“What is it?”
“We’ll talk about it later, when he’s done talking.”
“He wants to have a few words with you.”
“Tell him I’ll call.”
“Okay, okay.” Ringmar resumed his conversation with his son. “She’ll call you later. Okay. Yes. Yes. Right. Yes. Talk to you soon. Bye.”
He hung up.
“So what is it, Moa?”
“That apartment is hot, Dad.”
“Sorry?”
“You don’t have to apologize. You can’t know everything that’s going on in the department.”
“I need some background,” said Ringmar. “I’m not really following you.”
“That apartment I was going to rent is involved in a restraining order, and there was an assault there and it’s been completely cleaned out by crafty thieves and the guy I was renting it from has been acting strange and suspicious toward two of the country’s sharpest detective inspectors.”
“Halders and Djanali,” said Ringmar.
“You knew!”
“When you said the two sharpest. No, joking aside, I know they’ve been working on a case that involves an apartment in Kort… exactly, in Kortedala!” He quickly got up and took a step closer. “Surely you don’t mean it’s-”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Well, what do you know.”
“It’s a small world, isn’t it?”
“How did you find out?” Ringmar asked.
“They showed up as Dickie and I were moving in my things. Fredrik and Aneta.”
“What were they doing there?”
“A routine check, I suppose. They’re keeping an eye on this woman’s ex. It’s not looking good.”
“They’re not supposed to tell you that.”
“It was Halders,” said Moa. “He offered me photos to put up at the student union.”
“He’s always been a discreet investigator,” said Ringmar.
“Dickie has my things in his garage for now.”
“You moved out again?”
“What do you
“No, no.”
“This is the first time I’ve moved in and moved out on the same day,” said Moa.
“I’ll have a chat with that Lindsten,” said Ringmar.
“I haven’t paid yet.”
“I’m still going to have a chat with him.”
“Has he done anything illegal?”
“I don’t know,” Ringmar answered. “I don’t know yet.”
Johanna Osvald called as Winter was making a double espresso in order to have the energy to think. It was better and cheaper than amphetamines. Coltrane was blowing “Compassion” in the living room, along with another great tenor saxophonist, Pharoah Sanders. It was music for wild thoughts, asymmetrical, tones for his own head. Coltrane’s instrument wandered like a lost spirit, on its way through black and white dreams, through sparse halls. Elsa had gotten used to falling asleep to extremely free-form jazz. Winter wondered what that might lead to.
What drew him to jazz first and foremost was the individual expressions of the music. The best thing about jazz was that it gave the jazz musician the chance to be himself. To be his own self. It was music that first of all stood for expression, for immediate reflection, not interpretation. It was all about improvisation, but not in an irresponsible way. Quite the opposite. In improvising, the musician took on a responsibility, and the result depended on talent and his own resources, and experience. Emotional experience. It was music for emotions, from emotions.
Angela had gone out to think as well, a round trip to Avenyn.
“It’s him,” said Johanna into the phone. “It’s my dad.”
“I’m sorry,” said Winter.
“They’ve taken good care of me,” she said formally. It was a slightly strange comment. Perhaps she was in shock. There was a sharp edge to her voice. “This policeman Craig has helped with everything.”
“There’s nothing you need?” Winter asked.
“Noth… nothing you can help with,” she said, and he thought she started to cry. It sounded like it, but it could have been the line.
I’m not sure, thought Winter. Maybe we can help. Maybe when it comes to answers.
“Have you spoken with a doctor about your father?”
“Yes.”
He waited for her to continue, but she didn’t say anything.
“What did he say?”
“That it was a heart attack that… that killed him. He had extreme hypothermia.” Winter heard her breathing. “It’s cold up here. I went out for a minute to think, and it was cold and raw.”
“Are they going to do more tests?” asked Winter. He didn’t want to say the word “autopsy.” She knew what he meant anyway.
“If they need to,” she said. “If there’s something they need to do to come up with a… cause, they can do as many tests as they…” She stopped talking. “What is that horrible noise in the background?” she said.
“Where?” said Winter.
“On your end. What is that racket?”
“Just a second,” Winter said, walking into the living room and turning the music off in the middle of “Consequences.” “It was a record,” he said into the phone when he came back.
She didn’t comment.
“So, what are you going to do now?” he asked.
“I’m… I’m going back to this medical center tomorrow and then there’s some paperwork and I hope to be able to fly home with Dad as soon as I can.”
“Yes.”
“He has to come home,” she said.
“Of course.”
There was a sudden whistle on the phone, like a wind through the line, which must have run across the North Sea, from Inverness to Aberdeen to Gothenburg. Aberdeen and Gothenburg were at exactly the same latitude on the map. Or maybe it was Donso and Aberdeen.
“I just spoke with Erik,” she said.
“Where is he?” asked Winter.
“Out at sea,” she said. “They’re on the way down to Hanstholm with their catch.” He heard her blow her nose. “He’s coming right home after that. He’ll be there when I… we… arrive.”
“Good,” said Winter.
“I think something happened up here,” she said, suddenly and quickly. “Something that caused this. Something… awful.”
“I think so too,” said Winter.
“Something that has to do with Grandpa.”
“Yes. I think so too.”
He didn’t tell her about his visit to the elderly Algotsson siblings.
Angela came back with redder cheeks and damp hair. She smelled like blue autumn evening and salty wind and black mud and gasoline fumes, which together made up this city’s perfume. It was a blue evening. Vasaplatsen was a blue address. Kind of blue.
