’t have the exact—”

“I’m standing outside.”

“Repeat,” said Halders, looking at Aneta and rolling his eyes.

“Listen up, Fredrik. I don’t know what it’s worth but I was driving by and remembered yours and Aneta’s gig and I stopped. I recognized your car. It’s right outside the door. There’s—”

“What are you getting at, Lars?” interrupted Halders.

The elevator came up. Bergenhem heard it, recognized the noise.

“
Listen,
for fuck’s sake, Fredrik. Wait a second when you come out of the elevator down there, and think. I’m sitting out here, and I’m sitting behind some character who might be keeping tabs on your car. Maybe he’s waiting for someone else. Maybe he’s been thrown out. I don’t know. I just had a hunch.”

“What kind of car is it?” asked Halders.

“A Volvo. V Forty. Might be black, but all cars are black in this light. Or dark.”

Bergenhem could hear Halders whistling, or maybe it was the elevator whistling itself down. Apparently it was possible to talk on a cell phone in the elevator. Or maybe it was a satellite. Aneta had said something about a satellite phone.

“Is he alone?” said Halders.

“Yes. If no one is lying on the floor in the backseat.”

“He’s watching us,” said Halders. “It’s Hanzi Fanzi.”

“Who?”

“Forsblad. Hans Forsb … oh, fuck it, is he still there?”

“He’s just lighting another cigarette. He’s sitting behind the wheel.”

Bergenhem heard the elevator doors glide open.

“This is what we’ll do,” said Halders.

When Halders and Aneta came hurtling out of number five, Bergenhem was standing behind the Volvo and he rushed up and yanked open the door before the driver had time to start the car.

Life is full of surprises, thought Bergenhem as he was driving back in the night. The city suddenly looked different. There was a different light over Gamlestaden, then Bagaregården, Redbergsplatsen, Olskroken. No local police here anymore. The territory went back to the enemy. The chopper gangs. Get your motor running.

He felt a freedom in his body, almost a happiness.

They got a room after waiting for fifteen minutes. They walked through corridors that looked about like the stairwell in the colossus in Kortedala, minus the graffiti. It’s only a matter of time, thought Halders. Soon those devils will be in here too. Maybe they’re already here among us.

“I’ve never seen the like,” said Hans Forsblad suddenly. “This is going to cost you.”

In the car he had been quiet. Aneta had thought she heard a giggle. Must have been a sob.

When they came up to his car he had sat without moving. Naturally, he had looked surprised.

And yet he hadn’t.

He had come along without Fredrik having to knock him out.

Forsblad knew. He knew the law, at least on paper.

F
orsblad 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?”