Frozen Tracks

by Ake Edwardson

  Bergort was wearing a black suit, dark blue silk tie, and shoes that shone more brilliantly than the stainless steel. His hair was straight and blond, with a perfectly straight parting. Führer style, thought Halders, and said:

  'Thank you for finding the time to meet us briefly.'

  'No problem,' said Bergort. 'As long as I can get to the office by half past ten.'

  The kitchen had been cleaned recently and smelled of perfumed detergent. A seagull could be seen circling round through the open window. Pans and knives and other kitchen utensils were hanging from hooks on the walls. Stainless steel.

  The girl was at her day nursery. Winter had said that would be the best time to come.

  'What's your work, Mr Bergort?' Halders asked.

  'I'm an economist. Analyst.'

  'Where?'

  'Er, in a bank. SEB.' He ran his hand through his hair, without a strand falling out of place. 'Please, call me Magnus.'

  'So you advise people on what to do with their money, is that right, Magnus?' asked Halders.

  'Not directly. My work is more – how shall I put it – working out a long-term financial strategy for the bank.'

  'So you advise your firm on what to do with its money?' Halders asked. Winter looked at him.

  'Well . . . ha ha! I suppose you could say that, yes.'

  'Is there any other strategy for a bank apart from the financial one?' asked Halders.

  'Er . . . ha ha! Good question. Obviously it's mostly to do with money.'

  'That's a problem I recognise, I have a similar problem myself,' said Halders. 'Money. Before you have a chance to sit down in peace and quiet and analyse your finances, they've disappeared. Putz weg. Verschwunden.'

  'Yes . . .'

  'Do you have any standard tips, Magnus? How the hell a man can hang on to his cash before it's all gone? Verschwunden.'

  'Er, I'm sure I can—'

  'Perhaps we should wait a bit with that,' said Winter. 'Magnus has to get back to work soon, and so do we.' Winter thought he could detect a look of relief on Bergort's face. Just wait, my lad. 'What we're mainly interested in is what might have happened to Maja.'

  'Yes, it's a very strange story,' said Bergort without hesitation.

  'What do you think happened?' Winter asked.

  Is Magnus Führer aware of what we're really talking about? Halders asked himself.

  The man glanced at his wife. Kristina Bergort looked as if she were going to explain everything now, for the first time. Explain what?

  'Kristina told me and we, er, well, I spoke to Maja and she says that she sat in a car with a mister.'

  'What do you think about that yourself?'

  'I really don't know what to think.'

  'Does the girl have a lively imagination?' asked Halders.

  'Yes,' said Bergort. 'All children do.'

  'Has she said anything like this before?'

  Bergort looked at his wife.

  'No,' said Kristina Bergort. 'Nothing quite like this.'

  'Anything similar?' Winter asked.

  'What do you mean by that?' asked Bergort.

  'Has she mentioned meeting a strange man in different circumstances?' said Halders.

  'No,' said Kristina Bergort. 'She tells us about everything that happens, and she'd have mentioned it.'

  Everything, Halders thought. She tells them about everything.

  'She lost a ball, is that right?' Winter asked.

  'Yes,' said her mother. 'Her favourite ball that she's had God only knows how long.'

  'When did it vanish?'

  'The same day as she . . . talked about that other business.'

  'How did it happen?'

  'How did what happen?'

  'Losing the ball.'

  'She said that this mister was going to throw it to her through the car window, but he didn't. He said he was going to throw it.'

  'What did he do, in fact?'

  'He drove away with it, if I understand it rightly.'

  'What does she say now? Does she still talk about the ball?' Winter asked.

  'Yes. Nearly every day. It wasn't all that long ago, after all.'

  Halders sat down on a chair and seemed to be looking out of a window, but then he turned to face her.

  'You decided very quickly to take her to Frölunda hospital.'

  'Yes, what do you mean?'

  'What made you reach that decision?'

  He noticed Kristina glance at her husband, Magnus Heydrich, who seemed to be standing to attention in the doorway. He hadn't sat down at all during the interview, but had checked his watch several times.

  'We thought it the best thing to do,' he said.

  'Did she seem to be injured?'

  'Not as far as we could see.'

  'Did she say that somebody had hit her?'

  'No,' said Kristina Bergort.

  'You know that we are working on a case in which a stranger abducted a little boy and later injured him?'

  'Yes. You explained that when you phoned yesterday,' said Kristina Bergort.

  'I hadn't read anything about that,' said Magnus Bergort. 'Hadn't heard anything either.'

  'It has been reported in the press, but without any exact details. You understand? This is a conversation in strictest confidence. We have spoken to some other parents who have been through something similar.'

  'What's going on?' asked the mother.

  'We don't know yet. That's why we're asking.'

  'Did Maja have any injuries?' asked Halders, just beating Winter to it.

  'No,' said Mrs Bergort.

  'Weren't there a few bruises?'

  'How do you know that? If you knew, why did you need to ask, come to that?' she said.

  'The inspector who called on you previously told us about it. But we wanted to hear it from you.'

  'Yes, of course. Bruises, yes. She fell off the swing. On her arm, there.' She held up her own arm, as if that were proof of what she was saying. 'They're better now.'

  'They couldn't have had anything to do with this . . . meeting with the stranger?' Winter asked.

  'No.'

  'How can you be so sure?'

  'As I said, it was the swing.' She was still sitting on the chair, but only just. 'Like I said.' She looked at her husband, who nodded and checked his watch again. He was still standing in the doorway like a tin soldier in uniform. 'She fell off the swing.' She held up her arm again. 'Fell!'

  There's definitely something wrong here, Winter thought.

  25

  Memories like nails being hammered into his skull. Bang, bang, bang, in deep, and did it hurt? DID IT HURT?

  There were no dreams out in the sticks, on that plain. Everything was emptiness and wind. He didn't want to look heavenwards, but where else was there to look? The filthy dome covered everything up above and at the sides.

  It's different here. I can see without things splitting inside my head.

  He lay on the sofa. He looked up at the ceiling, on which he had painted two scenes, side by side. If he looked left he could see a starry sky, bright and radiant.

  He had painted the constellations from memory. If he looked right, the sun was shining from a blue sky that was the most beautiful one he'd seen. He'd made it himself, hadn't he?

  Sometimes he would draw a curtain that ran along a runner in the middle of the ceiling. He could go from night to day, and vice versa, as it suited him.

  He felt a jab inside his head, and another. Memories again. 'That can't have hurt very much!' The shadow above him, a peal of laughter. Several shadows, a circle around him. He could see only soil. It was raining. There were boots in front of his face. 'Do you want to get up?' A boot. 'He wants to get up.'

  Was there anybody else there? He couldn't remember.

  He got up now, went into the other room and sought out the new memories that didn't hurt when he touched them: the car, the ball, the charm and the watch. He held the watch up to the light coming from the street lamps as if it were dark in
the room. The watch had stopped and he tried to wind it up again, but nothing moved. It had stopped back then. It had been pulled off the boy's arm and hit against something hard.

  How had it been pulled off?

  No, no, they were not good memories and he didn't want to see pictures like that inside his head where there were already wounds from all the other stuff.

  The boy hadn't behaved as he should have done. That was what had happened, he hadn't acted like the others, to whom he'd shown things and who understood and who were nice and wanted him to be nice to them. The boy wasn't like that, and it was a big disappointment when it dawned on him. He could think about that and remember. The disappointment.

  He twirled the charm round in his hand. Rolled the ball on the floor. Pushed the car between the chair and the coffee table. A lap round the table leg.

  It wasn't enough. He let go of the car and stood up.

  It wasn't enough.

  In front of the television screen he felt relief; for a moment there were no memories. He closed his eyes, or had closed his eyes.

  He could see now. The children were moving back and forth without knowing they were being filmed. Just think if they had known! Everything would have been different then. Not good.

  He saw the girl's face, the zoom on the camera worked. She seemed to be looking straight at the camera, but she couldn't know.

  He knew where she lived. He had waited and watched when they fetched her. He didn't like them. Who were they? Did the girl belong to them? He didn't think so. He would ask her. He would . . . and he started to sing a song in order to keep the thought of what he would do next time out of his mind. There was once a little girlie, tra la la la la, and a little laddie, da da da da da.

  There would be a next time, and it would be . . . bigger then. Bigger.

  Next time he would do what he'd have liked to do right from the start, but hadn't been . . . courageous enough. Cowardy cowardy custard!

  You could hold hands. That would do.

  He closed his eyes, looked, closed his eyes. Now all the children were there, as if they'd been given an order by the ladies who were standing there like soldiers. He smiled. Like soldiers!

  They were looking in his direction, straight into the camera that they couldn't see. Nobody could see it or him. He'd left his car and stood hidden, just as everything else had disappeared into itself among the bushes and woods and trees. Grass. Stones, rocks, everything else there. Soil.

  The children set off walking, in a long line. He followed them. Here at home on the sofa he could see how his hand was shaking as he emerged from the bushes; a branch came swooping towards the lens.

  They were in the street. He was in the street. He was a long way away from them, but this was a good camera. One of the supervisors turned round and looked at it.

  He leaned forward. She was still looking at the camera. He had zoomed in a bit closer. She turned away. She turned back again.

  Buildings in the picture now. Uninteresting buildings that simply grew and grew, upwards and sideways. Cars in front of the picture, making it blurry.

  He had turned the camera away to avoid that stare. It wasn't her staring he wanted. Why was she there?

  The buildings had gone now. He was somewhere else. He knew where. There were rocks behind the house. The girl was on a swing. Somebody was standing behind her. The girl swung higher and higher. He followed her up and down, up and down.

  He sat there, following her with his head. The swing, the girl, the hands pushing from behind the girl. It looked so funny.

  Somewhere else. A family, and he'd followed them until they grew smaller and smaller and no zoom in the world could have helped any longer.

  Hours later, who could say how many. He drove past all the familiar places. Everything was the same as usual, but the light was brighter and dazzled him, must have dazzled others as well. Fir trees, as if the forest had come walking to the roadside and left a deserted plain behind them. Then, when it was all finished, there would be no forest left anywhere at all. Only fields where you couldn't hide away. Nowhere to hide.

  There's that park, and here's this one. He knew them all so well. Everything was familiar.

  'I'd like a monthly season ticket, please.'

  A woman sticking her face into his cab as if she wanted to squeeze her fat body through the opening and force him out through the window on the other side. That wouldn't surprise him. They're all the same. Pressing, forcing their big fat bodies against me, PRESSING up against me, their big fat bodies.

  'Don't you have monthly season tickets on board?' she asked.

  'Er, yes, that'll be a hundred and twenty kronor, please.'

  'A hundred and twenty? They only cost a hundred in the newsagent's.'

  Buy one there, then, clear off out of here and buy a ticket there. At the newsagent's. He didn't want her here, in his tram. She was pressing. A man behind her was pressing. They wanted to get into here, into his cabin. They wan—

  'Why should I pay a hundred and twenty?'

  'Because it costs a hundred and twenty.'

  'But why?'

  'I must set off now. Do you want a ticket or don't you? I have to set off now, you stupid bitch.'

  'Wh-what did you say?'

  'I have to set off now.'

  'Wha-what did you call me?'

  'I didn't call you anything. I said I have to set off now because I have to meet a deadline at Söbergsgatan.'

  'Söbergsgatan?'

  'Söbergsgatan.'

  'Söderbergsgatan?'

  'Söbergsgatan.'

  'Give me that ticket, then. I can't stand here all day.'

  'A hundred and twenty kronor.'

  'Here.'

  At last he was able to set off again. The stupid bitch had disappeared towards the back of the tram. He could still smell her perfume. It was enough to make you sick. Did she have any children? No, no, no.

  He was just about to get into his car.

  'Have you a second, Jerner?'

  It's already gone, he thought. I had it, but now it's gone.

  He got into the car without answering.

  'Jerner?'

  What did he want – another second? Here you are, out through the window – now that one's gone as well.