Frozen Moment (17 page)

    Then
he turned up the volume and gave his attention to Rosenbad once again.

    He
wasn't looking forward to Christmas; as usual it would be too much. Too much
food, definitely too much drink, and above all far, far too much time spent
with the family.

    When
Bärneflod set off from his home in Floda to the town hall in Lerum, he had just
seen his wife naked, on top of everything else. By mistake he had walked into
the bedroom as she was getting changed and had seen her stark naked. It didn't
really do much for him.

    Fifteen
years ago she had started sleeping in a full-length nightdress in a vain
attempt to keep the decline of her body to herself. Not that they lacked a
conjugal sex life. It did happen, although not that often, that he would tap
her on the shoulder once they had finished watching TV, and then shuffle
upstairs, brush his teeth and possibly splash a little aftershave on his face.
It was just that Ulla seemed to think her body was in some way exceptional, which
it most definitely wasn't. It looked neither better nor worse than the bodies
of sixty- year-old women usually do. A little bit droopy here, the odd hollow
there, a few wrinkles. But what could you expect? As long as there were no
younger, prettier models to turn to, and there weren't for a man of Bärneflod's
age and energy, he didn't think it was worth complaining.

    But
it was different for women. For men their self-esteem was bound up with their
professional status but for women it was all to do with appearance.
Particularly women like Ulla, whose contribution to the household economy was
no more than pocket money. And she'd always been unsure of herself.
Afraid of not being appreciated.
He didn't see things that
way. He'd always taken the view that anybody who didn't like him could leave
him alone. Usually the dislike was mutual.

    Bärneflod
drove past the Solkatten shopping mall and the square, which exuded a 1950s air
in beige and pale green, the shop names dating from a time when illuminated
signs were something new.

    Lerum's
handful of alcoholics had already settled in the winners' enclosure: four
benches in a half-moon shape, the off-licence within easy reach.

    A
certain satisfaction came over him as he parked his car. He had no intention of
paying the parking fee. A handwritten note,
Police Business,
lay in full
view on the dashboard. That should scare off the jobsworths.

    'Per-Erik
Stahre will see you as soon as possible.'

    The
secretary,
or receptionist maybe, had forgotten to take
off her knitted scarf, which, appropriately for the season, was red. She had a
spiky appearance. Presumably she, like Stahre, had had to break her holiday in
order to be available to the police.

    It
irritated Bärneflod, sitting in this shabby town hall corridor waiting for some
stroppy little clerk who no doubt felt the need to restore the balance of
power. He tapped his fingers impatiently. For a moment he considered heading
off to the ironmonger's in the mall across the road to buy the hinges he had
been thinking about for the new gate. The last storm had torn the old one right
off, which was just as well, since it was completely rotten. There wasn't
really any need to have a gate in the pathetic little fence between the garden
of their semi and the road, but Ulla wanted a gate, so a gate there had to be.
In certain matters she was implacable.

    The
secretary was surfing the net, he could see that clearly from where he was
sitting. Chatting with boys online, no doubt, even pretty girls did that nowadays.
In his day it had only been the ugly ones who put an ad in the paper or rang
hotlines.

    There
was a large clock above the receptionist's head. The second hand was driving
Bärneflod mad. In the end he stood up and took his wallet out of his jacket
pocket.

    'This
is a police matter, as I said. Could you please tell me where Per-Erik Stahre's
office is?'

    Several
seconds passed as the girl's fingers flew over the keyboard. She clicked on
'Send' then finally turned to Bärneflod.

    'As
I said, he's busy at the moment.'

    Bitch.

    'And
as I said, that's not my problem.'

    She
rolled her eyes. Then she got up and walked past Bärneflod and down the
corridor, her heels clicking on the lino floor. He was right behind her, and
the next moment he was standing in front of Stahre, who was sitting at a round
table opposite a woman with bright red hair that didn't suit her at all. Stahre
was surprisingly young. Bärneflod had expected some old fogey.

    'I'm
busy at the-'

    'Bengt
Bärneflod, police. This is a murder investigation.'

    He
shoved his ID card under Stahre's nose.

    Stahre
looked at his watch for the tenth time in half an hour, drumming his fingers on
his open Filofax.

    'I
don't know what to say. It's all very upsetting, but I still don't understand
how you think I can help.'

    'Me
neither. You had dealings with Lars Waltz, and I'm trying to get to know Lars
Waltz. There are some people who claim you'd fallen out with him.'

    'But
that's ridiculous!'

    Bärneflod's
mobile started vibrating in his pocket, but he ignored it.

    'I
was in touch with Waltz with regard to some photographic jobs for a while,
that's all.'

    'For
quite a long while, if I've understood correctly.'

    
'For a few years, yes.
It was just a handful of jobs. It may
well be that Lars got upset the last few times we were in touch, but I think to
say we'd fallen out would be overstating the case.'

    Bärneflod
nodded thoughtfully.

    'Why
did Waltz get upset?'

    Stahre
clamped his lips together and gazed out of the window. 'I'd broken off our
arrangement in favour of another photographer.'

    'He
got the sack?'

    'No!'
Stahre slammed the palm of his hand down angrily on the desk. 'He was
freelance. He wasn't employed. We had no agreement to use him exclusively for
the kind of job we're talking about. I was perfectly within my rights to choose
another photographer.'

    'But
this wasn't just about one job. You said you'd broken off your arrangement.'

    Stahre
sighed and ran his hand through his hair a couple of times. It stood up on his
head like a plume.

    'If
I'm going to be honest…'

    'It
surprises me that you've only just realised you have to be.'

    'Lars
Waltz wasn't a good enough photographer to be worth so much trouble.'

    
'Trouble?'

    'He
was pretty fond of himself. I hope you understand it goes against the grain to
speak ill of the dead, otherwise I would have mentioned this right at the
start.'

    'If
everybody followed your line of reasoning,
herr
Stahre, we wouldn't be able to do our job. So let's hear it. I haven't got all
day, and nor have you.'

    'He
was impulsive. He referred to his difficulty in working with other people as
artistic freedom, and he was usually in a bad mood. In a work context, that is.
I have no idea how he behaved in his private life.'

    'Go
on.'

    'The
type of job we're talking about had to fit within a particular framework.
Community information.
No room for diversions. Waltz found
it difficult to accept that. He wanted everything his own way.'

    'And
when he couldn't have things his own way?'

    'Then
he'd get very angry.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'Yelling and slamming doors, I
suppose he thought he was eccentric, but he made it impossible. And he was
overcharging. There was no reason to carry on using him. As I said, we only
hired him as a freelance, we had no obligations. But to say we'd fallen out, I
think that's-'

    'OK,
I get it.'

    Bärneflod
got to his feet and zipped up his suede jacket. In his mind he was bemoaning
the fact that people in general, and murder victims in particular, were rarely
as obligingly straightforward as you might think at the beginning of an
investigation. Some tosser always came along and went against the prevailing
view.

    'Thank
you for your time. I'll find my own way out.'

    He
still had time to go and buy the hinges.

    
The strains of a familiar Christmas song.
The Christmas
holiday would once again be a disappointment to the children, with the rain
drearily pouring over the pavements and gushing down into the grids. Tell changed
the radio station to avoid 'O Holy Night'.

    The
car park at the police station was lit up like a stage, the street lamps
reflected in the wet sheen of the cars. The story behind this completely
over-the-top lighting was to do with vandalism and break-
ins
in the staff car park. A couple of locks had been forced, but it was mainly a
case of some kind of symbolic vandalism: slogans sprayed in red, along with
dents and scratches arbitrarily inflicted with a baseball bat or a bunch of
keys.

    It
was pretty brave, he supposed, for them to venture inside the police station
compound. Skånegatan was manned more or less 24/7. And given that the entire
city was full of cars, presumably the fact that these vehicles were owned by
police officers had some particular significance.

    On
one occasion Tell had brought in a sixteen-year-old boy for throwing
cobblestones at the police during a violent anti-racist demonstration. He had
been amazed at the boy's conviction. He had thought back to his own confused
teenage years and realised that he had never in his whole life felt so sure of
anything, whereas these kids were willing to fight for what they believed in.
Tell was secretly quite impressed.

    At
least they believe in something,' he had said in the staffroom in the aftermath
of 30 November, when the city had been ravaged by demonstrations and
counter-demonstrations. The statement wasn't directed at anyone in particular,
but had certainly been provoked by Bärneflod's narrow-minded comments about a
'communist rabble'.

    It
wasn't only Bärneflod who was horrified at young people's lack of respect for
social institutions financed by their parents' generation. The media also leapt
on the bandwagon of blackening the political viewpoint inaccurately linked to
the destruction. Suddenly the entire basis of socialism was synonymous with a
gang of aggressive masked lunatics.

    'They're
the ones we're paying for,' Bärneflod snorted angrily, 'working our backsides
off day in and day out. First of all they're on benefits because the bastards
don't want to work, then we're supposed to support the buggers when they decide
to smash up half the town. I get angry too sometimes, but I don't start
smashing bloody windows, do I?'

    Beckman
had sighed deeply.

    'These
kids aren't likely to be on benefits, Bengt. They're middle class with
politically correct, intellectual parents, the kids of tree- huggers who've
grown up and got good jobs. These anarchists will get an education too, and
eventually they'll end up sitting there in a nice terraced house - just not
yet. How are they supposed to rebel if not by being even worse than Mummy and
Daddy?'

    'You
seem to be speaking from personal experience,' muttered Bärneflod. 'I bet you
were one of the ones I carted off in the 70s.
In a kaftan and
sandals.
Or perhaps you're too young. Sorry.'

    He
laughed loudly, trying to smooth things over when he realised he'd gone too
far.

    'All
I'm saying is we can't afford to cosset these people. They don't contribute
anything to society. Evidently there isn't enough money for schools or
nurseries or care homes for the elderly. It's as if you have to be a foreigner
or a criminal to get any help. I mean, I've got a lad of twenty-five living in
the basement at home, still with no prospect of getting a flat of his own. I'm
bloody certain he'd have been provided with a place to live and all the rest of
it if he'd been a bit less conscientious. Where are the ordinary decent Swedish
kids supposed to go?'