an old joke between them. Djanali was born at Ostra Hospital in Gothenburg. “Ouagadougou.”
As if the word would calm her nerves.
“This is actually a unique opportunity,” he said after a few minutes of silence. “For once, I can say important things without you butting in and getting all superior. I can voice my opinions. I can explain to you what it’s all about.”
Djanali opened her eyes and peered at Halders with a look he recognized. She’s injured all right, but that injury is limited to the lower part of her skull, he thought. This is the only chance I’ll ever have to get a word in.
“It’s all about keeping your cool,” he said. “When we catch those bastards, we’re going to keep our cool for as long as we can, and then we’re going to make one or two mistakes that prove we’re human too. I mean, cops are also human beings.” Halders paused for a moment before continuing. “They say Winter went a little loopy after last spring. He’s been walking around all summer in a pair of cutoff jeans and a T-shirt that says ‘London Calling’ on it. Rumor has it he’s been up to the department to pick up some papers and has a beard and long hair.”
Aneta Djanali closed her eyes again.
“I miss you,” he said.
Winter broke off his vacation almost the moment Bertil Ringmar called with the quick rundown. It wasn’t out of duty, more the opposite. It was a selfish act, maybe therapeutic.
“You’re not needed here yet,” Ringmar said.
“I’ve gotten enough dirt between my toes,” Winter answered.
In the afternoon he stepped into his office and angled the blinds upward. It smelled of dust and work, though the surface of the desk was clear. An ideal state, he thought. Maybe I can be like the chief-keep investigations off my desk by shoving them in drawers.
Sture Birgersson was the head of the homicide department, and he had the good sense to hand over all real responsibility to his deputy. That meant Winter was in command of thirty homicide detectives who worked to control the violence in society.
“Close the door,” Winter said to Ringmar, who had just stepped across the threshold. “What’s going on?”
“We’re going through all the known troublemakers, but they could have come from out of town,” Ringmar said.
“You think so?”
“That’s what we’re hearing,” Ringmar said. “But the situation out there is pretty confused right now. I don’t know how much you know, but I guess you watched the news.”
“The demonstrations?”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t stop there. The city is in a state of unrest, or whatever you wanna call it. Over the last few weeks we’ve had about a dozen gang showdowns, or close to that. Yeah, and a lot of brawls too. Who knows how many ethnicities have been involved, Scandinavians included. It’s really nasty, Erik. Maybe there are some bastards trying to fan the flames from on high. Steering it, in certain areas anyway. There’s something… I don’t know what it is. Hate? Something that’s causing people to get violent or, so far, mostly to threaten violence. But still. We’re trying to do what we can.”
Ringmar was the homicide department’s third inspector and head of the department’s surveillance unit: ten officers, with tentacles reaching down into the criminal underworld, assigned the task of keeping tabs on the city’s worst troublemakers and professional criminals.
“Aneta isn’t exactly unknown in this town,” Ringmar said. “I think they’d think twice about hurting one of ours unless it’s a case of extreme self-defense.”
“Maybe that’s just what it was,” Winter said.
“What?”
“Since we think they know that we know that they know that we think they would never do anything like that, maybe that’s just what happened,” Winter said.
Ringmar didn’t answer.
“What do you say?”
“Well, that’s a classic dilemma, isn’t it? If I’ve understood you correctly.”
“It takes you back to square one in that case, doesn’t it?”
“Appreciate the insight.”
Winter stared down at his desktop. It had been polished till it shone, as if the office cleaner had made an emergency visit when it was clear he was coming back early. His hair looked, in the veneer, like a thick circle of thorns around his face. He grasped at the packet of cigarillos in his breast pocket and lit up a Corps; then he dropped the match and it singed him on the thigh. Ringmar had noticed his shorts but not said anything.
“If they’re from around here, we’ll find them,” Ringmar continued.
“You believe in the good guys? Our informants?”
“I believe that the good guys among the bad guys are going to lead us to the bad guys.”
“The worse guys,” Winter said, “to the worst guys.”
“Aneta’s friend thinks she would recognize one of those three scumbags,” Ringmar said.
“Did they brandish any Nazi symbols or other fascist crap?”
“Nope. Just good ol’ regular guys.”
Winter tapped his cigarillo into the palm of his hand. The ashtray had apparently been stolen while he was away.
“Other witnesses?”
“A thousand or more, but only a few of them have gotten in touch since we issued our request for information. And they’re not sure what the guys looked like.”
“Somebody will call, just when you least expect it,” Winter said, and then the telephone rang. He lifted the receiver from its usual spot on the right side of the desk and mumbled his name to the desk sergeant.
Ringmar saw how he listened, brow furrowed and shoulders hunched forward, as he said a few short words and hung up.
“A guy who followed them is on his way over,” Winter said.
“No shit. Why hasn’t he been in touch before?”
“Something about having to take his kid to the ER in the middle of the night.”
“Where is he?”
“Like I said, on his way. Speaking of which, I was up at Sahlgrenska Hospital to look in on Aneta. I met Fredrik on his way out of her room. His eyes were all red.”
“Good,” Ringmar said.
3
He thought about Aneta Djanali and clenched his right hand. Whenever he considered what had happened to her, he felt… violent. The violence became part of him, a sudden sensation. A primitive urge for revenge, perhaps, and a little beyond that. He had returned to his violent world abruptly.
Ringmar was still seated, looking at him without speaking. He’s fifteen years older than I am, and he’s started waiting for a better world, Winter thought. When his last day here is finished, he may take the boat out to his cabin on Vrango, never to return.
“What’s that supposed to mean, the thing on your shirt?” Ringmar asked. “ ‘London Calling.’ ”
“It’s the name of a record by a rock band. Macdonald sent it to me.”
“Rock? You don’t know anything about rock, do you?”
