The Shadow Woman

them lifted her up while the other looked out through the window.

They drove away from the house, and she tried to stay awake but her eyelids closed. When she woke up, it had become light all around. She thought about it and then asked about her mommy.

“We’ll find your mommy,” said the driver up front.

Why did he say that? Don’t they know where Mommy is?

She started crying, but the man next to her didn’t look at her. She had nothing to hold on to because she’d lost her dolly back when they’d jumped out of the car.

5

THE WITNESS’S NAME WAS JORAN QVIST, AND HE WAS ACCOMPANIED through Kungstorget by Halders and Bergenhem. It was eleven o’clock at night and difficult to make headway because of all the people. A dance band was playing on the stage, and Halders thought the music was crap. He said so to Bergenhem, but his younger colleague pretended not to hear.

The homicide detectives and their witness slowly made their way down toward the water. Rock music was throbbing from one of the restaurant stands. A sightseeing boat passed by on the canal. The clamor of voices sounded louder down here than up on the square. A hundred skewers sizzled on big grills next to the wall. People thronged together, holding beer in plastic cups and balancing paper plates of langos spread with black fish roe and sour cream. Most looked happy.

“Some fucking party,” Halders said. “Junk food and overpriced beer in plastic cups. And so crowded.”

“Some people enjoy this kind of thing,” Bergenhem said. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“It’s garbage.”

“Not everyone has your sophistication.”

“What did you say?”

“Not every-”

“There they are,” Joran Qvist said.

Bergenhem fell silent. He looked at Qvist, who gave a slight nod at a table near the edge of the canal. One of the spotlights above the bar was directed right at the benches where the three men were sitting, with beer glasses in front of them and an umbrella above. The harsh lighting illuminated them as if on a stage. What arrogant bastards, Bergenhem thought.

Halders was strangely silent. He turned toward Qvist.

“Are you sure?”

“Definitely.”

“Specifically those three? You don’t just recognize one or two of them?”

“No. They’re even wearing the same clothes. And the little one’s got the same baseball cap.”

“Let’s call in the uniforms,” Bergenhem said.

“Fuck that.”

“Fredrik.”

But Halders didn’t hear. He was already on his way through the teeming crowd, sort of languidly, as if out on an aimless stroll.

Like an assassin, Bergenhem thought. “Wait here,” he told Qvist, and started to walk toward the table where the men were sitting. They were maybe ten yards away, and Halders was already halfway there. One of the three suspects stood up to get more beer. He pitched suddenly and sat back down; the others laughed.

Bergenhem was sweating. He was hot before, but now the sweat was streaming down his forehead and stinging his eyes. He rubbed his eyes, and when his focus returned, he saw Halders sit down on the bench next to one of the three.

Halders sat there motionless. He seemed sealed within himself even when Bergenhem reached the table and sat down next to him.

There was no more room on the bench, so Qvist took a seat two tables away. Bergenhem saw how Halders was hovering as if primed for battle.

When Bergenhem touched his colleague’s left arm, Halders peered at him with eyes that seemed to have no focus.

They sat there silently. Bergenhem didn’t know if Halders was listening, but he heard the men speaking to one another.

“Do you get drunker when it’s hot?”

“Nah.”

“Sure you do, and you get uglier too.”

“There’s no more beer.”

“Where’s the vodka?”

“It’s all gone.”

“No it isn’t.”

“I’m telling you, it’s all gone.”

“I gotta have a beer.”

The man who said this got up, and Halders rose at the same time, took his wallet from his breast pocket, and held up his ID.

“Police,” he said.

“What?”

Bergenhem had also stood up.

“Police,” Halders repeated. “We’d like you guys to come with us so we can talk to you about something that happened last night.”

“What?”

“We’re looking for information-”

The man standing in front of Halders kicked him in the shin and went dashing off to the left while Halders cried out and bent forward. The two others tried to run off but got tangled up among the guests sitting next to them. One of them turned to Bergenhem and threw a punch, but Bergenhem ducked and stood his ground. He cast a quick glance to the side and saw Qvist bend down over something that lay on the ground. Damn it, Bergenhem thought.

The man who’d botched the punch remained standing there, as if paralyzed or mesmerized by Bergenhem’s gaze. I won’t blink, thought Bergenhem.

The commotion had caught the attention of others, and a circle formed around the two police officers and the two suspects at the table. The rock music had cut out. The dance band had stopped playing right in the middle of a barre chord. The Gothenburg Party was holding its collective breath.

One of the suspects broke the stillness, throwing himself backward through the thin line of onlookers and plunging into the water. The splashing down below sounded like swimming strokes. The man in front of Bergenhem sat down again and started to throw up with his head propped between his legs. Halders rushed to the edge of the canal and saw the fugitive paddling awkwardly toward the brightly lit Storan Theatre on the other side. The spotlight from the bar had caught him. He stopped swimming and splashed around in confusion, with his arms above the surface, before he started to sink.

“He’s drowning,” Bergenhem shouted, but Halders had already dived in.

Halders-once those fucking scumbags were apprehended-changed into dry underwear. He didn’t bother to pull anything over his torso but sat on a park bench outside the police station with Bergenhem, who was more tired than he could ever remember being.

“When the temperature stays above seventy over a twenty-four-hour period, the climate is tropical,” Halders said, after a drawn-out silence.