Free Sun and Shadow by Åke Edwardson Page B

pickpockets. Winter had no time for pickpockets, almost as little as he had for the poor devils who couldn’t manage to protect themselves from them.
    The Mafia. Rumor had it that Marbella had become a favorite center for organized crime. He recalled reading something to that effect in some report or other. Tax exiles and the Mafia. Villas in the mountains. Tapas at Paseo Maritimo in the evenings, where deals were done.
    Two colleagues in uniform came down the steps from the police station and Winter automatically nodded to them as they passed him, crossed the street and went into the Bar del Enfrente on the other side. A late-morning glass of gin to bolster their strength. Winter felt thirsty and wanted a beer, but continued up the steps. One of the police officers left the bar and went into a motorcycle showroom.
    Winter had reached the plateau by now. He took the footbridge over the highway and turned left toward the bus station. He turned around to gaze down at the town below, with the sea and the horizon in the distance. No sign of any clouds. It had been worth the walk. He could see for miles, as far as Nueva Andalucia, and to the east, in the far distance, was the outline of what might well be the Hospital Costa del Sol.
    He was closer to the mountains. He could see them through the glass doors of the bus station, and went inside. A crowd of people came surging out, forcing their way past him and down the steps. He could smell sweat and sun lotion, an elbow poked into his ribs and he tried to dodge out of the way.
    Half a minute later all was calm again, and Winter was inside the building. He got his bearings and went in to a large cafeteria where he ordered a coffee and a small bottle of mineral water. He put his hand into the inside pocket of his linen jacket and ... and ... what the he—. He tried his other inside pocket: also empty. His hand slid straight through, meeting no resistance. What the HELL? The man behind the counter was waiting to be paid, and seemed to see the panic in Winter’s eyes. He pointed at Winter, at his jacket. Winter raised his left arm and examined the side of the jacket. A neat cut had been made through all the layers of cloth and through to his inside pocket where his wallet had been. HIS WALLET. What had been in it? Ten thousand pesetas, perhaps. Addresses. Driver’s license. Credit card—oh, shit! His credit cards, Visa, MasterCard. He took out his mobile phone, dialed, and waited impatiently for an answer.
    “Angela here.”
    “It’s Erik. I hoped you wouldn’t have left already. I’ve just been robbed and I don’t have the number I need to block my credit cards. First Card, or Nordbanken, and the Savings Bank.”
    “Were you mugged? Are you hurt?”
    “No, no. It was a pickpocket. But I can tell you the details later. Can you ring them? I think the phone numbers are on the bulletin board in the hall. Over the bureau, yes, I’m sure. Two cards. No, just phone them. They have all the details. What? It was just now, less than five minutes ago. Seven o‘clock, maybe. I’m on a hillside some way above Marbella and the bastard will have to make his way down to an ATM in town. If we can stop them now he won’t have time.”
    “I’ll fix it.”
    “Phone me back when you’ve done it.”
    He switched off and turned to the man behind the counter, who had been following the conversation. Winter still hadn’t touched his coffee, or the water.
    “Un ladrón, eh ? ”
    Winter didn’t understand what he meant, but made a gesture in response.
    “ Ha robado la cartera , eh ?” He pointed at Winter’s sleeve. “ La cartera . Hijo de puta. ” He shook his head, as if regretting the existence of all the world’s riffraff. “ Hijo de puta .”
    “Yes,” Winter said. “The sonofabitch stole my wallet.” He looked at the cup of coffee. Steam was still rising from it. He’d have loved to take a sip, but he couldn’t pay for it.
    “ Sírvase ,” said the man, gesturing