Frozen Tracks

by Ake Edwardson

  That meant that the details the children spoke about were significant.

  Nevertheless, everything had to be regarded with scepticism, of course, and carefully considered. He had heard of a case where a five-year-old boy had been asked to describe what he had seen and experienced while with his abductor. The boy made some gestures and said he had seen 'one of those things that have lots of telegraph wires hanging from it'. The interviewer took him out in a car, in the hope that the boy would be able to point out what he meant. In the end he indicated a high-voltage electricity pylon, broad at the base and getting narrower towards the top.

  But in fact he'd been trying to describe something else. In the abductor's house the police found a souvenir, a model of the Eiffel Tower. That was what the boy had meant.

  Simon hadn't pointed anything out, hadn't spoken about anything. But was there something? That was what Winter was trying to find out now.

  He had tried to transport the boy back to that horrendous journey again. So far Simon hadn't said anything about it.

  'Did you see anything from the window in the car?' Winter asked.

  Simon hadn't answered. Winter suggested they should park the police car in the multi-storey car park under one of the chairs.

  'You're a good driver,' said Winter.

  'Can I drive again?' asked Simon.

  'Yes, soon,' said Winter.

  Simon was sitting on the carpet, moving his feet as if practising swimming strokes.

  'When you went with that man,' said Winter. He could see that Simon was listening. 'Did you go for a long ride?'

  Simon nodded now. Nodded!

  'Where did you go?'

  'Everywhere,' said Simon.

  'Did you go out into the countryside?'

  Simon shook his head.

  'Did you go close to home?'

  Simon shook his head again.

  'Do you think you could show me? If we went together in my car?'

  Simon didn't shake his head, nor did he nod.

  'Your mum and dad could go with us, Simon.'

  'Followed,' Simon said suddenly, as if he hadn't heard Winter.

  'What did you say, Simon?'

  'He said follow,' said Simon.

  'Did he say follow?'

  'Yes.'

  'I don't quite understand,' said Winter.

  Simon looked at the car again, then at Winter.

  'We followed,' said Simon now.

  Winter waited for the continuation that never came.

  'What did you follow, Simon?'

  'Follow the tracks,' said Simon.

  'The tracks?' asked Winter. 'What tracks do you mean?'

  He was sitting in front of a boy who was translating into English what somebody had said to him in Swedish. Assuming they had been speaking Swedish. Or had they spoken English? He couldn't ask that just now.

  'What tracks do you mean, Simon?' Winter asked.

  'Follow the TRACKS,' said Simon again, and Winter could see that the boy was growing more agitated, the trauma was coming back.

  Simon burst into tears.

  Winter knew full well that he ought not to sit a weeping child on his knee, ought not to hold him, or touch him during the interview. That would be unprofessional. But he ignored that and lifted Simon on to his knee. Just as he'd tried to console Bengt Johansson the previous day, now he did the same to Simon Waggoner.

  He knew he wouldn't be able to keep going, not for too much longer. He would need consoling himself. He saw himself on the flight to Málaga, a picture of the future for a fraction of a second. What state would he be in by then?

  Simon's parents made no complaint when he left, but he felt very guilty. What had he done to the boy?

  'We're just as anxious as you,' said Barbara Waggoner. 'It'll be all right.'

  Simon raised one hand when Winter left, holding the car in the other one. An elderly man, Paul Waggoner's father, eyed Winter up and down from beneath bushy eyebrows, and mumbled his name in a thick accent as he held out his hand. Tweed, port-wine nose, slippers, unlit smelly pipe. The works. Winter folded his Zegna overcoat over his arm, fastened a button in his suit jacket, collected his belongings and went out to the car. He had taken his video equipment into the house with him, but hadn't used it.

  His mobile rang before he'd got as far as Linnéplatsen.

  'Any news?' asked Hans Bülow. 'You said we were going to help each other. In a meaningful way.'

  'Will there be any newspapers published tomorrow?' Winter asked.

  'GT appears every day nowadays,' said Bülow. 'Every day all year round.'

  'Shouldn't there be a law to prevent that?'

  'How's it going, Erik? You sound a bit tired.'

  'I must have a think,' Winter said. 'About what to publish. I'll ring you this afternoon.'

  'Will you really?'

  'I said I would, didn't I? You have got my highly secret professional mobile number, haven't you? You can get through to me at any time.'

  'Yes, yes, calm down. Bye for now.'

  Shortly afterwards the phone rang again. Winter thought he recognised the breathing even before the caller spoke.

  'Any more news?' asked Bengt Johansson.

  'Where are you phoning from, Bengt?'

  'Ho . . . From home. I've just got back.' He could hear the breathing again. 'Nobody's called me.' More breathing. 'Has anything happened? Anything new?'

  'We're getting tip-offs all the time,' said Winter.

  'Are there no witnesses?' asked Johansson. 'The place was flooded with people. Has nobody contacted you?'

  'Lots of people have been in touch,' said Winter.

  'And?'

  'We're going through all the tips.'

  'There might be something there,' said Johansson. 'You can't just put them to one side.'

  'We're not putting anything to one side,' said Winter.

  'There might be something there,' said Johansson again.

  'How's Carolin?' Winter asked.

  'She's alive,' said Johansson. 'She'll live.'

  'Have you spoken to her?'

  'She doesn't want to speak. I don't know if she can.'

  Winter could hear the pause. It sounded as if Johansson was smoking. Winter hadn't smoked at all so far today. I haven't had a smoke today. The craving had vanished without trace.

  'Can she ha . . . have done something?' asked Johansson. 'Could it have been her?'

  'I don't think so, Bengt.'

  No. Carolin wasn't involved, he thought. They had started off by including that as a possibility. Everything horrendous was a possibility. But they hadn't found anything to suggest that there was any substance in the thought, not as far as she was concerned, nor in the circumstances. She was overcome by guilt, but of a different kind.

  He drove along the Allé. There were remains of snow in the trees. Traffic was heavy, the shops were still open. Service was good. There were more pedestrians on the Allé than on a normal weekday, carrying more parcels. Of course. We are slowly becoming a population of consumers rather than citizens, but you don't need to moan about that today, Erik.

  He stopped at a red light. A child wearing a Father Christmas hat passed by accompanied by a woman, and the child waved at him. Winter looked at his watch. Two hours to go before the traditional Christmas Donald Duck programme on the telly. Would this youngster get home in time? Was it as important now as it used to be? Winter wouldn't be home in time. Elsa would be able to watch last year's Donald on her Grandma's video. He'd made sure the cassette was in their luggage.

  Still red. A tram rattled past, festive flags flying. Lots of passengers. He watched it forging ahead. Another tram approached from the opposite direction, a number 4. A bit of snow between the lines. The tracks for trams heading in both directions were side by side here. In the middle of the road. It was possible for a car driver to follow them.

  The tracks.

  Was it the tram lines Simon Waggoner had been talking about? That might have been a question Winte
r would have asked if they had continued their conversation, but the boy had started crying and Winter had brought the interview to a close and not continued with his line of thought.

  He'd be able to phone shortly: 'Please ask Simon if . . .'

  Had they been following the tram lines, Simon and his abductor? A particular route, perhaps? Was it a game? Was it of significance? Or were 'the tracks' something completely different? Tracks on a CD? Railway tracks? Some other kind of tracks? Fantasy tracks in a mad abductor's imagination? Simon's own tracks. He cou—

  Angry toots from the car behind. He looked up, saw the green light and set off.

  A group of young men were playing football on Heden. They seemed to be having fun.

  He parked in his allocated spot. As usual, the Advent candles were burning in every other window of police headquarters – the money-saving symmetry that Halders had gone on about.

  Reception was deserted by its usual queue of the good and the bad: the owners of stolen cycles, police officers, legal-aid lawyers on their way to and from the usual yo-yo discussions about will-he-won't-he be released, car owners, car thieves, other criminals at various stages of professional achievement, various categories of victim.

  The corridors echoed with Christmas – the lonely version of Christmas. The lights on the tree at the entrance to CID had gone out. Winter poked at the switch, and they came on again.

  He bumped into Ringmar, who was on the way out of his office.

  'What's the latest, Bertil?'

  'Nothing new from my nearest and dearest, if that's what you mean.'

  'That's not what I meant.'

  'I've tried to get hold of Smedsberg junior, but failed,' said Ringmar.

  'Are you coming home with me this evening?' asked Winter.

  'Are you expecting to be able to go home?'

  'If going home is on the cards.'

  'I hope not,' said Ringmar.

  'Would you prefer to sleep here?'

  'Who needs sleep?'

  'You, by the looks of it.'

  'It's only young chaps like you who need to be dropping off to sleep all the time,' said Ringmar. 'But we can rent a video and while away the gloom of Christmas Eve in your living room.'

  'You can choose,' said Winter.

  'Festen,' said Ringmar. 'A shit-hot film. It's about a fath—'

  'I know what it's about, Bertil. Pack it in now, for Christ's sake! Otherwise we'll—'

  'Perhaps I'd better go into hiding right away,' said Ringmar. 'Are you going to report me to the police?'

  'Should I?' asked Winter.

  'No.'

  'Then I won't.'

  'Thank you.'

  'Have we got Bergort?'

  'No. I didn't get round to—'

  'Where is he?'

  'Nobody knows.'

  'Is there nobody in his office?'

  'Yes, a few people. But he never turned up.'

  'At home?'

  'He hasn't come back yet, according to his wife.'

  'Damnation! I should never have let him slip through our fingers. But I didn't tell him to make sure he was at home. I thought the girl wou—'

  'You did the right thing, Erik. He'd have done a runner even so.'

  'We'd better send out an alert right away.'

  'But he's not our kidnapper,' said Ringmar.

  'He's been abusing his daughter,' said Winter. 'That's enough to set the police on him as far as I'm concerned. We'll have to see about the other business.'

  'Shall we have a coffee?' said Ringmar. 'Or whatever we ought to call the stuff.'

  The coffee room was quiet, they were the only ones there. Winter could see the day turning outside. A big spruce fir on a hill in the Lunden direction had been decorated and was glittering in the distance. He thought of Halders and his children. What were they doing now? Was Halders capable of boiling a ham, coating it with egg and breadcrumbs and roasting it for the right length of time?

  'Another thing's cropped up,' said Ringmar, putting two steaming mugs down on the table.

  'Oh yes?' Winter blew at his machine-made coffee, which smelled awful, but would do him a bit of good nevertheless.

  'Beier's forensics boys have had the results of the analyses of the lads' clobber, and established a few things themselves as well.'

  They had taped the injured students' clothes and vacuumed their shoes, which was standard practice after crimes of violence.

  The children's clothes had been carefully scrutinised in the same way, and the technicians had found dust and hair that could have come from anywhere until they had something to compare them with.

  'They've found some kind of clay,' said Ringmar.

  'Clay?'

  'There are traces of the same kind of mud on the lads' shoes,' said Ringmar. 'And one of them – Stillman, I think – had it on his trousers as well.'

  'When did you hear about this?'

  'An hour ago. Beier isn't there, but a new officer came down to tell us. Strömkvist or something of the sort. I have—'

  'And they've been working on this today?'

  'They're working overtime on the kiddies' clothes, but the other stuff was lying around doing nothing, as he put it. They'd had to put it on one side when the Waggoner thing happened, and the manslaughter out at Kortedala, but now they had a window.'

  'Anything else?'

  'No. It's up to us, as he put it. For the time being.'

  'Mud. There's mud everywhere. Gothenburg is full of mud. The town is built on clay, for Christ's sake!'

  'I know,' said Ringmar.

  'It could be the mud outside the halls of residence at Olofshöjd.'

  'I know.'

  'Have they started comparing?'

  'Yes, but they can only do one thing at a time. The other bus—'

  'There's a quicker way,' said Winter.

  'Oh yes?'

  'The mud out at Georg Smedsberg's place.'

  'You mean that . . .'

  'Bertil, Bertil. They were all there! There's the connection! Gustav Smedsberg and Aryan Kaite were there, we know that. Why couldn't the others have been there as well?'