Ten to seven. The screw was punctual.
The cell door opened wide. Jochum grabbed his carrier bag, spat on the floor and walked out.
All he had to do now was change into the tight clothes he had just tried on, collect the release money, a pitiful three hundred kronor, and the one-way train ticket, tell the screw to go to hell as the gate slowly swung open, and walk out, bag in hand, giving the finger to the guard at the security camera. And turn sharp right, to the nearest stretch of wall, open his flies and piss against the concrete greyness.
The wind was blowing outside.
At the far end of the ground floor of the police headquarters, the dawn chorus was competing with Siw Malmkvist. As ever. Ewert Grens had served in the force for thirty-three years and had an office of his own for thirty. His cassette player, a present for his thirtieth birthday, had been around for almost as long. It was one of those large, lumpy things which combine a mono speaker and a tape deck. Every time he moved office he would carry it himself, cradled in his arms. Ewert only played Siw Malmkvist. A home-made rack held his collection of all her recordings, Siw’s entire repertoire, in different orders on different tapes.
This morning it was ‘Tunna skivor’ (1960), the Swedish version of ‘Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool’. He was always the first one in and turned the sound up as high as he liked. The odd bod might complain about the noise, but as long as he acted the sour old bugger they let him be, on the whole, left him to it. He kept life at bay behind his closed door, buried in his investigations while Siw belted out Sixties pop.
His mind was still caught up in yesterday. It had been good to see Anni in her crisply ironed dress, her hair neatly combed. She had looked at him more often than usual, almost made contact. As if, for a few moments, he was more than just a stranger sitting beside her and holding her hand.
And later that morning, Bengt’s nice home, so full of life. Breakfast with messy kids and kind looks. As always, he had been full of gratitude. As always, he had nodded and smiled, while Bengt and Lena and the kids treated him like a member of the family, just as they always did. Yet he had felt lonelier than ever and that bloody awful feeling was still hanging around him now.
He turned up the volume and started pacing up and down on the worn linoleum. He had to think about something else. Anything but that. No doubting today, not any more. He had made a decision, chosen this place, this job. If the working life of a policeman meant missing out on some of the good things in life, so be it. That was how things had panned out. One day followed the other, making it thirty-three years in the end. No woman and no children and no real friends, just his long, devoted service, due to end in less than ten years from now. When it ended, he would cease to be.
Ewert looked around the room. The room was his only for as long as he put in the hours. When he retired this would become someone else’s office. On he paced. Limping, his large, heavy body turning at the bookshelf and then at the window. He was not good-looking, he knew that, but he had been powerful, intense and brooding. Now he was just angry most of the time. He pulled his fingers through what had once been hair and now was grey, cropped tufts.
That song.
The tears I cried for you could fill an ocean,
But you don’t care how many tears I cry.
And so, for a while, he forgot. It was morning now and his mind turned to the piles of documents on his desk, reports to be read and investigations to be completed. He had to deal with them, come what may.
A knock on the door. He ignored it. Too early.
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.’
She was lying under the car.
He stopped, he jumped out, ran over to her motionless body, over to the blood that was gushing from somewhere in her head.
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. Criminal Act Not Confirmed.”’
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. Criminal Act Not Confirmed.”’
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. Criminal Act Not Confirmed. Suspected manslaughter. Criminal Act Not Confirmed. Suspected murder. Criminal Act Not Confirmed.”’
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.’