He was communicating via a secure radio with the operative commander, who had changed location. It sounded like he was chewing when he answered. Hamburger. There was an echo, feedback.
“We’re inside the premises,” said command, “the warehouse.”
“I ended up in Kortedala,” said Bergenhem.
“Where’s the truck?”
“It’s parked fifty yards in front of me.”
“Good. It probably contains stolen goods.”
“I think it’s empty. I think they’re picking something up.” He saw one of the men, the younger one, light a cigarette. “What should I do?”
“Keep them under surveillance for the time being.”
“How does it look in there?” asked Bergenhem.
“We’ve found half of Gothenburg’s household goods,” said the commander, whose name was Meijner. “It’s practically IKEA in here.”
Bergenhem smiled.
“The guys found the same thing up in Tagene,” said Meijner.
“So Hisingen finally has an IKEA,” said Bergenhem.
“Looks like it.”
Bergenhem watched the men move around their truck, if it was in fact theirs, and converse as though they were trying to make a decision.
“Is the stuff definitely stolen?” he said.
“We’ve already identified a lot of things here,” said Meijner.
“Okay.”
A car drove up behind the hangar of apartments and parked behind the truck. An older man got out. Bergenhem wrote down the license number.
The three men seemed to be carrying on a discussion about something that lacked a solution. The man who had just arrived pointed up and then in a different direction. One of the truck men, the younger one, shrugged his shoulders. His older friend started to climb into the truck. The newcomer made some sort of circular motion with his hand.
Everything seemed to be a misunderstanding.
The newcomer looked around and then went through the front door.
The truck started, spewed clouds of diesel fumes, the worst kind. Bergenhem was forced to make a decision. He started the car as the truck passed. The younger man was driving. The older one was talking on a cell phone.
Bergenhem swung out and followed them south. Three hundred yards and he met Aneta Djanali. He saw that she saw him. He even had time to see her start punching in the numbers. His phone rang.
“Obviously I missed something,” she said.
“Here we go again,” said Bergenhem.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. They never went in.”
“No?”
“Another guy showed up.”
“Explain.”
They passed the police station again. It seemed deserted. There were no cars outside and no one was going in or coming out, or being led in or out. Bergenhem pondered whether this one had also closed for good, like the one down in Redbergslid.
“Well, another guy showed up, an older guy, and he went into the building and the others left.” Bergenhem turned left. “It was the same entrance as before.”
“Is he there now?” Aneta asked.
“I assume so. That was five minutes ago. He parked the car outside. I wrote down the number. Do you need it?”
“I’ll get it later,” she said. “Bye.”
“Aneta!” Bergenhem shouted before she hung up. “Don’t say anything about the truck.”
“Of course not.”
“I’ll call later.”
Bergenhem kept going, now to the south, on the same roads as before. Round-trip to Kortedala, he thought as he passed Olskroken and continued into the city on Friggagatan. At Odinsplatsen he saw the blue and white truck turn left, and he followed it over the river and through a green light and up onto Skanegatan and past the police station. The driver seemed to like passing police stations.
Aneta parked behind Sigge Lindsten’s car.
The elevator was up. She called it down and waited and listened to the wind that was whistling around like a spiral through the stairwell, up, down. It hissed like a voice.
In the elevator she looked straight ahead at the wall where the mirror had been. She was staring into black circles made with paint that never went away, around and around, and she thought more had appeared since last time.
The door to the apartment was open. She knocked, twice.
Sigge Lindsten came out into the hall from the kitchen. He didn’t look surprised.
“What is it now?” was all he said.
“It’s still empty in here,” said Aneta.
“Yes.”
“No one has moved in after Anette?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Aneta asked.
“What does it matter?” said Lindsten. “And if someone had, can’t I do what I want? It’s mine, isn’t it?”
“How is Anette?”
“Fine, I think.”
“Where is she?”
“At home. But please leave her alone now.”
“Forsblad hasn’t contacted her?”
“No.”
“‘And his sister?”
“She hasn’t either.”
“What do you think about his sister?”
“Nothing. And perhaps now I could be allowed to continue what I’m doing?”
“Why did you come here?” asked Aneta.
Lindsten didn’t answer. He took a step backward and disappeared into the kitchen again. Aneta took a few steps into the hall and saw him standing in front of one of the cabinets. He quickly turned around when he saw her. There was something in his eyes that caused her to back up immediately and walk out into the stairwell and run down three flights, five flights, six, until she was down in the entryway. She felt surprised as she walked to the car. She felt cold. What had happened?
Winter read the letters, one after another. They were short, written in stumpy handwriting from a young John Osvald to his young wife. They weren’t dated. But in the second one there was a reference to something that had been mentioned in the first one. Winter read it again. He looked up.
“Did your dad tell you about these letters?”
“No.”
“Has he read them?”
“They were in his bedroom. He must have taken them out to… well, there was a box there and it was on the shelf and it was still open, and I think he kept them in there.”
“Are there more?”
“We haven’t found any. And like I said, he never said anything.”
