Frozen Tracks

by Ake Edwardson

  'Did the mister have sweeties?' Djanali asked.

  'Lots of sweeties,' said Kalle.

  She asked about what sort of sweets, what they looked like, what they tasted like. Really she ought to have conducted this part of the interrogation in Gothenburg's best sweet shop so that they could compare different ones, but that might have been too distracting.

  'Sweeties!' said Kalle, who wasn't much bothered about details. Unfortunately.

  'Was there a toy in the mister's car, Kalle?'

  'Brrrrruuuuuum.'

  He drove the car in circles, in figures of eight. She saw his little head and thought of the injured Simon Waggoner, and Micke Johansson who had disappeared. Was there a connection? They didn't know yet, so what could they do? They were doing their best at the moment.

  Kalle Skarin might have met the same person as Micke Johansson. She thought about that again now. His head bowed over the car and the grey carpet, which was thin but soft.

  It had been a very short meeting. Why? What did he want from Kalle? Was Kalle part of a pattern? The other children: Ellen, Maja, and then Simon. Was there a pattern in the different meetings? Were they building up towards something? Did the man change? Why did he assault Simon? Was that a step on the way? Was he preparing himself? For what? For Micke Johansson? She didn't want to think about that, not now, not ever in fact.

  Erik had spoken to the forensic psychologist. There were various possible scenarios, all of them frightening.

  We have an aim, and that is to find Micke Johansson. Please help me, Kalle.

  'Brrrruuuuuuumm,' said Kalle, and looked up. 'Billy Birdie.'

  'What did you say, Kalle?'

  'Billy Birdie.'

  'Did the mister have a birdie?'

  'Billy Birdie,' said Kalle, parking by the edge of the carpet.

  'Was the birdie called Billy?'

  'Billy Birdie.'

  'Billy,' she repeated.

  'Said Kalle. Billy Birdie said Kalle!'

  'I heard you say Billy Birdie,' said Djanali.

  Berit Skarin had been sitting in an armchair during the interview. Kalle had forgotten about her, as had Djanali. But she heard the mother's voice now:

  'I think he means that the birdie said his name. Said Kalle to him.'

  * * *

  Winter had asked Maja Bergort about the mister's birdie. She couldn't remember a name. Was it a parrot? Winter had asked. The reply he got was not a hundred per cent certain. We'll have to get pictures of all the birds that exist, he thought. Starting with parrots. Where in Gothenburg do they sell that kind of thing?

  The parrot Maja Bergort spoke about was hanging from the rear-view mirror, or so he understood after asking the follow-up questions. If it really was a parrot. What she called a parrot might have been one of those tree-shaped things supposed to remove nasty smells from your car. No, not this time, not this one.

  Maja's arm gave a sudden twitch.

  'Does your arm hurt, Maja?'

  She shook her head.

  Winter could hear Kristina Bergort moving around the house. He had asked her not to stay in the kitchen while he spoke to Maja. He heard her again, close by. Perhaps she was listening. Maja didn't see her.

  'Have you had a pain in your arm, Maja?'

  The girl nodded solemnly.

  'Was the mister nasty to you?' Winter asked.

  She didn't answer.

  'Did the mister hit you?' Winter asked.

  She was drawing circles now with the black pencil, circles, more and more circles.

  'Did the mister hit you, Maja? The mister you sat in the car with? The mister with the birdie?'

  She nodded now, up and down, without looking at Winter.

  'Was that when you got those marks?' Winter asked.

  He held his own arm, tapping at the inside of it.

  She nodded without looking at him.

  There was something wrong. She was drawing more circles now, one on top of the other, like a black hole on which the centre grew smaller and smaller every time. The darkness at the end of the tunnel, Winter thought again. The same horrific thought.

  There was something wrong here.

  'What did the mister say when he hit you?' Winter asked.

  'He said I was wicked,' said Maja.

  'That was a silly thing to say,' said Winter.

  She nodded solemnly.

  He thought of the difference between the truth and a lie. There was something evasive about Maja now. A lie, even if he had led her into telling it. Had the man hit her? Which man? There can be several reasons why children won't say who's done it. And there can be several reasons for why they tell lies. But in most cases they feel threatened, he thought as Maja filled in her tunnel and started on a new one. Children are scared, they want to avoid being punished. They sometimes want to protect somebody they are dependent on. They want to avoid feeling guilt, embarrassment or shame. It can sometimes happen that the traumatisation makes it impossible for them to distinguish between reality, fantasy and dream.

  'Has the mister hit you many times?' asked Winter. The man had become several now, or two.

  She didn't answer. The pencil had stopped moving, halfway through building a tunnel. Winter repeated his question.

  She held up her hand, slowly. Winter could see three fingers pointing up at the ceiling.

  'Has he hit you three times?' Winter asked.

  She nodded, extremely solemnly now, and looked at him. He heard a deep intake of breath behind him, turned round and saw Kristina Bergort, who could no longer manage to hide behind the half-open kitchen door.

  In the car on the way back he spoke to Bertil, who was in police headquarters, going over all the interviews, which were spreading in all directions now – or perhaps some of them were heading in the same direction.

  'It's very quiet here,' said Ringmar. 'You can hear your own feet on the stairs.'

  'Has Aneta come back yet?'

  'No.'

  'Is she fully aware that she has to wait until I get back?'

  'Aneta is no doubt just as keen to speak to you as you are to speak to her, Erik.'

  He drove round the Näset roundabout. A car ahead of him had a Christmas tree strapped to its roof. It looked a bit desperate, a last-minute transaction.

  'I think Bergort beats his daughter,' said Winter.

  'Shall we bring him in?' asked Ringmar without hesitation.

  'I'm damned if I know, Bertil.'

  'How probable is it?'

  'I'm quite certain, in fact. The girl made it very obvious between the lines. With her body language.'

  'What does her mother say?'

  'She knows. Or suspects it in any case.'

  'But she hasn't said anything?'

  'You know how it is, Bertil.'

  Silence.

  Oh my God, what have I said? thought Winter.

  'That wasn't what I meant, Bertil.'

  'OK, OK.'

  'I tried to talk to her, but she seems to be scared as well. Or wants to protect him. Or both.'

  'He seems to have a solid alibi,' said Ringmar.

  They had checked up on all the parents involved, as far as possible. The problem with Bergort was that he didn't work regular hours and had a lot of freedom. Was Magnus Himmler Bergort, as Halders called him (among other things), something more than just a childbeater?

  'Bring him in,' said Winter.

  'Will he be in his office?'

  'Yes.'

  'OK.'

  'I'm going to the Waggoners' now,' said Winter.

  They hung up. Winter drove along the main road leading to the other end of Änggården. Here comes Father Christmas. Have you all been good little boys and girls?

  The traffic was denser than he'd thought. Normally he would be sitting with a cup of excellent coffee and a large sandwich of freshly roasted ham at this time – at least, that had been normal for the last three years. We'll never get through it all, Angela always said. This is the most important bit, he woul
d say. The first slice after roasting.

  No Christmas ham this year, not here in Gothenburg. No Christmas tree, not at the moment at least. He saw several desperate men with Christmas trees on their car roofs, an odd sight for somebody on their first visit from, say, Andalucía. This is Sweden: take up thy fir tree and drive. Where to? Why? Porqué? He suddenly felt an intense longing for some peace and quiet, a bit of food, a drop of alcohol, a cigarillo, music, his woman, his child, his . . . life, the other one. He could see Maja's face, the photograph of Micke on Bengt Johansson's desk. Simon Waggoner. And just as suddenly the longing had vanished; he was back at work. He was on his way, on the move. You can never let yourself stop, as Birgersson used to say, but less often now. Never stand still. Never lack faith, never doubt, never let it get on top of you, never run away, never cry, always put up with everything. BULLSHIT, Winter thought. Birgersson had also got the message, but later.

  He turned off at the Margretebergs junction. The attractive wooden houses were at their best. Torches were burning in the cautious daylight. It was a clear day. The sun could be glimpsed here and there in the gaps between the houses. There was still a thin layer of snow on paths and lawns. God was smiling.

  Winter saw some children in a playground in the centre of town. There were a lot of grown-ups with them. Two men turned to look as he drove slowly past in his black Mercedes. Who was he, what was he doing here?

  He parked outside the Waggoners' house.

  A wreath was hanging on the front door.

  There was a smell of exotic spices in the hall.

  'For us it's tomorrow that's the big day,' said Paul Waggoner with his English accent as he took Winter's overcoat and hung it on a coat-hanger. 'Tomorrow's Christmas Day.'

  'Is that the pudding I can smell?' asked Winter.

  'Which one?' asked Waggoner. 'We're making several.' He gestured towards the living room. 'My parents have come over from England.'

  I'll phone Steve Macdonald when I get home, Winter thought. Or maybe from the office. Merry Christmas and all that, but maybe he can do some thinking for me, before all that pudding gets to work on him.

  'How's Simon?'

  'He's doing pretty well,' said Waggoner. 'He's speaking only English at the moment, has been for a few days now. It just happened. Perhaps he wanted to prepare himself for his grandparents.'

  'I'd better speak English to him then,' said Winter.

  'Perhaps,' said Waggoner. 'Will that be a problem?'

  'I don't know. It might be an advantage.'

  It was the same room as before. Simon seemed more relaxed, recognised Winter.

  'Will you get any Christmas gifts this evening?' Winter asked.

  'Today and tomorrow,' said Simon.

  'Wow.'

  'Grandpa doesn't really like it.'

  'And this is from me,' said Winter, handing over a parcel he'd had in his shoulder bag.

  The boy took it, obviously pleased. There was a gleam in his eyes.

  'Oh, thank you very much.'

  'You're welcome.'

  'Thank you,' said Simon again.

  He opened the little parcel. Winter had thought about giving the boy a watch to replace the one that had disappeared. Should he or shouldn't he? In the end he'd decided not to. It could have been regarded as a bribe in return for information. By Simon. Perhaps it was.

  Simon held up the car, which was one of the latest models. It was an expensive toy, with a lot of details. The word POLICE was painted on the side. He couldn't very well give the boy a remote-controlled Mercedes. CID model.

  The police car could be driven everywhere where there was no threshold in the way.

  'Want to try it?' Winter asked, handing over the control panel that was hardly any bigger than a matchbox.

  Simon put the car down on the floor, and Winter showed him the controls without actually touching anything himself. The car set off, and crashed into the nearest object. Winter bent down and turned it in the right direction. Simon reversed, then drove forward. He switched on the siren, which was very loud for such a little car.

  I wonder if he heard the siren when he was lying on the ground? Winter thought. When they found him?

  'Great,' said Simon, looking up with a smile.

  'Let me try it,' said Winter.

  It was fun.

  38

  Winter sat on the floor and steered the police car through tunnels that were chairs and tables and a sofa. There was a blue light rotating on the roof. He switched on the siren as the car went past the door. He switched it off.

  Simon had agreed to accompany Winter to the place where he had been found. That was how Winter had preferred to see it: agreed to accompany him. It felt important for Winter.

  He knew that it was most often difficult for a child under seven to recreate an outdoor setting.

  He had driven along various roads, back and forth. Where had the mister been taking Simon? To his home? Was he interrupted? Did anything happen? Did he see anything? Anybody? Did anybody see him? Did the mister throw Simon out of the car close to his home?

  The police had made door-to-door enquiries, everywhere, it seemed. Gone back to places where there had been no answer the first time round.

  They had made enquiries along possible routes the car might have taken: makes of car, times, what the driver looked like. In-car decorations. Rear-view mirrors. Items hanging from rear-view mirrors. Green, perhaps. A bird, perhaps. A parrot, perhaps.

  They had been in touch with the Swedish Motor Vehicle Inspection Company. Repair workshops. Salerooms. Realestate companies. Manned multi-storey car parks.

  They had checked all the cars owned by staff at the day nursery. Cars that had been parked nearby, were parked nearby.

  Simon had tried to explain something. They were sitting on the floor.

  Winter tried to interpret it. He knew that several studies suggested that a child's memory was very consistent and reliable when referring to situations that had affected its emotions and had been stressful. He knew this, irrespective of what university researchers might say about the ignorance of him and his colleagues.

  Between the ages of three and four, children have a particularly good memory for things that are emotionally charged and central to a situation, while they can forget details that are less important in the context.

  Several years after being kidnapped, children could still supply accurate details of things central to the abduction, but often got things wrong with regard to peripheral details.