Frozen Tracks (39 page)

He didn't want to say much, Carlström had said
about his foster son. That's the way he was when he
first came here. There was something else.
Avoided
anything hard
. What did he mean by that?

Winter dialled Carlström's number again and listened
to the ringing. This time nobody answered.

Winter hung up and thought. He lifted the phone
again and rang Mats Jerner's number. He listened to the
ringing just as he'd listened to the ringing at Jerner's
foster father's house.

He hung up, went to the kitchen and made a cup of
double espresso. He drank the drug while standing by the
kitchen window. The courtyard down below was glistening
from a thin layer of snow and frost. The outside thermometer
showed minus four degrees. The light from the
Christmas tree in the courtyard shone all the way up to
Winter's flat. He was reminded of Bertil's neighbour, the
mad illuminator, and of Bertil. He took his cup back into
the study and phoned Bertil again, but there was no answer
from any of the numbers. He left a message on Bertil's
mobile. He phoned Operations Centre but they had no
information about Ringmar. Nor any other kind of information.
No car accident, no boy, no abductor.

He could hear his stomach. A bit of Thai curry a
week ago, or whenever it was, and since then nothing
but whisky and coffee. He went back to the kitchen and
made an omelette with chopped tomatoes, onion and
quick-roasted paprika. The telephone rang as he was
eating. He could reach the kitchen telephone from the
table, and answered with his mouth full.

'Is that Winter? Erik Winter?'

'Mmm . . . yes.'

Winter could hear the sound of an engine – the call
seemed to be coming from a car.

'Ah. Good evening, er good morning, er, Janne Alinder
here. Linné—'

'Hello, Janne.'

'Er, we've just emerged from the forest. No mobile
in the world gets through to our cottage. I saw you'd
been trying to contact me.'

'Good that you rang.'

'No problem. We had some trouble with the electrics
in the cottage, so we had to pack up and go home in
the end. I'm not a hundred per cent sober, but luckily
the wife is.'

'Can you remember if Lena Sköld mentioned anything
about her girl saying that the man whose car she sat in
stuttered?' Winter asked.

'Stuttered? No, I can't remember anything about that
off the top of my head.'

'Or if she spoke about a parrot?'

'A what?'

'A parrot. We've just sent out a message to all the
Gothenburg police stations about that. We think the
abductor had a mascot or something hanging from his
rear-view mirror. A parrot. A bird in any case. Green,
or green and red.'

'A parrot? No. Have the witnesses seen a parrot or
something?'

'The children have,' said Winter.

'Hmm.'

'It feels reliable,' said Winter.

'You're certainly doing overtime on this case,' said
Alinder.

'You will be as well,' said Winter. 'Right now, and
maybe more later. If you're prepared to.'

'Overtime? Of course, for Christ's sake – I know
what's involved.' Winter could hear a slight slurring,
but Alinder wasn't so drunk that he wasn't thinking
straight. 'What do you want me to do?'

'Check your notes one more time.'

'Have you checked with any of the others?'

'I've tried to contact Josefsson at Härlanda, but I
haven't got hold of him yet.'

'When do you want this done?'

'As soon as possible.'

'I can instruct my chauffeur to drive me to Tredje
Långgatan. Even if I can't find the station, she will.'

The silence after the phone call was like a short pause
that takes you by surprise. He stood up and shovelled
the remains of the Basque omelette that had been his
Christmas dinner into the rubbish bin. It was gone
midnight now. He switched on one of Angela's CDs that
had become his as well now, and ended up by chance
somewhere in the middle. He opened the balcony door,
breathed in the night air and contemplated the Christmas
tree and its star that seemed to be reflecting images of
the city all around. The stars in the bright sky. Away
in a manger, no crib for a bed. He thought about
Carlström, his barn, and lit a ciga rillo, the music from
U2 behind him.

The telephone rang.

Winter recognised Natanael Carlström's breathing, heard
the rush of air in the wood-burning stove, the wind
howling round the God-forsaken house, all that solitary
silence.

'Sorry to disturb you so late,' said Carlström.

'I'm up,' said Winter. 'I tried to phone you not long
ago. Nobody answered.'

Carlström didn't answer now either. Winter waited.

'It's Mats,' said Carlström eventually.

'And?'

'He phoned here, not long ago.'

'Mats phoned you?' Winter asked. He could hear
Carlström nod. 'What did he want?'

'It was nothing special,' said Carlström. 'But he was
upset.'

'Upset? Did he say why?'

'What he said didn't . . . didn't make sense,' said
Carlström. 'He talked about the sky and heaven and
other things that I couldn't understand. I was terribly
upset.'

It sounded as if he'd been surprised to hear himself
say that, Winter thought.

Things I couldn't understand, Carlström said.

'When I tried to phone you again it was regarding
something you'd said about Mats earlier on. You said
he avoided anything hard. What did you mean by that?
What exactly was it that he avoided?'

'Well, er, it was sort of everything that he found hard
to say. And it was harder for him when he was upset.
Like he was when he rang now.'

Winter could picture Mats Jerner in his office in police
headquarters. The calm, the few seconds of uncertainty,
which was normal. The impression that he had all the
time in the world in a very unusual place on Christmas
Eve.

'Are you saying that he found it hard to pronounce
words?'

'Yes.'

'That he stuttered?'

'He stuttered then, and he stuttered now, just now,
when he phoned.'

'Where did he phone from?' Winter asked.

'Where? He must have phoned from home, surely?'

'Can you remember what he said? Tell me as exactly
as possible.'

'I couldn't make head nor tail of it.'

'The words,' said Winter. 'Just tell me the words.
Don't bother about the order.'

Ringmar parked behind a copse on one of the narrow
dirt roads that skirted the fields. Dark shapes were flying
across the sky, like bats. He seemed to be walking over
a frozen sea. The plain was white and black in the
moonlight. He could feel the wind blowing through his
body. The wind was the only sound.

There was a light and it came from Smedsberg's farm.
It was flickering, moving back and forth in the wind.
It grew as he approached, acquired an outline and
became a window. He went closer, but not before picking
up a handful of mud and dropping it into a plastic bag
inside another one, which he then put in the pocket of
his overcoat.

He stood next to a bush five metres from the window,
which was at eye level. He heard his mobile vibrating
in his inside pocket, but he didn't touch it.

He recognised the kitchen, a late-medieval version of
old man Carlström's iron-age room. Georg Smedsberg
was leaning over his son, who sat with his head bowed,
as if expecting a blow. His father's mouth was moving as
if he was shouting. The whole of his body was a threat.
Gustav Smedsberg raised an arm, as if to protect himself.
For Ringmar it was a scene that said everything, that
confirmed what had brought him here, Georg
Smedsberg's words that first visit: they mebbe got what
they deserved.

He remembered what Gustav had said the first time
they interviewed him:

'Maybe he didn't want to kill us. The victims. Maybe
he just wanted to show that he owned us.'

Ringmar suddenly felt colder than he had ever been
in his fifty-four years. He stood there as if frozen fast
in the sea.

Then he found the strength to walk towards the house.

Winter rang Mats Jerner's number again.

No, no, that couldn't be it.

But everything was getting mixed up. Nevertheless,
Jerner's name had come into his head. Jerner had
attacked the boys. His foster father had attacked them.
They'd both done it. Neither had done it. Yes they had.
There had been a lot of hatred or despair, and a lust
for revenge. There were several persons taking part in
this long-dance: Georg Smedsberg, his son Gustav,
Gustav's mother Gerd (was she the mother?), Natanael
Carlström, his foster son Mats Jerner (that was definitely
true, Winter had read parts of Jerner's grim
curriculum vitae), the other students: Book, Stillman,
Kaite.

Jerner didn't answer. Winter looked at the clock. Had
he returned to work? Another overtime shift for the
solitary man? Surely there weren't any trams running
now?

No sound of traffic from Vasaplatsen down below.
He hung up, walked through the hall to the living room
and looked down at the street. There was no traffic,
and nobody waiting at the tram stops. A taxi cruised
slowly by from Aschebergsgatan, as if trailing possible
prey. The star on top of the Christmas tree smiled at
him.

He phoned Police Operations Centre and asked them
to find somebody who would know. He didn't have any
timetables.

'I want to speak to somebody from their human
resources section as well,' he said.

'Now?'

'Why not now?'

'There's nobody there.'

'I realise that. But some of the staff will be at home,
won't they?'

'OK, OK, Winter. We'll get back to you.'

He loosened the cord round Micke's wrists, even though
the little boy hadn't asked him to.

It had been so quiet in there for so long.

He felt calmer now.

He'd phoned the old man when he got back from
the interview with that superior policeman who had
everything this world had to offer. He'd been so angry!
Look at the clothes he's wearing! As if he's on his way
to a ball at the Royal Palace! But the policeman hadn't
shaved! They'd never have let him in!

That policeman had everything, but even so he'd been
sitting
there
, on Christmas Eve, in his ugly office, with
a visitor's chair that was worse than anything they had
in the coffee room at the tram sheds.

Did that policeman live there, in his office? Why
wasn't he at home, with his . . . with his family? The
policeman had a family, he could tell that. Superior. I
have and you don't have. That was what the superior
person had meant, and demonstrated.

There was something familiar about the policeman.
He'd thought about that as he'd hurried home. He'd
been in a hurry when he left the policeman's house.

The boy wasn't moving, but he didn't remove the
cord. The boy hadn't touched the food he'd left for him,
but it struck him that maybe it wasn't so easy to reach
the dish. Perhaps it had been impossible.

Micke. When he'd removed the scarf placed so delicately
and gently over the boy's mouth, Micke had tried
to scream again, and it was just like when that little
boy had started screaming in English at him. As if the
boy thought he wouldn't understand! As if he was stupid!

It was the little boy who was stupid. Everybody was
stupid. That little boy who spoke English had been nasty
to him, just like all the others.

And now Micke was starting to be nasty to him as
well.

When he tried to say something to the lad, he refused
to answer. He either screamed, or didn't say anything.
That was no way to behave.

He'd driven the car on the carpet next to where Micke
was lying. Brrrrmmm! That was only one of the things
he'd done. He had all the other toys that children liked,
their favourite things. He'd borrowed them for Micke's
sake. Well not exactly borrowed . . . He could give them
to Micke and they'd be his best things as well. He'd
done all that for him. He'd bounced the ball, but it
hadn't bounced very well on the carpet and so he'd
stood up and bounced it on the bare floorboards and
that had been much better. Hiiigh! Micke had been given
the little bird that gleamed like silver. Maybe it was
silver. It was hanging from Micke's shirt. He'd noticed
that the shirt smelled unpleasant when he'd pinned the
bird to it, so he'd done it quickly. The watch was on
the table next to the bed. The English watch, as he'd
said when he'd given it to Micke. It might be an hour
slow!

He carried the boy out into the living room now.

They were going to watch films. Look, Micke: that's
you!

He told the lad how he knew he was called Micke.
Easy. It was in your jacket! A little tag sewn in.

But he'd known that before. He'd heard both the
boy's father and mother say 'Micke' to him. You could
see that they were saying Micke on the video, and they
were doing that just now. They were too far away for
it to be heard, but you could read their lips. He'd zoomed
in, and you could see.

'Look, Micke! You're sitting in the pushchair now!'

It was in the hall, the same pushchair. He'd show it
to the boy later if he doubted it.

He showed a few more recordings from a different
day nursery. A little girl, then another. They were in
several of the sequences. The first girl, and the other
one. And a boy he'd filmed later.

Would you like a brother and sister, Micke? We've
got room for them here.

He looked at the first girl in the film. He watched
somebody come to collect her, a man, a back, an
overcoat. They went into the building then came out
again. It was a long way away and he'd used the
zoom.

He recognised the man in the overcoat. Recognised
him.

Now he didn't feel calm any longer, he wanted to
feel calm. He also wished that Micke wasn't being so
nasty to him.

Winter was standing with yet another cup of espresso,
in the middle of the biggest room. He felt stiff, but his
eyes were still open.

It was tonight. A magic night.

He turned up the volume on the CD that had been
on repeat all evening, U2's
All That You Can't Leave
Behind
, louder, a pencil on a piece of paper on the coffee
table started to tremble. He was standing in the midst
of a deafeningly loud blast when he saw the red light
on his mobile on the desk and switched off the music
and heard the phone.

He went over to the mobile, his ears ringing, like an
overpowering silence.

'Hello?'

'Str . . . klrk . . . prr . . .'

A buzzing, even louder than the one in his ears.

'Hello?' he said.

'. . . nt thing . . .'

It sounded like Bertil.

'Where the hell are you, Bertil? Where have you
been?'

Ringmar's voice came and went.

'I can't hear you,' Winter yelled.

'Sme . . . hrrrlg . . . bo . . . bllrra . . . cal . . .'

'I can't hear you, Bertil. Reception is too bad.'

'I . . . ca . . . ho . . . the . . .'

'Can you hear me? Eh? Come to my place as soon
as you can. I repeat, as soon as you can.'

He hung up, and immediately rang Ringmar's mobile
number on both his own mobile and the desk phone,
but couldn't get through. He repeated what he had just
said for the answering machine.

His mobile rang again, for the thousandth time. As
long as the phone keeps ringing, there is still hope.

'I'll put you through to a man from human resources,'
said Peder, a colleague from Police Operations Centre.
'That's what you wanted, isn't it?'

'Hello? Hello? Hello, for fuck's—' Winter heard.

'DCI Erik Winter here.'

'Hello? Who?'

'I'm the one who's been trying to contact you,' said
Winter. 'We're busy with a case and I need some information.'

'Now?'

'You have a tram driver by the name of Mats Jerner.
I want to know what route he drives, and what his
working hours are.'

'What?'

Winter repeated his question, calmly.

'What the hell . . . What is this?'

'We are busy with an extremely serious case, and I
WANT YOUR HELP,' said Winter, still calm but louder.
'Can you be of assistance?'

'What was the name again?'

'Jerner. Mats Jerner.'

'I'm one of . . . I can't keep track of all the names.
Jerner? Wasn't he the one in that accident?'

'Accident?'

'There was a crash. I think he was laid off. I can't
remember. Or was he put on the sick list? He reported
sick later, I think. I'm not sure.' Winter heard a scraping
noise, then something fell and broke. 'Shit!'

'How can I find out more about this?' asked Winter.

'Why don't you ask him?'

'He's not at home.'

'You don't say.'

'He's been working this afternoon and is due to work
tomorrow,' said Winter.

'I know nothing about that,' said the official, whose
name Winter still didn't know.

'Who will know?'

Winter was given a telephone number, evidently a
new one as the receiver at the other end was put down
for quite a while and he could hear muffled curses in
the background.

Before he had a chance to call the number he'd been
given, his desk phone rang.

'Janne Alinder here.'

'Hello.'

'I'm still at the station. Sorry about the delay. I had
a—'

'Forget it. Have you found anything?'

'I saw your message on the intranet and a few memos.
I've been away for a few days.'

'Did you find anything in your notes on the report
from Lena Sköld?'

'No. But I found something else.'

'And?'

'I don't know what it means. But I've found something.'

'Well? Out with it.'

'We had a crash at Järntorget on November the
twenty-seventh. A tram and several cars. No fatalities
or anything like that, but a drunk standing next to the
driver's cabin had fallen into the windscreen and smashed
his skull. It was a right mess. And the driver was a bit
. . . odd.'

'What do you mean?'

'He'd jumped a red light, but it wasn't really his
fault. But, well, he was odd. He was sober and all
that. But with regard to what you asked about: he
stuttered.'