Frozen Tracks (10 page)

The forensic officers had looked doubtful when they
were handed the rotting bundle.

'Pointless,' said Halders. 'Just as pointless as trying
to find specific bicycle tyre marks at the places where
the victims were clubbed down.'

'Bicycle tyre marks?' said Bergenhem.

'It's my own theory,' said Halders, sounding as if he
were preparing for a DCI examination. 'The attacker
zoomed in on them on a bike. Silent. Fast. Unexpected.'

'Why not?' said Winter. He didn't say that the same
thought had occurred to him as well.

'It sounds like such a feasible alternative that all of
us must have thought about it,' said Bergenhem.

'Go on, rob me of my idea,' said Halders.

'A newspaper boy on a bike,' said Aneta Djanali.

'There doesn't need to be that connection,' said
Halders.

'Speaking of newspaper boys . . .' said Ringmar.

'Yes, go on,' said Djanali.

'It's a bit odd, in fact. The newspaper delivery person
for the buildings around Doktor Fries Torg also phoned
in sick the morning Stillman was attacked,' said Ringmar.
'Just as when Smedsberg was, well, very nearly clubbed
down on Mossen.'

'But Stillman didn't say a thing about seeing anybody
carrying newspapers,' said Halders.

'Nevertheless.'

'Nevertheless what?' said Halders.

'Let's leave that for the moment,' said Winter, starting
to write on the whiteboard. He turned to face the group.
'We've been discussing another theory.'

The evening had moved on quite a bit when Larissa
Serimov sat down at the duty officer's desk. Moving on
quite a bit was an expression her father liked to use
about most things. He had moved on quite a bit himself,
from the Urals to Scandinavia after the war, and managed
to have a child at an age when others were having grandchildren.

We'll go back there one of these days, Larissa, he
always used to say, as if she had moved there with him.
And so they did when it finally became possible, and
when they got there she had realised, genuinely
realised
,
that they had in fact moved together all those years ago.
His return had been her return as well.

He had stayed there, Andrey Ilyanovich Serimov.
There were people still living there who remembered
him, and whom he remembered. I'll stay on for a few
months, he'd said when she left for Sweden, and she'd
been at home for three and a half days when she received
word that he'd fallen off a chair outside Cousin Olga's
house, and his heart had probably stopped beating even
before he hit the rough decking that surrounded the big
lopsided house like a moat.

The telephone rang.

'Frölunda Police, Serimov.'

'Is that the police?'

'This is the police in Frölunda,' she repeated.

'My name is Kristina Bergort. I'd like to report that
my daughter Maja disappeared.'

Serimov had written 'Kristina Bergort' on the sheet
of paper in front of her, but hesitated.

'I beg your pardon? You said your daughter
disappeared
?'

'I realise that this might sound a bit odd, but I think
she was, well, abducted by somebody, and then returned.'

'You'd better start again at the beginning,' said
Serimov.

She listened to what the mother had to say.

'Are there any marks on Maja? Injuries? Bruises?'

'Not as far as I can see. We – my husband and I –
have only just heard about this from her. I rang right
away. We are borrowing a car from a neighbour – our
own car's being repaired – and we're going straight to
Frölunda hospital to let them examine her.'

'I see.'

'Perhaps you think that's a bit, er, hasty?'

'No, no,' said Serimov.

'We're going anyway. I believe what Maja has told
us.'

'Of course.'

'By the way, she also told us he took her ball.'

'He stole it? Her ball?'

'Her favourite ball, a green one. He said he would
throw it to her through the car window once she got
out, but he didn't. And she hasn't got it now.'

'Does Maja have a good memory?'

'She's very observant,' said Kristina Bergort. 'Here
comes my husband, so we're off to the hospital now.'

'I'll meet you there,' said Larissa Serimov.

The hospital was suffused with a light that made people
waiting in the A & E queues look even more ill. There
seemed to be lots of waiting rooms. Half Gothenburg
appears to be here, Larissa Serimov thought. Despite
the fact that this is a welfare state. It's not in the Urals.
She found it difficult not to laugh. Emergency treatment
was not a term that existed in Russia any more.
Emergency, yes – but treatment, no.

At least there was a doctor here, even if the queue
was long.

The Bergort family were on their own in one of the
side rooms. The girl was rolling a ball backwards and
forwards, but her eyes were heavy. She'll sleep her way
through the examination, Serimov thought, and shook
hands first with the mother and then her husband. She
could see that people were staring at her uniform, which
was black with the word POLICE in grotesquely large
letters on her back. What's the point of that? she had
thought the first time she put it on. To avoid being shot
in the back? Or to encourage it?

'Is there long to go before your turn?' she asked.

'I've no idea,' said Kristina Bergort.

'I'll see what I can do,' said Serimov, and went over
to the desk. Kristina Bergort saw her talking to the
nurse, then vanishing through a door behind it. Then
she saw her emerge again with a doctor, who gestured
towards the little family.

The doctor examined the girl. He had considered
sedating her, but didn't.

Serimov waited outside. It had struck her how calm
the Bergort family was. The husband hadn't actually
said a word so far.

They emerged, and she stood up.

'The doctor would like a word with you,' said the
mother, looking at her daughter sleeping in her father's
arms.

'What was the outcome? What did he find?'

'Nothing at all, thank God.' Kristina Bergort started
walking towards the big glass doors. 'I'll have another
word with Maja tomorrow morning.'

'You're welcome to phone me again,' said Serimov.

The mother nodded, and they left.

Larissa Serimov went back to the doctor's office. He
finished dicta ting his summary into the tape recorder,
then looked up and rose to his feet. This wasn't the first
time she'd been in there. Police officers and doctors met
frequently, especially in Frölunda, where the hospital
and the police station were practically next door, separated
only by the trunk road. Just a stone's throw away,
she had once thought; and stones had been thrown, but
by citizens expressing their views on law and order in
the city. Ah well. Perhaps it had helped to make her
feel at home in a country she didn't come from, or in
the other one that she hadn't asked to live in, but was
grateful for having been born in.

She knew the doctor.

'What's this all about, Larissa?'

'I don't really know.'

'Does anybody know?'

'The mother was worried, and that's hardly
surprising,' said Serimov.

'The kid has an imagination, and a pretty lively one
at times,' he said. 'The mother told me what had
happened, and, well, I don't really know what to think.'

'You don't need to think anything at all. An examination
will fit the bill.'

'Which showed that she hadn't been interfered with,
at least.'

'At least? Are you suggesting there's something else,
Bosse?'

'Some swelling on her arm. And on her back. Hard
to say what caused them.'

'Somebody holding her too tightly? Or something
worse?'

'I asked about them. Didn't get a convincing answer.
At first.'

'What do you mean?'

'The father looked the other way, it seemed.' He
looked at her. 'But perhaps it was just a feeling I had.'

'What did the mother say?'

'That the girl had fallen off a swing and crashed into
the frame. But then she seemed to remember why they
had come here and said maybe this stranger the girl had
gone off with had done it.'

'Is that possible? Falling into the frame of a swing?
Could that have done it?'

'Well . . . The swelling is fresh.'

'You're being evasive.'

'It just struck me that it's not all that unusual for
parents who beat their children to report such incidents
as accidents. Or to dream up stories that would seem
to fit, sometimes amazing flights of fantasy.'

'Like a girl going off with a stranger.'

'Yes. But that's more your field,' he said, answering
the telephone that had just rung. He looked up with his
hand over the receiver. 'But I have to say it is possible
that it's true.'

Winter and Ringmar were preparing for the afternoon's
interrogations. They were in Ringmar's office, which
Winter thought was even gloomier than usual. It wasn't
due exclusively to the late autumn weather outside.

'Have you repapered the place?' he asked.

'Of course. Last weekend, all on my own. I can do
yours for you next Sunday.'

'It's just that it looks darker,' said Winter.

'It's my mood. Reflected in the walls.'

'What's the matter?'

Ringmar didn't answer.

'Is it the usual?' Winter asked.

'It's Martin, of course.'

'Still no word from him?'

'No.'

'But Moa knows?'

'Where he is? I don't think so any more. If she did,
I think she'd have told me.' Ringmar snorted and raised
his arm, sneezed once into it, then twice. He removed
his face from his arm and looked at Winter. 'He phones
her now and then. I think so, at least.'

Bertil's eyes were watery, and Winter knew that was
due to the sneezing attack, but his situation was enough
to bring tears to anybody's eyes. Why didn't the boy
get in touch? Bertil deserved better than this. Winter
knew him well enough to be certain of that.

'Ah well, I still have contact with my other child,'
said Ringmar, looking past Winter at the window, which
had a narrow band of condensation across the bottom
of it. 'I suppose that's not all that bad an outcome.' He
looked at Winter. 'Fifty per cent success in the breeding
stakes. Or however the hell you describe it.'

'He'll come back,' said Winter. 'It's just that he's on
a journey, trying to find himself. Young people go
searching after all, maybe more than others.'

'A journey to find himself? That's nicely put.'

'Yes, I'm glad you think so.'

'But for Christ's sake, he's nearly thirty. You call that
young?'

'You keep calling me young, Bertil. And I'm over
forty.'

'Are you also on a journey to find yourself?'

'I most certainly am.'

'Are you being serious?'

'I most certainly am.'

'Searching for the meaning of life?'

'Of course.'

'Do you still have far to go?'

'What do you think?' said Winter. 'You're past fifty.
You've got further than I have.'

Ringmar looked past Winter again, at the window
that reflected the fading afternoon light.

'I think I've found it,' said Ringmar. 'The meaning
of life, the whole point of life.'

'Let's hear it, then.'

'Dying.'

'Dying? Is that the only point of living?'

'That's the only point.'

'For God's sake, Bertil.'

'That's the way it feels at the moment, at least.'

'There's medicine you can take for this.'

'I don't think I'm suffering from clinical depression.'

'Well you're not suffering from manic optimism, that's
for sure,' said Winter.

'Everybody has the right to feel depressed now and
then,' said Ringmar. 'There are far too many people
running around with grins on their faces.'

'I couldn't agree more.'

'Far too many,' said Ringmar.

'Why don't you have a chat to Hanne?' Winter
suggested.

Hanne Östergaard was the vicar who worked parttime
in the police headquarters, and she'd been a great
help to a lot of officers. She'd been a solid rock of
support for Winter in one of his cases that had caused
him extreme mental torment.

'Why not,' said Ringmar.

Ringmar did have a chat later that afternoon, but it
wasn't with Hanne Östergaard.

Jens Book was propped up by pillows and didn't look
especially comfortable, but he shook his head when
Ringmar offered to rearrange the bedclothes.

Here we go again, Ringmar had thought as he entered
Sahlgren Hospital, swarming with people in both street
clothes and white coats.

We ought to have an office here. Why has nobody
thought of that before? I ought to get a bonus for the
idea. We spend lots of our time here. We need some
kind of practical and convenient arrangement. Perhaps
a dedicated secretary? A whole team of doctors with
the word POLICE printed in black on the back of their
white coats? Our own gym? Canteen? Conference room
complete with smart screen? Vehicles that are a mixture
of ambulance and police van? Firing range in the basement?
His head was full of ambitious plans when he
stepped into the lift. The lad had had his plans rudely
interrupted. No journalism studies for him for a while,
if ever. Halders had suggested he ought to set his sights
on the Paralympics, and that was a comment from somebody
who had come close to being a prospective
competitor himself. If he'd wanted to and had the ability.

But Jens Book had started to regain mobility, first in
his right shoulder and then slowly down through the
rest of his body. There was life and hope. He had recovered
some movement in his face, which made it possible
for them to talk; but Ringmar wasn't sure what they
ought to talk about. You don't always get the answers
you want from your questions.

'Do you think he was on a bicycle?' he asked now.

The lad appeared to be thinking. He had been walking
along the pavement at Linnéplatsen, past the video store.
Hardly any traffic, dim light, mist over the park veiling
the night sky.

'Perhaps,' he said.

'How could he do that?' Ringmar asked.

'It happened so quickly.' He turned his head towards
the pile of pillows. 'But I didn't hear, or see, anything
to make me think that he was riding a bike.'

'Nothing at all?'

'No.'

The lad moved his head again.

'How's it going?' Ringmar asked.

'Well . . .'

'I heard that you're on the mend.'

'It seems so.'

'Can you move your right hand?'

'A little bit.'

'Soon you'll be able to wiggle your toes.'

Book smiled.

'We're still not absolutely clear about where you'd
been that night,' Ringmar said.

'Er, what do you mean?'

'Where you were coming from when you were
attacked.'

'What difference does it make?'

'Somebody might have followed you.'

'From where I'd been? No, I don't think so.'

'Where had you been, Jens?'

'Haven't I said that I'd been to a party in, er, Storgatan
I think it is? Just past Noon.'

'Yes.'

'Well then.'

'But you weren't there all evening,' Ringmar said.

'What do you mean?'

Ringmar looked down at his notebook. The page was
empty, but sometimes it was a good idea to look as if
you were checking information you already had.

'You left that party about two hours before the attack
at Linnéplatsen took place.'

'Who says that?'

Ringmar consulted his notebook again.

'Several of the people we've spoken to. It wasn't a
secret.'

'It sounds almost as if I'm being accused of something.'

'I'm not saying that.'

'It sounds almost like it.'

'I'm only trying to establish what you were doing.
Surely you can understand that? If we're going to find
this attacker, we have to walk in your footsteps, so to
speak,' Ringmar said.

Pure bullshit, he thought. I'm thinking like my
daughter speaks.

The boy didn't answer.

'Did you meet somebody?' Ringmar asked.

'Even if I did, it's got nothing to do with this.'

'In which case there's no harm in telling, surely?'

'Telling what?'

'If you met somebody,' Ringmar said.

'Yes and no,' said Book. His eyes were wandering all
round the room.

Ringmar nodded, as if he understood.

'What year are you in?' asked Winter.

'My second.'

'My wife's a doctor.'

'Really?'

'A hospital doctor. General medicine.'

'I suppose that's what I want to be.'

'Not a brain surgeon?'

'It would be useful to be one, after this,' said Aryan
Kaite, grimacing slightly and touching his head with his
left hand: the big bandage had been replaced by a smaller
one. 'The question is whether I'll be able to carry on
studying.' He put his hand down again. 'Thinking.
Remembering. It's not certain that everything will still
work.'

'How do you feel now?' Winter asked.

'Better, but not good.'

Winter nodded. They were in a café in Vasastan,
chosen by Kaite. I ought to come here more often, Winter
thought. It's relaxing. Interviewing people and drinking
coffee at the same time. There ought to be a sign outside:
Coffee and Questions.

'I live just round the corner,' Winter said.

'Work within walking distance, then,' said Kaite.

'Yes, again,' said Winter, and told him about the case
he'd worked on a few years previously, the couple in
the flat fifty metres down the street who had been sitting
so still. The odd circumstances regarding their heads.
But he didn't say anything about that particular detail.

'I think I read something about that,' said Kaite.

'The alarm was raised by a newspaper boy,' said
Winter. 'A young lad who became suspicious.'

'They see quite a lot,' said Kaite.

'You didn't see a newspaper boy that morning, did
you, Aryan?'

'When I had my head bashed in? I couldn't see
anything at all.'

'When you came up to Kapellplatsen, or just before
you were attacked. You didn't notice a newspaper boy
in the vicinity? Or on the other side of the square? Near
the buildings?'