Frozen Tracks

by Ake Edwardson

  No, no, that couldn't be it.

  But everything was getting mixed up. Nevertheless, Jerner's name had come into his head. Jerner had attacked the boys. His foster father had attacked them. They'd both done it. Neither had done it. Yes they had. There had been a lot of hatred or despair, and a lust for revenge. There were several persons taking part in this long-dance: Georg Smedsberg, his son Gustav, Gustav's mother Gerd (was she the mother?), Natanael Carlström, his foster son Mats Jerner (that was definitely true, Winter had read parts of Jerner's grim curriculum vitae), the other students: Book, Stillman, Kaite.

  Jerner didn't answer. Winter looked at the clock. Had he returned to work? Another overtime shift for the solitary man? Surely there weren't any trams running now?

  No sound of traffic from Vasaplatsen down below. He hung up, walked through the hall to the living room and looked down at the street. There was no traffic, and nobody waiting at the tram stops. A taxi cruised slowly by from Aschebergsgatan, as if trailing possible prey. The star on top of the Christmas tree smiled at him.

  He phoned Police Operations Centre and asked them to find somebody who would know. He didn't have any timetables.

  'I want to speak to somebody from their human resources section as well,' he said.

  'Now?'

  'Why not now?'

  'There's nobody there.'

  'I realise that. But some of the staff will be at home, won't they?'

  'OK, OK, Winter. We'll get back to you.'

  He loosened the cord round Micke's wrists, even though the little boy hadn't asked him to.

  It had been so quiet in there for so long.

  He felt calmer now.

  He'd phoned the old man when he got back from the interview with that superior policeman who had everything this world had to offer. He'd been so angry! Look at the clothes he's wearing! As if he's on his way to a ball at the Royal Palace! But the policeman hadn't shaved! They'd never have let him in!

  That policeman had everything, but even so he'd been sitting there, on Christmas Eve, in his ugly office, with a visitor's chair that was worse than anything they had in the coffee room at the tram sheds.

  Did that policeman live there, in his office? Why wasn't he at home, with his . . . with his family? The policeman had a family, he could tell that. Superior. I have and you don't have. That was what the superior person had meant, and demonstrated.

  There was something familiar about the policeman. He'd thought about that as he'd hurried home. He'd been in a hurry when he left the policeman's house.

  The boy wasn't moving, but he didn't remove the cord. The boy hadn't touched the food he'd left for him, but it struck him that maybe it wasn't so easy to reach the dish. Perhaps it had been impossible.

  Micke. When he'd removed the scarf placed so delicately and gently over the boy's mouth, Micke had tried to scream again, and it was just like when that little boy had started screaming in English at him. As if the boy thought he wouldn't understand! As if he was stupid!

  It was the little boy who was stupid. Everybody was stupid. That little boy who spoke English had been nasty to him, just like all the others.

  And now Micke was starting to be nasty to him as well.

  When he tried to say something to the lad, he refused to answer. He either screamed, or didn't say anything. That was no way to behave.

  He'd driven the car on the carpet next to where Micke was lying. Brrrrmmm! That was only one of the things he'd done. He had all the other toys that children liked, their favourite things. He'd borrowed them for Micke's sake. Well not exactly borrowed . . . He could give them to Micke and they'd be his best things as well. He'd done all that for him. He'd bounced the ball, but it hadn't bounced very well on the carpet and so he'd stood up and bounced it on the bare floorboards and that had been much better. Hiiigh! Micke had been given the little bird that gleamed like silver. Maybe it was silver. It was hanging from Micke's shirt. He'd noticed that the shirt smelled unpleasant when he'd pinned the bird to it, so he'd done it quickly. The watch was on the table next to the bed. The English watch, as he'd said when he'd given it to Micke. It might be an hour slow!

  He carried the boy out into the living room now.

  They were going to watch films. Look, Micke: that's you!

  He told the lad how he knew he was called Micke. Easy. It was in your jacket! A little tag sewn in.

  But he'd known that before. He'd heard both the boy's father and mother say 'Micke' to him. You could see that they were saying Micke on the video, and they were doing that just now. They were too far away for it to be heard, but you could read their lips. He'd zoomed in, and you could see.

  'Look, Micke! You're sitting in the pushchair now!'

  It was in the hall, the same pushchair. He'd show it to the boy later if he doubted it.

  He showed a few more recordings from a different day nursery. A little girl, then another. They were in several of the sequences. The first girl, and the other one. And a boy he'd filmed later.

  Would you like a brother and sister, Micke? We've got room for them here.

  He looked at the first girl in the film. He watched somebody come to collect her, a man, a back, an overcoat. They went into the building then came out again. It was a long way away and he'd used the zoom.

  He recognised the man in the overcoat. Recognised him.

  Now he didn't feel calm any longer, he wanted to feel calm. He also wished that Micke wasn't being so nasty to him.

  Winter was standing with yet another cup of espresso, in the middle of the biggest room. He felt stiff, but his eyes were still open.

  It was tonight. A magic night.

  He turned up the volume on the CD that had been on repeat all evening, U2's All That You Can't Leave Behind, louder, a pencil on a piece of paper on the coffee table started to tremble. He was standing in the midst of a deafeningly loud blast when he saw the red light on his mobile on the desk and switched off the music and heard the phone.

  He went over to the mobile, his ears ringing, like an overpowering silence.

  'Hello?'

  'Str . . . klrk . . . prr . . .'

  A buzzing, even louder than the one in his ears.

  'Hello?' he said.

  '. . . nt thing . . .'

  It sounded like Bertil.

  'Where the hell are you, Bertil? Where have you been?'

  Ringmar's voice came and went.

  'I can't hear you,' Winter yelled.

  'Sme . . . hrrrlg . . . bo . . . bllrra . . . cal . . .'

  'I can't hear you, Bertil. Reception is too bad.'

  'I . . . ca . . . ho . . . the . . .'

  'Can you hear me? Eh? Come to my place as soon as you can. I repeat, as soon as you can.'

  He hung up, and immediately rang Ringmar's mobile number on both his own mobile and the desk phone, but couldn't get through. He repeated what he had just said for the answering machine.

  His mobile rang again, for the thousandth time. As long as the phone keeps ringing, there is still hope.

  'I'll put you through to a man from human resources,' said Peder, a colleague from Police Operations Centre. 'That's what you wanted, isn't it?'

  'Hello? Hello? Hello, for fuck's—' Winter heard.

  'DCI Erik Winter here.'

  'Hello? Who?'

  'I'm the one who's been trying to contact you,' said Winter. 'We're busy with a case and I need some information.'

  'Now?'

  'You have a tram driver by the name of Mats Jerner. I want to know what route he drives, and what his working hours are.'

  'What?'

  Winter repeated his question, calmly.

  'What the hell . . . What is this?'

  'We are busy with an extremely serious case, and I WANT YOUR HELP,' said Winter, still calm but louder. 'Can you be of assistance?'

  'What was the name again?'

  'Jerner. Mats Jerner.'

  'I'm one of . . . I can't keep track of all the names. Jerner? Wasn't he the one in
that accident?'

  'Accident?'

  'There was a crash. I think he was laid off. I can't remember. Or was he put on the sick list? He reported sick later, I think. I'm not sure.' Winter heard a scraping noise, then something fell and broke. 'Shit!'

  'How can I find out more about this?' asked Winter.

  'Why don't you ask him?'

  'He's not at home.'

  'You don't say.'

  'He's been working this afternoon and is due to work tomorrow,' said Winter.

  'I know nothing about that,' said the official, whose name Winter still didn't know.

  'Who will know?'

  Winter was given a telephone number, evidently a new one as the receiver at the other end was put down for quite a while and he could hear muffled curses in the background.

  Before he had a chance to call the number he'd been given, his desk phone rang.

  'Janne Alinder here.'

  'Hello.'

  'I'm still at the station. Sorry about the delay. I had a—'

  'Forget it. Have you found anything?'

  'I saw your message on the intranet and a few memos. I've been away for a few days.'

  'Did you find anything in your notes on the report from Lena Sköld?'

  'No. But I found something else.'

  'And?'

  'I don't know what it means. But I've found something.'

  'Well? Out with it.'

  'We had a crash at Järntorget on November the twenty-seventh. A tram and several cars. No fatalities or anything like that, but a drunk standing next to the driver's cabin had fallen into the windscreen and smashed his skull. It was a right mess. And the driver was a bit . . . odd.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'He'd jumped a red light, but it wasn't really his fault. But, well, he was odd. He was sober and all that. But with regard to what you asked about: he stuttered.'

  Alinder had the conversation on tape, and had just listened to it:

  'We can help you.'

  'H-h-h-h-h-h . . .'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Ho-ho-ho-ho-how?'

  'He was really stressed,' said Alinder. 'Maybe not all that surprising, but he was extremely nervous. I don't know. He was odd, as I said.'

  Winter could hear paper being turned over at the other end of the line.

  'That's about all I can come up with on the stuttering front,' said Alinder.

  'What was the driver's name?' Winter asked.

  More rustling of paper.

  'His name is Mats Jerner,' said Alinder.

  Winter felt his hair stand on end; a draught of wind blew through the room he was standing in.

  'Could you say that again?'

  'His name? Mats Jerner. With a J.'

  'He crops up in another case,' said Winter. 'I interrogated him yesterday. Today.'

  'You don't say.'

  'What route is it he drives?' Winter asked.

  'Hang on a minute.' Alinder looked it up and reported: 'Number three.'

  'What direction was he coming from when the accident happened?'

  'Er, from the west. Masthugget.'

  'OK.'

  'There's another thing,' said Alinder.

  'What?'

  'It makes the whole thing even odder.'

  'Well?'

  'I don't have any notes about it or anything like that. I didn't remember it tonight in the car when I phoned you, or when we were driving to the station. I thought about it again when I read the reports from the accident and the interviews.'

  He remembered it like this:

  He had been the first one to enter the tram after he'd managed to get the driver to open the doors. He'd looked round: the man at the front with the blood pouring out of him, a woman weeping and making high-pitched wailing noises, some children huddled together on a seat with a man who was still holding his arm round them as protection against the crash that had already taken place. And two young men, one white and one black.

  The driver had just sat there, staring straight ahead. Then he'd slowly turned his head to look at Alinder. He'd seemed uninjured and calm. He'd lifted up his briefcase and placed it on his knee. Alinder hadn't noticed anything special in the driver's cab, but then again, he didn't know what they normally looked like.

  There'd been something hanging from a peg behind the driver. Alinder had registered that it was a toy animal, a small one, a little bird, perhaps, green in colour, that didn't stand out from the wall it was hanging against. It had a beak. Maybe there was a bit of red there as well. It had looked like a sort of mascot.

  The driver had swivelled round in his seat, raised his left hand, unhooked whatever it was and put it into his briefcase. A-ha, Alinder had thought. A mascot. We all need some kind of company. Or protection, perhaps. To ward off bad luck. But that bundle of feathers hadn't done much to help this poor bastard, he'd thought.

  A little bird, green in colour.

  43

  Jerner had brought with him a brown briefcase that looked to be about as old as he was. Winter had seen it. Jerner had it tucked under his arm, Winter had seen it leaning against the visitor's chair when they stood up to leave.

  Oh my God.

  Winter felt he couldn't really control the hand still holding the damn receiver, which had almost become a part of him over the last few hours.

  Was that a car he could hear outside? Had traffic started moving? Was it that early, or late?

  Stay CALM now, Winter.

  There was one thing he had to do, without delay. He dialled the number for Police Operations Centre.

  'Hello, Peder, it's Winter again. Send a car immediately to this address.'

  He listened to what his colleague had to say.

  'It's to the home of somebody called Mats Jerner,' he said. 'No, I don't know exactly which flat, I've never been there. But the nearest team must go there as quick as a shot. What? No, wait outside. Outside the door to the flat, on the landing, yes. They are to wait for me. I'm on my way.' He needed to clear his throat. 'Send a locksmith there as well. Fast.'

  What was the number 3 route? Westwards from the city centre? Eastwards, southwards? Perhaps Jerner didn't drive that route exclusively. Did he remember rightly that they had changed the number 3 route recently? It had stopped passing by Winter's flat, didn't stop at Vasaplatsen any more. Then it had come back again. He seemed to remember noticing that.