Before the Frost
- Автор: Манкелль Хеннинг
- Серия: Linda Wallander #1
- Год: 2004
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Harvill Press
- ISBN: 978-1-84343-113-8
- Переводчик: Ebba Segerberg
- Жанр: Полицейские детективы
Электронная книга - «Before the Frost». Краткое содержание книги:
“No. Do you?”
“I don’t know. Have the two of you ever talked about it?”
“She’s tried to a couple of times but I’ve always put a stop to it. God and I never got along too well.”
Linda heard a howl in the background.
“Oops, he just hurt himself. Bye.”
Linda walked back over to the bed and continued staring up at the ceiling. What do we really know about people? An image of Anna floated through her mind, but it was like looking at a stranger. Mona was also there, naked, with a bottle in her hand. Linda sat up. I’m surrounded by a bunch of crazy people, she thought. The only normal one is Dad.
She walked out onto the balcony. It was still a warm day. I’m going to drop this thing here and now, she said to herself. I should concentrate on something important, like enjoying this weather for instance.
Linda read in the newspaper about the investigation into Birgitta Medberg’s murder. Her father was interviewed. She had read the same words many times before. No definitive leads, the investigation continues on many fronts, results may take time. She threw the paper down and thought about the name in Anna’s diary. Vigsten. The second person in her diary after Birgitta Medberg to have crossed Linda’s path.
One more time, she thought. One more trip across the bridge, even though it’s expensive. But one day I’ll present Anna with a bill for all the needless worrying she’s caused.
This time I’m not going to walk around on Nedergade in the dark, she thought as she drove across the bridge toward Denmark. I’m going to look up the man — I’m assuming it’s a man — whose name is Vigsten and ask him if he knows where Anna is. That’s all. Then I’m going to go home and cook dinner for my dad.
Linda parked in the same spot as before and was hit by a sense of dread when she got out of the car. It was as if she hadn’t fully realized it before now: she had been attacked on this street the night before.
She got back into her car and locked the doors. Take it easy, she thought. I’m just going to get out of the car; there’s no one who’s going to knock me down. I’ll walk into that building and find this Vigsten person. And that will be that.
Linda kept telling herself to remain calm, but she ran across the street. A cyclist veered hard to get out of her way and almost fell over, yelling an obscenity after her. The front door opened when she pushed on it. She saw the name almost immediately. On the fourth floor, F. Vigsten. She hadn’t remembered the initial correctly. She started walking up the stairs. Fredrik Vigsten, she thought. It’ll be Fredrik if it’s a man, that’s typically Danish. Or Frederike for a woman. She stopped and caught her breath once she was on the fourth floor. Then she rang the doorbell, which played a short melody. She waited and counted slowly to ten. Then she rang again, and the door opened at about the same time. An older man with ruffled hair and glasses hanging from a cord around his neck gave her a stern look.
“I can’t walk any faster,” he said. “Why can’t you young people have some patience?”
He stepped aside without asking for her name or why she was there, hurrying her into the hall.
“I sometimes forget when I have a new student,” he said. “I don’t always make a note of everything as conscientiously as I should. Please feel free to hang up your things. I’ll wait in there.”
He disappeared down a long corridor with short, almost springy steps. A student of what? Linda wondered. She took off her jacket and followed him. It was a large apartment, perhaps the result of knocking down a wall between two smaller ones. In the room farthest in from the door there was a black baby grand piano. The white-haired man was over by the window, leafing through the pages of a monthly planner.
“I can’t see an appointment for today,” he complained. “What did you say your name was?”
“I’m not a student,” Linda said. “I just want to ask you some questions.”
“I’ve been answering questions my whole life,” he said. “I’ve told them why it’s so important to sit correctly when playing the piano. I’ve tried to explain to countless young pianists why not everyone can learn to play Chopin with the right combination of caution and power that is required. Above all I try to get my impatient opera singers to stand properly, and not attempt the hardest pieces without wearing good shoes. Have you got that? Opera singers need good shoes, and pianists need to take care to avoid developing hemorrhoids. What did you say your name was?”
“It’s Linda and I’m neither a pianist nor an opera singer. I’ve come to ask you about something that has nothing to do with music.”
“Well, you must have the wrong man because I can only answer questions about music. The world beyond that is incomprehensible to me.”
Linda was momentarily confused.
“Your name is Fredrik Vigsten, isn’t it?”
“Not Fredrik: Frans. But the last name is right.”
He sat down at the piano and began turning over the pages of some music. Linda had the feeling that he had forgotten she was there.
“Your name appears in my friend Anna Westin’s diary,” she said.
Frans Vigsten tapped his finger on the paper rhythmically and did not seem to hear her.
“Anna Westin,” she repeated in a louder voice.
He looked up abruptly.
“Who?”
“Anna Westin. A Swedish girl.”
“I’ve had many Swedish pupils,” he said. “Of course, now it is as if everyone has forgotten about me, and—”
He interrupted himself and looked at Linda.
“Did you tell me your name?”
“I’m happy to tell you again. It’s Linda.”
“And you are not a pupil? Not a pianist? Not an opera singer?”
“No.”
“You’re asking about someone called Anna?”
“Anna Westin.”
“I don’t know an Anna Westin. Vest-in. My wife was a vestal, but she died thirty-nine years ago. Do you have any idea what it is like to be a widower for almost forty years?”
He stretched out a thin hand with finely etched blue veins and touched her wrist.
“Alone,” he said. “It was one thing when I had my day job doing rehearsals at Det Kongelige. But then one day they told me I was too old. Maybe it was that I insisted on doing things the old way. I didn’t tolerate sloppiness.”
“I found your name in my friend’s diary,” Linda broke in.
She took his hand. The fingers that grabbed onto hers so hungrily were surprisingly strong.
“Anna Westin, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve never had a pupil by that name. My memory is not what it once was, but I can still remember all their names. They are the only ones who have given my life any meaning since Mariana was taken by the gods.”
Linda didn’t know if there was any point in continuing the conversation. There was really only one thing left to ask.
“Do you know anyone by the name of Torgeir Langaas? I’m looking for him.”
But Frans Vigsten was lost in dreamland again. He picked out some notes on the piano with his free hand.
“Torgeir Langaas,” she repeated. “A Norwegian.”
“I have had many Norwegian pupils. The one I remember best was Trond Ørje. He was from Rauland and a wonderful baritone, but he was so shy he could only pull it off in the recording studio. He was the most remarkable baritone and the most remarkable person I ever met in my life. He cried with consternation when I told him he had talent. A remarkable man. There are others...”