Frozen Tracks (8 page)

'No. We haven't got that far yet,' said Winter.

'It would be worth following up,' Bergenhem said.
'We haven't asked the people living in the areas
concerned about newspapers.'

Yes, Winter thought. You don't get answers to
unasked questions.

'And then,' Bergenhem said, 'there's the business of
the other victims' orientation.'

'All gay?'

Bergenhem made a gesture: could-be-a-possibility-but-
how-do-I-know.

'Young gays who spotted an interesting possibility
and paid dearly for it?' asked Winter.

'Could be,' Bergenhem said.

'So they fell victim to a gay-basher? Or several? A
gay-hater?'

'It's possible,' said Bergenhem. 'And I think there's
just one attacker.'

'And what's the orientation of this man of violence?'
Winter asked.

'He's not gay himself,' Bergenhem replied.

'Why not?'

'I don't know,' said Bergenhem. 'It doesn't feel right.'

'Are gays non-violent?'

'Gay-bashers aren't homosexual, surely?' said
Bergenhem. 'Is there such a thing as a gay gay-basher?'

Winter didn't respond.

'This attacker isn't gay,' said Bergenhem. 'I know we
can't rule anything out, but I already have a very strong
feeling that it isn't the case here.'

Winter waited for Bergenhem to say more.

'Mind you, it's too early to think anything about
anything,' Bergenhem said.

'Not at all,' said Winter. 'This is the way we make
progress. Talking it over. Dialogue. We have just talked
ourselves into a possible motive.'

'And that is?'

'Hatred,' said Winter.

Bergenhem nodded.

'Let's assume for the moment that these four young
men don't know one another,' said Winter. 'They have
no common background, nothing like that. But they are
linked by their sexual orientation.'

'And the attacker hates gays,' said Bergenhem.

Winter nodded.

'But how did he know that his victims were gay?
How could he be so sure?'

'He didn't need long,' said Winter. 'Only long enough
to be invited home with them.'

'I don't know . . .'

'You were the one who started this line of reasoning,'
Winter said.

'Was I?'

'Yes.'

'OK. But perhaps the attacker knew all four of them.'

'How could he?'

'It could in fact be that he has the same predilections.
Maybe they knew each other from some club.
The Let's All Be Gay Club, I don't know. A pub.
Confidential contacts. In any case, it developed into a
drama of passion.'

'With quite a lot of people involved,' Winter said.

'There could be more yet,' said Bergenhem.

Winter scratched his nose again. It was possible that
they were on entirely the wrong track. There again, they
might have made progress. But this was only a conversation,
only words. Words were still the most important
tools in existence, but everything they'd been talking
about now needed to be followed up with questions and
more questions and actions and visits to streets and staircases
and new interviews and telephone interviews and
reading after reading after reading after run-through after
run-through.

'There's another question as well,' said Winter, 'and
it has nothing to do with sexual orientation.'

'What's that?'

'If there really was a fake newspaper boy there, if
we can get Smedsberg's claim corroborated by others,
how could this person have known that he would be
able to operate that morning undisturbed?'

Bergenhem nodded.

'He must have known the real one was indisposed,
surely? Otherwise the real one and the fake one might
have bumped into each other. But she didn't turn up.
How could he have known that?'

Ringmar was standing by the window, looking out at
his November lawn that no longer needed mowing; he
was grateful for that. It was large, and lit up by the
lantern over the front door of his house and the street
lights on the other side of the hedge.

The rain falling on to the garden covered it like a
shroud. Wind was whistling through the three maples
whose crowns he had watched developing over the twenty
years they had lived in the house. For twenty years he
had been able to stand by this same window watching
the grass grow, or resting, as now. Luckily enough, he'd
had other things to do. But still. He was thirty-four when
they'd bought the place. Even younger than Winter.
Ringmar took a swig of the beer glittering in its thin glass.
Younger than Winter. For a while, quite a long while,
before even Winter grew older, that had been a set expression
in the Gothenburg CID, even the whole force, in fact.
Nobody was younger than Erik. A bit like the slogan
'Cooler than Borg', which he'd seen in one of the news
sheets when he'd been a UN police officer in the buffer
zone in Cyprus aeons ago. That was before Moa's time,
even before Birgitta's time. Before Martin's time.

He took another drink, listened to the wind and
thought about his son. Strange how things could turn
out. His twenty-five-year-old daughter lived at home
with them, temporarily; but it could take some time for
her to find a new flat. His twenty-seven-year-old son
hadn't even sent them his current address. Martin could
be in a buffer zone, for all he knew. Aboard a ship on
the other side of the world. Propping up a bar round
the corner in Vasastan. Gothenburg was big enough for
him to hide himself away if he wanted to. If nobody
looked for him. And Ringmar didn't look for him. No
active search for a son he'd heard nothing from for
almost a year. No looking for somebody who didn't
want to be found. Moa knew that the little brat was
alive, but that was all.

But he did search for him inwardly instead, tried to
work out why.

Surely he'd been fair to the lad? Tried to be there
when he was needed. Was it because of his damned job,
when it came down to it? His peculiar working hours?
The traces of post-traumatic stress that were not always
just traces?

The memory of a dead child's body wasn't something
you could rinse off in the shower the same night. The
little face, the gentle features that could no longer really
be made out. Younger than anything else, and that was
the way it would always be. Finished, finished for ever.

Ringmar emptied his glass. I'm rambling, he thought.
But the children have been the worst.

Now I'm longing for a conversation with my only
son.

The telephone on the wall by the kitchen door rang.
At the same time a little flock of small birds took off
from the lawn, as if frightened by the noise.

Ringmar walked over to the telephone, putting his
glass down on the work surface, and lifted the receiver.

'Hello, Bertil speaking.'

'Hi, Erik here.'

'Good evening, Erik.'

'What are you doing?'

'Watching the lawn resting. Drinking a Bohemian
pilsner.'

'Do you think you could have a word with Moa?'
Winter asked.

'What are you talking about, Dad?'

'To tell you the truth, I don't really know.'

'This isn't something you've thought up yourself.'

'Not in that way,' he said.

He was sitting in the armchair in her room that had
been there as long as the room had been hers. Twenty
years. She usually sat by the window, looking at the
lawn, just like her father.

'Not in that way?' she said from her bed. 'What does
that mean?'

'To tell you the truth, I don't really know,' he said
again, with a smile.

'But somebody has dreamt up the suspicion that Jakob
Stillman is gay, is that it?'

'I don't know that I'd use the word "suspicion".'

'Call it whatever you like. I'm just wondering what
all this is about.'

'It's about this job I have, among other things,' said
Ringmar, shifting his position in the puffy armchair that
was starting to sag after all these years. A bit like me,
he thought. 'We're testing various theories. Or hypotheses.'

'Well this one is way off the mark,' she said.

'Really?' he said.

'Completely wrong.'

'But you've said you don't know him,' Ringmar said.

'He has a girlfriend. Vanna. I sent her to see you, if
I'm not completely mistaken.'

'You're not mistaken.'

'Well then.'

'Sometimes it's not as straightforward as that.'

She didn't respond.

'Well?' he said.

'What would it mean, anyway?' she asked. 'If he did
turn out to be gay?'

'To tell you the truth, I don't really know,' Ringmar
said.

'What exactly do we know?' asked Sture Birgersson,
who was just about to light a new John Silver from
the stub of his old one. The head of CID was standing
in his usual place, in front of the window, behind his
desk.

'I thought you'd given up?' Winter said.

'My lungs feel better,' Birgersson said, inhaling. 'I
thought I'd better make a new resolution.'

'A healthy approach,' said Winter.

'Yes, glad you think so.' Birgersson held the cigarette
in front of him, as if it were a little carrot. 'But we have
other questions to consider here, methinks.'

'You've read the notes,' said Winter.

'Do you need more people?'

'Yes.'

'There aren't any more.'

'Thank you.'

'If things get worse, I might be able to dig out a few
more,' said Birgersson.

'How can things get any worse?'

'Another victim, for Christ's sake. Perhaps one who
dies.'

'We could easily have had four dead bodies,' said
Winter.

'Hmm.' Birgersson lit his cigarette using the glowing
butt. 'Bad, but not bad enough.'

'Four murders,' said Winter. 'That would be a record,
for me at least.'

'And for me.' Birgersson walked round his desk.
Winter could smell the tobacco. As if the old tobacco
factory down by the river had come back to life. 'But
you're right. It's nasty. What we're landed with might
be a serial killer who hasn't actually killed.'

'Assuming it's the same person.'

'Don't you think it is?'

'Yes, I suppose I do,' said Winter.

Birgersson leaned backwards and picked up three
pieces of paper from his desk. Apart from them, it was
empty, clear, shiny. There's something compulsive about
him, Winter thought, as he always did when he was
standing there, or sitting, as he was at the moment.

Birgersson read the documents again, then looked
up.

'I wonder if this gay theory is valid,' he said.

'It's only you, me, Lars and Bertil that know about
it,' said Winter.

'That's probably just as well.'

'You've taught me to investigate through a bifocal
lens.'

'Have I really? That was pretty well put.' Birgersson
stroked his chin. He looked Winter in the eye, possibly
with just a trace of a smile. 'Can you remind me what
I meant by it?'

'Being able to look down and also forwards at the
same time. In this case, investigating several motives in
parallel.'

'Hmm.'

'It's obvious really,' said Winter.

'I didn't hear that.'

'Like all great thoughts.'

'Hear, hear,' said Birgersson.

'The gay theory might give us a motive,' said Winter.

'Have you managed to interview any of the victims
again? With this idea in mind?'

'No, we've only just thought of it,' said Winter.

Birgersson didn't respond, which meant that the
discussion was over for the time being. Winter picked
up his packet of Corps and removed the cellophane
from one of the slim cigarillos.

Birgersson held out his lighter.

'You'd given up too,' he said.

'It hurt too much,' said Winter. 'Now I feel better
again.'

Halders stood in the middle of Doktor Fries Torg. Time
had stood still here, in this square, which had been built
during the period when the Social Democrats always
formed the government, when Sweden's welfare state
was strong, when everybody was cared for from the
cradle to the grave and looked into the future with confidence,
anticipating the fulfilment of their dreams. In this
square I'm a little boy again, Halders thought. Everything
here is genuine, this is what it looked like then.

Flags, stone, concrete. But everything was lovely then,
dammit. Concrete soaring high over the ground. Not
bad, not bad at all.

A few people were wandering around between the
library, the community centre and the dental surgery
that Halders knew Winter attended. There was a pizza
place, of course. A closed-down bank, of course. A
newsagent's, post office (but not for much longer). A selfservice
store – a name that fitted the square's appearance
and age. For me this shop will always be a self-service
store. That's a 1960s term.

Halders sat down on one of the benches outside
Forum and drew a map in his notebook.

Stillman had passed by here, after climbing the steps
that led up from the city centre. He'd walked through
the woods, which must have been pitch black. There
were other routes he could have taken. This had been
the most awkward one. Perhaps the lad was a bit of an
adventurer. Halders drew a line where Stillman must
have walked, from where he was sitting to the point
where the attacker clubbed him down.

Almost the dead centre of the square. He looked in
that direction. Somebody might have been standing in
the covered passageway in front of the self-service store.
Or by the tobacconist's. Or the delicatessen on the other
side. Crept forward with his club. A seven iron. Or a
different iron. Or swished up on a bicycle. Or run like
the devil on silent soles, and the young man who was
tired and tipsy hadn't heard a thing. A pity the victim
didn't have a walkman with Motörhead filling his brain
at full volume. That would have explained a lot.

Perhaps they weren't the only ones there. Halders
kept thinking that when he made this follow-up visit to
the various locations. Maybe they were with somebody
but didn't want to say who, even though whoever it
was had tried to kill them. Could that be the case? Were
they protecting their own attacker? Huh, Halders had
learnt a lot in this job. It was a mistake to believe that
people would behave rationally. The human psyche was
an interesting piece of reality in that respect. Or frightening,
rather. You had to take things as they came.

Not alone. Shielding somebody. Or ashamed of something?
He looked down at his sketch again. Drew a
dotted line to the bus and tram stop. Stillman had been
on his way there, he'd said.

From where? He still hadn't been able to explain
what he'd been doing here. Halders didn't buy all that
stuff about just strolling around, going nowhere in
particular. It was a long way from here to his room in
Olofshöjd. It was true that it was possible to go there
from Slottskogen via Änggården and Guldheden, just
as it was theoretically possible to stroll in an easterly
direction from Gothenburg to Shanghai.

Had he been visiting somebody round here? In which
case, why the hell didn't he say so? Did they go for a
moonlit walk? We'll have to have another chat with
him. And with the other students . . . a student from
Uppsala-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la-la. Halders
hummed the tune as he got up from the bench and made
his way to the delicatessen to buy lunch.

Winter stayed in the grounds after delivering Elsa to the
day nursery and waving to her through the window.
She had turned away immediately and vanished, and it
dawned on him that he and Angela were no longer the
only ones in her life.

A lot of children were running around the grounds.
Two supervisors, as far as he could see. There was a
lot of traffic passing by – the second stage of the morning
rush hour. I'll be joining it shortly.

A little chap was making his way through the bushes.
Maybe the same one as last time, hoping to escape to
freedom outside the fence.

Winter watched him disappear into the undergrowth.
He'd soon be out again. Perhaps he had a secret den
among the bushes that he went to every day.

Winter walked down to the gate and looked to the
right, expecting to see the boy on the other side of the
bushes and inside the fence. But there was nobody in
sight. He walked towards the bushes, but still could see
nothing, hear nothing. He moved even closer, noticed a
loose bit of the thick steel wire, pulled at it, and felt
the whole length open like a swing door.

He turned round, but there was no little chap in a
brown jumpsuit and blue cap standing in the bushes,
waving.

What the hell . . .

The opening was too small for him to clamber
through. He jogged quickly to the gate and out into the
street, but he still couldn't see the boy anywhere.

He walked the ten or so metres to the crossroads,
which was partially hidden by the evergreen bushes
surrounding the day nursery, turned right, and saw the
boy some twenty metres ahead of him, marching
purposefully away.

By the time Winter got back to the day nursery with
the boy, they had already called the register.

'We were going to have a snack,' said the deputy
manager, who was standing at the gate, looking worried.

'There's a hole in the fence,' said Winter, putting
down the boy, who had allowed himself to be carried
back without protesting.

'Good Lord,' she said, squatting down in front of
the boy. 'Have you been out for a walk, August?'

The boy nodded.

'But you mustn't go outside the fence,' she said.

The boy nodded again.

She looked up at Winter.