Frozen Tracks

by Ake Edwardson

  'Merry Christmas, Bertil.'

  Ringmar raised his glass to the skies. 'Do you really want to hear about it?' he asked.

  'With you celebrating Christmas on your own, without your family? Don't insult me, Bertil.'

  'You're also on your own.'

  'That was by arrangement, or whatever you want to call it. I'm off as soon as we've cracked the case.'

  'When will that be?'

  'Soon,' said Winter.

  'Martin has got it into his head that I've, well, done something,' said Ringmar.

  Winter finished off his beer and waited.

  'Did you hear what I said?' Ringmar asked.

  'What do you mean, Bertil? Done something?'

  'The reason why he's gone into hiding.'

  'What does he say you've done?'

  'I can't tell you,' said Ringmar. 'I can't put it into words.'

  'When did you discover whatever it is that you can't put into words?'

  Was he being brutal? No. Bertil was too close a friend.

  'Yesterday. Birgitta phoned. At last.'

  'And what did she say?'

  Bertil was asleep, or at least was in bed in the spare room. An hour earlier he had been crying his eyes out over Winter's kitchen table. Winter was standing in the balcony doorway, smoking. There was snow down below. Tomorrow morning he wouldn't be trying to build a snowman with Elsa.

  Silence reigned. It was as if everybody was sleeping the sleep of the pious before being nice to everybody else on Christmas Eve morning, as tradition demanded.

  Winter closed the balcony door and returned to his desk and the PowerBook. He stared at his notes, which flowed in straight lines that could symbolise heartbeats that had ceased to beat: they were straight, devoid of life. But even so.

  They had spoken. Then Bertil had immersed himself in the case again. The cases. Do you really want to? He'd seen from Bertil's intensity that it was necessary.

  'It could be the foster son,' Ringmar had said. 'He's been the victim of something that has to do with one of these students. Smedsberg. Or it could be the old man. Georg, isn't that his name?'

  'Yes,' said Winter.

  'Yes to what?' Ringmar wondered.

  'His name is Georg.'

  'The foster son, Mats. He might have nicked the branding iron from Carlström and used it. We know that he was there.'

  'Carlström might have done it himself,' Winter had said. 'He's not a cripple.'

  'But why?'

  'The big question.'

  'We always come up against the Big Question,' said Ringmar. 'We'll have to have a word with him tomorrow.'

  'Carlström?'

  'Jerner. The foster son.'

  'Assuming he's at home,' Winter said.

  He'd looked up the name and address in the telephone directory and phoned the moment they'd got back home, but there was no reply. As they'd driven home from the sticks they'd talked about ringing headquarters and asking them to send out a car; but it was too soon. And what was the point? If they really were on to something, doing that could cause problems for the investigation. Better to take a more softly-softly approach.

  'The woman,' Ringmar said. 'Gerd. Smedsberg's wife. What happened to her?'

  'How deep should we dig out there, Bertil?'

  'We might have to dig as deep down as it goes,' said Ringmar.

  'It might be a bottomless pit,' said Winter. 'Shall we call it a day, Bertil? It will be a long day tomorrow.'

  'We haven't talked about the most important thing,' said Ringmar. 'We haven't been through it one more time.'

  'I'll talk to Maja Bergort tomorrow morning,' Winter said. 'And the Waggoner boy.'

  'I'll listen to the tapes as soon as possible.'

  'I want to run them through again as well, as soon as poss.'

  'They are still around,' Ringmar said.

  'Aneta will have another chat with the Skarin boy. And the Sköld girl. Ellen.'

  'The absent father,' said Ringmar.

  'There are lots of them to choose from,' said Winter.

  'What do you mean by that?'

  'Lots of them we can interrogate, suspect, investigate.'

  'That wasn't the only thing you were thinking about, Erik.'

  'No. I was thinking of myself as well.'

  'You were thinking about me.'

  'I was thinking about me, and about you as well.'

  He was staring at the screen, which was the only source of light in the room, apart from the standard lamp by the leather armchair next to the balcony door. He checked his watch. Two.

  He reached for the telephone and dialled the number.

  His mother sounded like a jazz singer when she eventually answered.

  'Hel . . . hello?'

  'Hello, Mother. It's Erik.'

  'Er . . . Erik. Has something happened?'

  'No. But I'd like to speak to Angela.'

  'She's asleep. Upstairs. And Els—' He heard a voice in the background, then his mother's voice again. 'Well, you've woken her up, so here she is.'

  'What's the matter, Erik?' Angela asked.

  'Nothing. I just wanted to ring.'

  'Where are you?'

  'At home, of course.'

  'What's that noise I can hear?'

  'It could be the computer, or it could be the Paul Simon CD you bought me.'

  'I can hear it now. Hmmm.'

  She sounded half asleep, a little hoarse, delightful. Her voice was on low frequency, as if partly in a dream.

  'How's it going down there?'

  'Splendid. The sun's shining, the stars are glittering.'

  'What's Elsa doing?'

  'She tried to go swimming in the sea, but thought it was too cold.'

  'What else?'

  'Playing on the lawn. And pointing at the snow on top of the mountain.'

  'The White Mountain,' said Winter.

  'She can say that in Spanish. If we stayed here for six months, she'd be bilingual.'

  'That wouldn't be a bad thing,' said Winter.

  'And what would you be doing meanwhile?'

  'I'd be there,' he said.

  Six months in Spain. Or a full year. He could afford it.

  Once this case was over. Who knows?

  'It's Christmas Eve tomorrow. Elsa doesn't talk about anything else. Feliz Navidad.'

  'Today.'

  'Hmm. Did you ring to remind me of that?'

  'No.'

  'Is it still Boxing Day that you're coming?'

  'Yes.'

  'Siv couldn't believe it. That you didn't come with us, I mean.'

  'She'll have to make up for that.'

  'She will? But she doesn't need to make up for anything, surely?'

  'No.'

  'You sound absolutely worn out, Erik.'

  'Yes.'

  'Will you be able to make progress tomorrow?'

  'Yes.'

  'Steer clear of the whisky tonight.'

  'We hid the bottle the moment we stepped through the door.'

  'Ha ha.' Then he heard her take a deep breath. 'We?'

  'Bertil. He's spending the night here.'

  'Why?'

  'He needs to.'

  'What does Birgitta have to say about that?'

  'She doesn't know about it,' said Winter.

  'What's going on, Erik?'

  He tried to explain what was going on. That was why he'd phoned, one of the two main reasons. He felt he simply had to talk to someone else about the situation.

  'Good God,' she said. 'Bertil?'

  'You don't have to believe it,' said Winter.

  'Is that what Bertil says?'

  'He couldn't very well say that, could he? Of course he says he's innocent.'

  'Good God,' she said again.

  'Birgitta rang from – from wherever she is. She didn't want to say where. And Martin was there as well. And Moa. She's the daught—'

  'I know who she is,' said Angela. 'What are they up to? Working out how to trample all over Berti
l?'

  'I think they're trying to work out what Bertil's son's problem is.'

  'Is this the first time he's said anything? Martin, I mean.'

  'Evidently.'

  'So what has he said?'

  'Well, Birgitta was a bit, er, vague about that. Something about unfair treatment. I don't know what. When he was a little lad.'

  'For God's sake. Bertil. It doesn't make sense.'

  'No,' said Winter.

  'So why does he say that? Martin?'

  'I'm not a psychologist,' said Winter. 'But my guess is that it has something to do with the company the lad keeps. All that brooding. He's evidently got mixed up with some damn sect or other since he ran off.'

  'But there must be some reason why he ran away in the first place,' said Angela.

  'Presumably. But it could be that it only exists in his own head.'

  'How's Bertil taking this?'

  'What can I say? He's trying to fulfil his work commitment. As best he can.'

  'Will it come to . . . an official complaint to the police?'

  'I don't know,' said Winter. 'But if it does, I want to be a thousand miles away from here.'

  'Five hundred will do,' she said. 'On the Costa del Sol.'

  'I don't want to go there for a reason like that.'

  'Do you want to go there full stop?'

  'Come on, Angela. You know why I'm still here in Gothenburg. I'll come down as soon as I can, obviously. If not sooner.'

  'OK. Sorry, Erik. What are you going to do now?'

  'Try to get an hour or two's sleep. I've stopped thinking. Switched off.'

  'Have you found your Christmas presents yet?'

  'I'll start looking tomorrow morning.'

  * * *

  He was flying over the plain on the back of a bird that kept repeating his name and then a four-word sentence: Klara want a biscuit, Klara want a biscuit, Klara want a b— Hush, I can't hear what the children are thinking, the children are thinking down below. Four young men were wandering over the plain, one of them smiled. His face was black. A tractor was crossing the field, Winter could see the dust rising up into the sky. Ringmar was chasing one of the boys. Lies! Ringmar yelled. Lies! Lies! Winter was in town. Christmas everywhere, parcels, shops, a square. It was indoors. A man passed by with a pushchair. The man was wearing a checked cap. He turned round towards Winter. You are not listening! You are not looking! You have stopped but you don't see. Don't see. Now he was playing the guitar. Winter followed him. The pushchair had gone, flown up into the air. There was a sun in the sky, and stars. He was standing up there on the earth, looking down at heaven. It was night and day. Up was down. The cap came past again with the pushchair. There were feet in the pushchair that didn't move. Small feet, motionless. The cap rang a bell, shook it upwards, downwards, riiiiiiiiiiiiiiing, riiiiiing.

  He woke up in darkness. The alarm clock was screeching seven.

  Ringmar was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in front of him. The darkness outside was lighter because of the thin covering of snow everywhere. Ringmar was reading the newspaper.

  'You woke up yourself, then,' said Winter.

  'I never went to sleep.'

  There was coffee in the pot. Winter prepared a cheese sandwich. He was shivering in his dressing gown.

  'A research genius in the psychology department here in Gothenburg has concluded that the police must do a rethink with regard to interviews,' said Ringmar, staring hard at the newspaper.

  'Sounds interesting,' said Winter and took a bite of his sandwich.

  'He maintains that we've always thought that somebody who's telling lies is shifty-eyed, seems nervous and gesticulates a lot.' Ringmar gave a laugh, loud, brief and sarcastic. 'This white knight who has come to rescue us in our distress has now concluded that liars don't act like that!' Ringmar looked up at Winter and quoted: '"Liars often look you straight in the eye and tell their lies calmly."'

  'Just think, if we'd only known that,' said Winter. 'Now our interviewing methodology will be revolutionised.'

  'What a lot of mistakes we've made,' said Ringmar.

  'Thank God for academic research,' said Winter.

  Ringmar continued reading the article, then gave another laugh:

  'I'll quote you another bit: "Research also shows that it is easier to expose a lie when the interrogation is recorded on video than when using the standard method!"'

  Winter laughed, just as briefly and sarcastically. 'And we've only been using the video technique for five years now.'

  'Without knowing why,' said Ringmar.

  'We must get this on our intranet pronto,' said Winter.

  'To be on the safe side he states that the judicial authorities are badly informed about modern forensic psychology but have promised to read up on it,' said Ringmar. 'Hallelujah.'

  'But first he will have to write the books for them,' said Winter.

  'I wonder what Professor Christianson thinks about this,' said Ringmar.

  'I don't think he needs any sympathy,' said Winter.

  'Gesticulates a lot,' said Ringmar, 'shifty-eyed.'

  'Sounds like a film by Fritz Lang. Doctor Mabuse, M.'

  'Perhaps Göteborgs Posten found this research report in an old archive?' Ringmar suggested.

  'Researcher,' said Winter. 'They found the researcher there.'

  Ringmar looked for further essential knowledge in the article.

  'This might be interesting despite everything. Our researcher has noticed that parents are rather better than others at detecting lies. They can also detect when other people's children are not telling the truth. Adults without children are significantly worse at it.' Ringmar looked up. 'We are OK on that score, Erik.' Then his face fell, and despite his documented lack of knowledge about human behaviour, Winter knew immediately what Ringmar was thinking.