Sun and Shadow by Åke Edwardson Read Free Book Online Page B

that bunch practices it every few days.”
    “We sometimes catch villains using methods other than words,” Bartram said.
    “Yes. Now, let’s see if we can get these boys somewhere warm and cozy.”

    Maria Ostergaard felt cold. She’d been in such a rush to get away from home that she’d forgotten her gloves. Her hands felt like lumps of ice only a couple of minutes after they’d left the café.
    “Where should we go?” Patrik said.
    “I wanted to stay where we were,” answered Maria.
    “I didn’t like the people in there. Can’t we go back to your place?”
    “Mom’s impossible, completely around the bend. Why can’t we go back to your place?”
    “Dad’s impossible, completely around the bend,” said Patrik, with no trace of a smile.
    There wasn’t a soul to be seen in Vasagatan. Trams clattered over Vasaplatsen. A woman got off the tram that had approached along Aschebergsgatan and disappeared into one of the apartment buildings. As she opened the front door her face was lit up by the light from the entrance hall and the streetlamps.
    “I recognize her,” Maria said. “That woman going in through the door over there.”
    “Oh, yeah? What about it?”
    “She’s pretty.”
    “What about it?”
    “She lives with that guy who’s a detective, a cop. Mom works for the police every other week, that’s how I know of him.”
    “You mean the police have vicars?”
    “Evidently. I think his name’s Winter. That detective. Cool name, don’t you think?”
    “Hmm.”
    They walked across Vasaplatsen.
    A squad car came down Aschebergsgatan from Johanneberg. Morelius was driving.
    “I recognize those kids over there,” he said. “Those two, next to that stand.”
    “I recognize the girl at least,” Bartram said. “Small world.”
    “Winter lives over there, to the left, incidentally,” Morelius said. “The star of the force. That entrance there,” he said, gesturing with his hand as they drove past the building.
    “How do you know?” asked Vejehag.
    “I drove him home one night.”
    “Winter?” said Bartram. “Oh, right. So that’s where he lives?”

8
    When Winter got up, the square of sky he could see through his bathroom window was gray. When he went out the door, the same thing applied to the whole horizon. But it was warm. He was wearing a short-sleeved silk shirt, cool linen trousers, and sandals with no socks.
    He passed the landlord and landlady, whose kitchen was next to the front door; they seemed to spend all day under the parasol, or under the sheet of canvas that had been stretched over half the patio when Winter arrived yesterday. Yesterday. Hadn’t it been longer than that?
    As he passed by, the woman said something to him. She held up a finger, as if issuing a warning. He thought he had heard the word chi cas. Yes, she had said “ No chicas ” and pointed to his room at the other end of the house, then added what sounded like “en la habitación. ” Her man smiled, perhaps in embarrassment. After a few seconds the penny dropped, and Winter made a dismissive gesture. No, of course not. He wouldn’t bring any women back to his room.
    Winter turned right into Calle Luna and then left into Calle del Sol before coming to a little square. He continued to the open Plaza Puente de Málaga and found a café in the corner to the left: GASPAR. PANADERÍA AND CAFETERÍA. He sat outside at the only empty table. It was eight-thirty He was surrounded on all sides by Spaniards, men and women. They were drinking coffee with milk in tall glasses and eating small bread rolls with butter and jam, or just olive oil and salt. A waiter came, and Winter managed to order caf é con leche and pan with confitura . “Mantequilla?” the waiter asked, and Winter nodded without knowing what it meant. Butter, perhaps?
    His coffee was duly served and was very good, strong espresso with hot milk. The bread arrived and was also hot. Mantequilla . was indeed butter. He prepared his breakfast