Whoever it was opened the door.
‘Ewert?’
It was Sven.
Ewert didn’t say anything, he simply pointed at his visitor’s chair. Sven Sundkvist came in and sat down. He was one generation younger than his colleague, a slightly built, straight-backed man with pale, short hair. Apart from Bengt Nordwall, Sven was the only one in the police house whom Ewert didn’t detest. The lad had a good head on his shoulders.
Sven said nothing, because he had realised long ago that Siw’s songs were Ewert’s past, another, happier time that Sven knew nothing about. He sensed how powerful these memories were, though.
No one spoke. Only the music.
A buzzing noise as the tape came to an end and then the snap when the elderly machine’s Play button popped up.
Two and a half minutes.
Ewert stood still, cleared his throat and spoke for the first time that day.
‘Yes?’
‘Good morning.’
‘What?’
‘Good morning.’
‘Morning.’
Ewert walked over to his desk, his chair. He sat down, looked at Sven.
‘And what do you want? Apart from saying good morning?’
‘You know, don’t you, that Lang gets out as of today?’
Ewert made an irritated gesture.
‘Yep. I know.’
‘That’s all. I was actually on my way to an interrogation. The heroin addict who flogged washing powder.’
A second passed, maybe two. Ewert suddenly hit his desk with both hands. Sheets of paper showered on to the floor.
‘Twenty-five years.’
He hit the desk again. Now that the documents had scattered, his hands slapped against wood.
‘Twenty-five years, Sven.’
The piles of papers were all over the floor. Sven could see that Ewert was clearly caught up in thoughts he had no intention of sharing with anyone. He bent down and randomly picked up a few of the scattered documents and read out loud.
‘“Trainee teacher, found naked in Rеlambshov Park,”’ he read aloud. ‘“One leg broken below knee. Both thumbs broken.
He started on the next sheet of paper, his finger following the lines.
‘“Insurance office worker, found in Eriksdal Wood. Knifed in the chest, four times. Nine potential witnesses. No one noticed anything.
Ewert felt the anger, the rage. It started in his stomach and made his whole body ache. It had to be released. He waved at Sven, to make him move out of the way. Sven moved over. He knew.
Ewert took aim and kicked the waste-paper basket across the room. Its contents rained down everywhere. Silently and almost automatically, Sven started to make a pile of the empty tobacco tins and coffee-stained paper cups.
When he had finished he went on reading aloud.
‘“Suspected grievous bodily harm.
Sven had interrogated Jochum Lang more times than he could remember. He had used every technique recommended in the college textbooks and quite a few others besides. Once, a few years ago, he had almost managed, he had just about won his trust through showing him that he could cope with anything, no matter how shitty, if he wanted to open up. If Jochum talked, Sven would listen. Regardless. Jochum had taken this on board, but backed away just when he seemed ready and carried on as before, asking for fags, staring out the window. Later he clammed up totally, admitting nothing, not even to taking a dump now and then.
Sven turned to face his boss.
‘Ewert, these papers that you flung all over the floor – I could go on for ever.’
‘Enough.’
‘“Intimidation of court witnesses, aggravated abduction…” He’s under suspicion on twenty different counts.’
‘I said, enough.’
‘Found guilty on only three occasions. Short sentences. The first time… Let’s see. Yes, for “causing serious injury”.’
‘Shut the fuck up!’
Sven jumped, didn’t recognise the face of the man who was shouting at him. Ewert was often loud and aggressive in Sven’s presence, but his anger was normally directed at someone else. This time was different.
Ewert turned away, marched over to the cassette player. The ancient apparatus started up again, playing the same tape.
Ewert listened and Siw’s voice cooled his rage. I can’t take much more, he thought. It could all end here and now. At this moment in time. Jochum Lang was one of those villains who had kept him at it for thirty-three years, nose to the grindstone and never a thought of stopping, of drawing breath, until the sentence had been pronounced. If he couldn’t nail scum like him by now, he might as well give up. Drop it, go home and dare to live. During the last year, thoughts of this kind had bothered him; he dismissed them, but they came back, more distinct, more often.
Sven sat down in front of him, touched his chin, pulled his fingers through his blond fringe.
‘Look, Grens…’
Ewert raised his finger.
‘Shush.’
Another minute.
Sven waited. Siw stopped singing. Ewert looked up.
Suddenly Ewert spoke.
‘What is it, then?’
‘Look, it’s just a thought. Aspsеs prison. And Hilding Oldйus. You know who I mean, that emaciated junkie. The one I’m about to question.’
Ewert nodded. He knew exactly who Hilding Oldйus was.
‘We know Oldйus was inside at the same time as Lang,’ Sven went on. ‘And we know they got friendly, as friendly as anyone can get with a lunatic hard man like Lang. Hilding crawled to him, produced some home-brew early on; it had been hidden in a fire extinguisher. They were nearly put in the slammer at one point when a guard caught them at it, pissed out of their heads.’
‘Right. Hilding laid on the brew and Jochum gave him protection in return.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And what was your idea?’
‘After questioning Oldйus about the washing powder, then we’ll talk about Lang. Let him help us get him.’
