Death Angels (2 page)

The ferry restaurant was full. The people seated to his right drifted over toward the big windows.

At first he sat hunched over his table without ordering anything to drink. He waited for the psalms to die down inside his head and then asked for a cup of coffee. A man took the seat next to him.

Winter sat up and unfurled his long frame. “Bertil Ringmar, of all people. Would you like some coffee?”

“Thanks.”

Winter motioned to a waitress.

“I think it’s self-serve.”

“No, here she comes.”

The waitress took Winter’s order in silence, her face oddly transparent in the sunlight. Winter couldn’t tell whether she was looking at him or at the church tower of the receding village. He wondered if you could hear the bells chime when you were on the opposite shore, or on the ferry when it was heading toward the island.

His posture is awkward, Ringmar thought. These tables aren’t made for tall people. He looks like he’s in pain, and it isn’t because of the sunlight in his eyes.

“So here we are again,” Winter said.

“It never ends.”

“No.” Winter watched the waitress put the coffee down in front of Ringmar. The rising steam thinned out at Ringmar’s brow and traced a circle around his head. He looks like an angel, Winter thought. “And what are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’m sitting on the ferry drinking coffee.”

“Why do we always have to split hairs with each other?”

Ringmar took a swig of coffee. “Maybe because we’re both so sensitive to shades of meaning.” He lowered his cup.

Winter saw Ringmar’s face reflected in the tabletop, upside down. The lighting suits him, he thought.

“Were you out here to see Mats?” Ringmar asked.

“You might put it that way . . . he’s dead.”

Ringmar grasped his cup. It burned like ice, but he didn’t let go.

“The funeral was quite an event,” Winter said. “I didn’t know he had so many friends. Only one relative, but the church was packed.”

“Hmm.”

“I was thinking it would be mostly men, but there were plenty of women too. More women than men, come to think of it.”

Ringmar was looking out the window behind Winter, who assumed the church tower had caught his attention. “It’s a hell of a disease,” he said, turning back to Winter. “You could have called me.”

“In the middle of your Grand Canary vacation? Mats was a close friend, but I can handle the grief. Or maybe it’s just starting now.”

Their silence gave way to the roar of the engines.

“It’s a bunch of diseases rolled up in one,” Winter said after a while. “What finally got him was a bout of pneumonia.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Of course.”

“He had the damn thing for a long time, didn’t he?” Ringmar asked.

“Yes.”

“Shit.”

“For a while there he thought he was going to beat it,” Winter said.

“Did he tell you that?”

“No, but I could sense what he was thinking. Sometimes the strength of will can save you when everything else is gone. He even had me convinced.”

“I see.”

“Then some kind of misplaced guilt got hold of him,” Winter said, “and it was all downhill after that.”

“Didn’t you mention once that he talked about becoming a policeman when he was younger?”

“Did I say that?”

“That’s how I remember it,” Ringmar said.

Winter reached up and brushed the hair back from his forehead, then left his hand on the thick strands that covered his neck. “Maybe when I started at the police academy. Or was thinking about applying.”

“Could be.”

“It’s been a while.”

“Yes.”

The ferry trembled as if it had fallen asleep in the calm waters and been jolted awake. Passengers wrapped their coats more tightly around themselves.

“He would have been welcome,” Ringmar said.

Winter let go of his hair and placed his palms on the table.

“I read they’re looking for homosexual police in England,” Ringmar said.

“Do they want to take homosexual police and assign them new duties, or train homosexuals to be police?”

“Does it make any difference?”

“Sorry.”

“At least in England they realize that the police force needs to reflect the general population,” Ringmar said.

“That makes sense.”

“Who knows, maybe we’ll have some gay officers here one of these days.”

“Don’t you think we already do?”

“Ones who are willing to admit it, I mean.”

“After what I saw today,” Winter said, “I’m beginning to think that I would admit it if I were gay.”

“Hmm.”

“Maybe even before today. Yeah, I’m pretty sure I would have.”

“You’re probably right.” Ringmar’s face relaxed.

“You shouldn’t have to pretend to be somebody you’re not and carry all that guilt on your own shoulders.”

“I’m up to my ears in guilt.”

The people by the big windows looked like they didn’t know whether they should burst into song or drown their sorrows in drink.

Winter glanced outside as the ferry passed a lighthouse. “What do you say we go out on deck and greet the big city?” he asked.

“It’s cold out there,” Ringmar said.

“I need some fresh air.”

“I understand.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Don’t try my patience, Erik.”

The day was gray and about to lose its freshness. The car deck had the muted glint of coal, and the cliffs surrounding them now were the same color as the sky. It’s not so easy to tell where one ends and the other begins, Winter thought. Before you know it you’re in the kingdom of heaven. One false step off the cliff and there you are.

By the time the ferry made its way underneath the bridge, the sun had already set. The lights of the city beckoned to them. Christmas was long past, and snowless patches dotted the landscape. The cold wave had frozen the ugliness in place like a photograph.

“I always think that late January is the nastiest time of year,” Ringmar said, “but when it rolls around it’s no worse than anything else.”

“I know what you mean.”

“That must mean that I feel just as shitty all year round or else that I’m always happy as a king.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I wish I was a king.”

“Things aren’t that bad, are they?”

“A long time ago, I thought that I was a crown prince. I was wrong. It turned out to be you. How old are you? Chief inspector at thirty-seven, or thirty-five when you were promoted? It’s unheard of.”

The sounds of the city had grown louder.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for you,” Ringmar continued. “But if I still had any hope left for myself, the workshop I was just at crushed it.”

“What workshop?”

“You know, the one about taking the next step in your life and that sort of thing.”

“Oh yeah, I’d forgotten all about it.”

“You were lucky to get out of it.”

“Right.” Winter watched the traffic out on the highway. The line of cars reminded him of an agitated glowworm.

“I’m not a career climber, when all is said and done.”

“Why do you keep talking about it, then?”

“Let’s say I’m processing my disappointment. That’s a natural thing to do every once in a while, even if you can’t complain about the scraps that life has thrown your way.”

“You’re a detective inspector, for God’s sake. A respected public official.” Winter inhaled the night air. “Not exactly a king, maybe, but certainly a role model.”

The wind was like coarse salt in Winter’s face. The ferry bumped against the dock.

AS STEVE MACDONALD WALKED EAST ON ST. JOHN’S HILL, THE
sounds from the Clapham Junction station were everywhere but he hardly heard them. The bigger and faster the trains get, he thought, the more they lull you with their silence.

He entered K&M’s café, ordered a pot of tea and sat down by the window. The construction workers in the corner were having a boisterous breakfast, but he didn’t listen to their conversation. Most of the passersby were heading east toward Lavender Hill and the Arding and Hobbs department store. It’s always Christmas there, he thought, a Harrods for the plain and ordinary people who live south of the river.

Cheeks were flushed with cold. You could feel the winter inside the café too, the fresh smell of clothing and the draft when the door opened and closed. The winds from the north swept across south London and everyone was unprepared like always.

We once ruled the world, he mused, but we’re helpless when it comes to wind and rain. We still think that we can wear whatever we like and the elements will do our bidding, and we’re never going to change. We’d rather freeze to death.

He sipped his tea, but it was already too strong. We drink more tea than anyone else but we don’t know how to make it. It’s too weak when we boil it and too strong when we drink it and too hot in between.

“. . . and so I told him, That will cost you a beer, you S.O.B.,” one of the construction workers said, concluding a story he had been telling.

The café reeked of fat and grease. People left impressions of themselves that lingered in the air as they crossed the room. It’s like Siberia, Macdonald thought. Not quite as cold but the same resistance to movement.

He stepped outside and took his phone out of the breast pocket of his leather jacket. He dialed the number and waited. Looking up, he saw passengers walk out of the station’s stone archway as he put the phone to his ear.

“Hello.”

“I’m down here now,” Macdonald said.

“Okay.”

“I’ll probably hang around all day.”

“How about all winter?”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

Silence at the other end.

“I’ll start up at Muncaster Road.”

“Have you checked out the pond?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Anything’s possible. That’s all I can say right now.”

“Okay.”

“I want to see the hotel room again.”

“Assuming there’s enough time.”

“I need to breathe in that air once more.”

“Keep me posted.”

Macdonald heard a click, and the line went dead.

Putting his phone away, he turned south on St. John’s Road, waited for a break in traffic on Battersea Rise and continued along Northcote.

He turned left onto Chatto and gazed longingly at the Eagles pub. That was for later, he thought, maybe a lot later.

After another couple of blocks, he turned onto Muncaster. The row houses shone warily in the January sun. Their brick and plaster merged with the color of the pavement. A mailman appeared out of nowhere, wheeling a letter bag so red it made his eyes hurt. Macdonald watched him ring a doorbell. Postmen always ring twice, he thought as he opened a low wrought-iron gate. He lifted the knocker and banged loudly. Such a brutal way to announce your presence, he thought.

The door opened all the way to the end of a heavy iron chain, and he saw the outlines of a woman’s face in the dim hallway.

“Who’s there?”

“Is this the residence of John Anderton?” Macdonald rummaged around for his badge.

“Who wants to know?”

“The police.” He held up the badge. “I’m the one who called earlier today.”

“He’s eating breakfast,” the voice announced, as though interrupting it was out of the question.

She wants me to leave so she can finish making her kippers, he thought. The pungent odor of fried herring wafted through the crack in the door. “It won’t take long,” he said.

“But . . .”

“Just a few minutes of your time.” He put his badge back and waited. The chain rattled as it was removed. They must have spent a fortune on security, he thought. Nothing left over for a sturdy door. One of these days it’s going to collapse under the weight of its own apparatus.