Frozen Tracks (14 page)

'I don't even know where he is.'

'But your daughter has some kind of contact with
him, doesn't she? Moa?'

'I don't actually know exactly how much,' said
Ringmar.

'Shall I talk to her as well?'

'I don't know, Erik. I've tried to talk to her, but she
. . . respects her brother's wish.'

'What about Birgitta?'

'It's no doubt even worse for her. He seems to have
decided that as he doesn't want to talk to me, that
includes her as well.' Ringmar sat up straight and smiled,
just as Winter had done a couple of minutes previously.
'A sort of package deal, you might say.'

'Shall I give him a good thrashing if I find him?'

'At last we're getting down to the nitty gritty. I thought
you were never going to ask that.'

'Violence is the most extreme form of communication.

When words are not sufficient, it's time for a good
thump.' Winter held his fist up in the mixture of light
and smoke. 'It's not all that uncommon a way of communicating.'
He took down his fist. 'Not in the force, either.'

'Still, perhaps we ought to try verbal methods first,'
said Ringmar.

There was a knock on Winter's door and Winter
shouted in response. Bergenhem came in and walked up
to the desk, which was lit up by a circle of light, while
the rest of the room was in darkness.

'Are you interrogating each other?' Bergenhem
wondered.

'When you haven't got a suspect, you have to make
do with what you do have,' said Winter.

'Count me out,' said Bergenhem.

'But you're in,' said Winter. 'You knocked on that
door and came into this office.'

'I checked up on that marking iron or whatever it's
called. Smedsberg's farm-union babble.'

'I had noticed that we don't have any details about
that,' said Winter.

'They're coming now.' Bergenhem sat down on the
chair beside Ringmar. He seemed to be exuding an air
of excitement. Winter switched on a standard lamp next
to the Panasonic. It was all so cosy. All that was missing
was a few candles.

'I spoke to a woman at the Ministry of Agriculture,'
said Bergenhem. 'Prevention of cruelty to animals
section.'

'Where else?' said Ringmar.

Winter couldn't help laughing.

'It's about to get even funnier,' said Bergenhem.

'Sorry, Lars,' said Ringmar. 'The interrogation I've
just been through has exhausted me.'

'Branding irons like that actually exist in Sweden,
not just in Wyoming and Montana.' Bergenhem had a
notebook open in front of him, but didn't need to consult
it. 'But it's no longer allowed in Sweden to burn symbols
on to animals. Not with hot irons, that is.'

'What do they do, then?' asked Ringmar.

'They use so-called freeze branding,' said Bergenhem.

'Carbon dioxide snow, also known as dry ice,' said
Winter.

Bergenhem looked at him. He seemed almost disappointed.

'Did you know about that?'

'No, but it's possible to guess.'

'That wasn't guesswork, come off it.'

'Go on,' said Winter.

'Anyway, they can freeze the branding iron using dry
ice, or liquid nitrogen, it seems, and then brand the
animals.'

'And that still happens today?' asked Ringmar.

'Yes, apparently. It's used mostly on trotting horses,
as a sort of ID. And the woman at the ministry reckons
it's also used on cattle.'

Ringmar nodded. Bergenhem eyed him acidulously.

'You knew that already, didn't you, Bertil?'

'Farmers aren't satisfied with a number clipped on
to a cow's ear,' said Ringmar. 'If they're milking a lot
of cows at a time, they can't see the label on the ear
when they're messing about with the lady's udder.'

'Good God, what is this?' Bergenhem wondered.
'Have I landed in a boardroom meeting of the Federation
of Swedish Farmers?'

'The new EU regulations are a pain in the arse,' said
Winter.

'Why is it forbidden to brand cattle with a hot iron?'
Ringmar asked, looking serious again.

'Well, I suppose it's for humanitarian reasons, if you
can use that expression in this context. In any case, the
cruelty to animals law was revised in 1988 and as a
result it was legal to brand cattle with a cold iron, but
it says nothing about a hot one, which means that it's
forbidden.'

'But you can use the same branding iron for both
methods?' asked Winter.

'It seems so.'

'Did you ask about that specifically?'

'Yes.'

'OK. Go on.'

'The most interesting bit is the symbol itself,' said
Bergenhem. 'They use a combination of numbers.' Now
he was reading from his notebook. 'It's usually three
digits, but it can be more.'

'What do the numbers mean?' Ringmar asked.

'It's a number allocated to a particular farm, and
applied to each product.'

Ringmar whistled.

'Does this apply to every farm in Sweden?' Winter
asked.

'Every farm with cattle and sheep and goats and pigs.'

That could apply to the police station we're in at this
very moment, Ringmar thought. The staff – and our
clients.

'What about the ones who don't?' asked Winter.

'What do you mean?'

'The ones who no longer keep animals? That's not
exactly uncommon nowadays. Are they still on the list?
Or have they been removed?'

'I don't know yet. I couldn't get through to anybody
from the registration department.'

'So our young men might well have a combination
of numbers underneath their scabs,' said Ringmar. 'A
sort of tattoo.'

'Is it possible to accelerate the healing process?'
Bergenhem wondered.

'I'll have a word with Pia,' said Winter.

'In which case we've solved the case,' said Ringmar.

Bergenhem looked at him.

'Are you being serious, Bertil?'

'I certainly am.'

'So,' said Winter, 'we have an attacker who dipped
his weapon into dry ice before launching his attack.'

'And where could he have done that?' asked Ringmar.

'He might have been carrying the dry ice in a thermos
flask,' said Winter. 'For instance.'

'Would it leave any traces afterwards?' asked
Bergenhem.

'I wouldn't have thought so,' said Winter. 'Who would
know about this kind of thing? Animals and dry ice and
that kind of stuff?'

He looked at Ringmar.

'Inseminators,' said Ringmar. 'They keep sperm in a
deep freeze.'

Winter nodded.

These guys are in the wrong trade, Bergenhem
thought.

The children were asleep. Halders and Aneta Djanali
were on the sofa and Halders was listening to U2.
All
That You Can't Leave Behind.

He had flashes of dark memories.

He didn't know if Aneta was listening. She was
contemplating the rain lashing the glass door leading
out on to the patio. The noise of the rain was getting
louder now.

He felt Aneta's hand round his neck.

'Shall we have that massage now?'

He bowed his head slightly; she got up and stood
behind him and started massaging his damaged vertebrae.
He could feel himself relaxing as she massaged
away.

Was it a year ago that his ex-wife was killed? It was
the beginning of June, he remembered that. The school
leaving examinations had taken place in mid-May so
the seniors had left already, but his children had still
been going to school, the last few days of term. It had
been hellishly hot, and hell had continued for him.

They caught up with the bastard eventually. Halders
had tried to track him down himself, but failed. Then
he'd been injured in the course of duty. An idiotic injury.
Caused by an idiot – himself. No, he thought as Aneta
kneaded the back of his neck like a professional, it
wasn't me, not then. It was somebody else.

The bastard hit-and-run driver had been a pathetic
type who was not worth pummelling to death. When
Halders saw him, long afterwards, the cretin meant
nothing to him any more. He felt no hatred. He didn't
have the time for that, nor the strength. He'd needed
all his strength for the children, who were slowly beginning
to understand what had happened to their lives.
Nothing would ever be the same as before. Margareta's
voice had gone, her body and her movements. They had
been divorced, he and Margareta, but that didn't matter.

'Mum's in heaven now,' Magda would sometimes say.

Her big brother would look at her without comment.

Perhaps he doesn't believe her, Halders sometimes
thought as he sat with them at the breakfast table.
Doesn't believe in heaven. Heaven is up there in the sky,
just something we can see from the earth. It's the same
up there as it is down here. Mainly air and rain, and
big distances between everything.

'How's it feel now?' asked Aneta.

Aneta's hands were on his shoulders. One hand on
his chest.

'Time we went to bed?' he said.

Angela drove through the rain. It was really evening
now, even if the transformation had been barely noticeable.
If you could put it like that. She smiled. December
was almost here, and she was looking forward to the
Christmas holidays. Her work with her patients was
getting more arduous. They grew more tired as the year
drew to a close, and she too became more tired. She
had managed to arrange time off between Christmas
and New Year. Erik had muttered something earlier on
about going to the Costa del Sol. She had hoped that
Siv would phone. She got on well with Siv. She also got
on well with a blue sky and a bit of sun and a glass of
wine and barbecued langoustines.

But first she had a few errands to run in Haga. The
shopping mall would be open until eight this evening.

She crossed over Linnéplatsen and started down
Linnégatan, checked her rear-view mirror and saw the
blue light rotating, suddenly, silently, as if a helicopter
had landed soundlessly behind her.

The police car was still there. She wondered why
they'd been called out. I can't pull in just here and let
them pass. Now they've switched on the siren. Yes, yes,
all right, I
will
as soon as I can.

She saw a gap outside the off-licence and pulled in
to it.

The police car parked behind her. The light was still
rotating, as if something serious had happened right
there. She couldn't see anybody lying on the pavement.

She looked in the mirror again and saw one of the
officers get out of the car, and she turned icy cold, totally
mute, completely filled with terror, as everything she
had been through not so very long ago came back to
her. The memories were there like beams of light spinning
round in circles. She had been kidnapped by a man
in a police uniform. She had been stopped by somebody
she thought was a police officer and Elsa had been in
her stom—

There was a tap on the window and she could see
his black glove. She didn't want to look. More knocking
and she looked, quickly. She saw his gesture: wind down
this window.

She felt for the panel on the door but couldn't find
the button. Now. The window wound down in a series
of nervous jerks.

'Didn't they teach you at driving school that you're
supposed to stop when a police car tells you to?' he
said, and there was brutality in his tone.

She didn't answer. She thought: didn't they teach you
the basics of politeness and civility at Police College?
Have you even been to Police College? Have you even
been to primary school?

'We've been behind you for ages,' he said.

'I . . . I didn't think that . . . that it was me you were
after,' she said.

He looked at her, seemed to be studying her face.
His own face was in shadow, flecked with the evening's
electric lights. There was hardness in his eyes, perhaps
even something worse than that. A desire to hit something
or somebody. A calculated provocation. Or maybe
he's just tired. But everybody gets tired by work. She
was tired out herself at the moment. Even so she could
still behave in a civilised manner.

She knew a few police officers by sight, but this wasn't
one of them. She glanced in the mirror to see if there
was anybody else in the police car, but she couldn't see
anything through the rain streaming down the rear
window of her Golf.

Her first week in a small car, and this happens.

'Are you feeling all right?' he asked.

She didn't answer.

'Driving licence,' he said.

She found it eventually. He checked it and said:
'Angela Hoffman?' and she nodded.

He took a couple of steps back. She assumed he was
running a check on her name. For a moment she
wished she had Erik's surname. Mr Brutal Face would
recognise it. Mumble something and give her back the
driving licence and drive off with his fucking blue light
and harass some other victim.

She calmed down. She could have made her irritation
obvious. Or her fear. But that might well have only
made things worse.

Perhaps we should get married? I could add Winter
after Hoffman.

I might feel safer in the streets then.

A wedding by the sea.

Admit that you have thought about that.

The officer returned and handed back her licence,
muttered 'Angela Hoffman' again and returned to his
car and the blue light that had been spinning round
nearly all the time and had attracted a little group of
people on the pavement, curious to see the criminal
whose papers were being examined by the long arm of
the law. Curious to catch a glimpse of the criminal's
haggard face, she thought, and made a racing start and
headed north, having forgotten what pointless errands
she had been going to run in these parts, and she turned
eastwards into the first street she could find and was
home five minutes later and outside the flat door from
the basement car park in another four, and shortly afterwards
her boots ended up in two corners of the hall.

'I thought you'd brought several other people home
with you,' said Winter, coming out of the kitchen with
Elsa in his arms. 'It sounded like riot police on a call-out.'

'Hold on while I count to ten,' she said.

'Hard day at the office?'

'Only afterwards,' she said. 'I was stopped by one of
your colleagues on the way home.'

'A road block?'

'No. Sheer devilment.'

Elsa was struggling in his arms, wanting both to greet
Angela and to finish her evening meal.

'Just a moment,' said Winter, going back to the
kitchen, sitting Elsa on her chair and letting her continue
eating. There was food all over the table.

'I think I'm going to be sick,' said Angela, who had
come into the kitchen still wearing her overcoat.

She left the room.

Shortly afterwards he heard her crying somewhere
else in the flat.

He picked up the telephone receiver and rang his
sister.

'Hello, Lotta. Is Bim or Kristina at home this evening?'

'Bim's here. Did you want her for anything special?'

'Do you think she could babysit for us at extremely
short notice?'

'There are bastards in every job,' said Winter.

'Somebody like that is not fit to be a police officer,'
she said. 'You can't behave like that.' She was holding
her wine glass in her hand.

'I can easily find out who it was,' he said.

She had seen the furrow between his eyes. He
would
be capable of doing something drastic. There was a dark
streak inside him that could turn him into – anything
at all. For one brief, horrific moment.

'And do what?' she asked.

'You'd rather not know,' he said and took a sip of
the Puligny Montrachet.

'Let's forget about it now,' she said, taking a drink
and looking out of the window. 'We're here after all.'
She looked at him and nodded her head towards the
functionalist white building on the other side of
Lasarettsgatan. 'I quite like the curtains in my old flat.'
She looked at the balcony and the window beside it, up
on the fifth floor. There was a light on.

There was a good view from the flat, in all directions,
from the top of Kungshöjd.

He nodded.

'I sometimes miss it,' she said.

He nodded again.

'I was there for quite a few years,' she said.

'So was I,' he said.

'For you it was what you might call an overnight
flat,' she said with a smile. 'Although you seldom stayed
all night.'

'I miss the view,' he said.

'But this place didn't exist then,' she said, looking
round the restaurant.

Bistro 1965 was new, and this was the second time
they'd been there and it wouldn't be the last. Perhaps
they would be the first regular customers.

Angela's pilgrim mussels grilled with coriander came
with pumpkin purée. After all, it was Halloween not
long ago, she'd thought as she ordered it. Winter's slightly
smoked goose fillet came with aubergine and vanilla oil.

'It's good,' she said.

'Mmm.'

'Should we have a bad conscience because Elsa wasn't
allowed to come as well?' she said, taking a sip of water.

'We can take the menu home with us and read it out
to her tomorrow evening,' he said.

'I might want to read it myself,' she said, looking at
the gastronomic glossary attached to the back of today's
menu. 'Do you know what escalavida is, for instance?'

'It's a purée made from paprika and onions and
aubergine and lemon, among other things.'

'You've been reading it beforehand, on the sly.'

'Of course I haven't.' He took a sip of wine and
smiled. 'Why is it called reading on the sly, incidentally?'

'What's gremolata?'

'That's too easy.'

'Good Lord.' She looked up. 'Get off your high horse.'

'Come on, give me a real challenge.'

'Confit?'

'Too easy.'

'Vierge?'

'Vierge?'

'Yes, vierge.'

He glanced down at the menu he had on his knee.
'That's not on the list.'

'Huh! I knew you were cheating.'

A car passed by in the street outside. The evening
had cleared up. There were stars visible in the sky above
Angela's former home.

When he'd gone there for the first time, he'd been in
uniform. It wasn't while he was on duty. Are you mad?
she'd asked him. The neighbours will think I'm a crook.

I forgot, he'd said.

How can you forget a thing like that? she'd asked.

'What are you smiling at?' she heard him say.

'That first time,' she said, nodding in the direction
of the block of flats, which was gleaming in the light
from the street lamps. A car was coming up the hill
from Kungsgatan. 'You came in uniform.'

They continued the conversation. It calmed them
down. There's always a feeling of being absolutely
private when you're sitting in a public place surrounded
by strangers, Winter thought. A strange paradox.

He took a sip of wine. His glass now contained Fiefs
de Lagrange, to accompany the rack of lamb with gremolata,
ragout with lima beans and artichokes, and this
vierge that he hadn't thought about when he ordered:
a light sauce comprising virgin olive oil, tomato, lamb
stock, garlic and herbs. He'd had a taste of Angela's red
wine risotto.

The waitress changed the candle. There were fewer
people in the restaurant now. Winter's mobile rang in
the inside pocket of his jacket.

Elsa, Angela thought.

'Hello?' said Winter.

'It's Bertil. Sorry to disturb you.'