Frozen Tracks (18 page)

Don't think about the boy. That was something
different. No. It was NOT.

Mum never heard him when he shouted. He had
moved in there and didn't need to make a bed for his
mum every evening in the house a thousand miles away.
Mum was there. He used to shout.

She had never heard.

Once he'd emerged
afterwards
and he'd shouted and
she'd been sitting there with her head averted and she
hadn't heard him then either. It was as if he hadn't been
there. He hadn't dared to stand in front of her. Perhaps
she really hadn't heard him before, but if he'd stood in
front of her and she hadn't seen him, he wouldn't have
existed any longer. He knew that she wasn't blind, and
so he wouldn't have existed. He didn't exist.

Then she hadn't been there any more.

And then came all the rest of it.

The telephone rang. He jumped and almost dropped
the remote control. He let the phone ring, ring, ring.
Five times, six. Then it stopped. He didn't have an
answering machine. What use were they?

It rang again. He wasn't there. Or he was there but
he didn't hear the telephone and so he wasn't there. It
stopped eventually, and he could busy himself with the
films for a bit longer and then get ready for bed. All
this without switching on a single light. Anybody passing
by outside would definitely think there was nobody at
home, or that someone was in bed, asleep. And that
was where he was going now.

Halders and Djanali were back at the halls of residence,
in a different corridor. The girl who had heard the argument
in Smedsberg's room had identified Aryan Kaite
as the young man who had come rushing out. No doubt
about it, despite Halders' provocations: don't you think
all black people look the same? Aneta Djanali hadn't
moved a muscle. Does he beat her? the girl had thought,
looking at Djanali.

They were sitting in Kaite's room. There was a
picture of a winter scene on the wall behind the desk,
a white field. The room had been cleaned, or seemed
to have been cleaned. The desk was neatly arranged:
desk tidy, notepad, computer, printer on a stand,
books in two neat piles next to the desk tidy, more
books in two low bookcases. A Discman, two small
speakers on the ledge of the window looking out on
to the street where cars were flitting past in the halflight.

Is this important, Djanali thought, being here? One
of those things you never knew.

'Would you guess that this boy was studying medicine?
Simply by looking round this room?' Halders
asked.

'The anatomy poster would seem to suggest that,'
said Djanali, pointing to the wall where the bed was
located.

'Everybody has something like that these days,' said
Halders. 'People are so interested in themselves that they
hang X-rays of themselves next to the china cupboard
in the drawing room.'

'Even so, that kind of behaviour is a bit special,' said
Djanali.

'Special? It's standard practice.'

'Hmm.'

'Don't you believe me?'

'Why hasn't Kaite come back yet?' Djanali wondered.

'Good question,' said Halders, looking at his watch.
'Perhaps he's the nervous type.'

Aryan Kaite had excused himself after he'd let them
in and gone back into the corridor. He needed to go to
the toilet.

They hadn't phoned and fixed a time before stopping
by.

Kaite still had a bandage on his head when he opened
the door. What was hidden underneath? Halders
wondered. They would probably be able to find out the
next day. The lad looked like a black prince in a turban.
Perhaps all his tribe look like that in the savannah back
home. He feels homesick when he sees himself in a
mirror.

Maybe he's on his way there now. Halders looked at
his watch again, and then at the room's little hallway.

'What's that door?' he asked, pointing.

'I suppose it must be a wardrobe,' said Djanali.

Halders walked over to the door and opened it. He
was confronted by a lavatory, wash basin and shower
curtain.

The lad
was
on his way home.

'He's done a runner,' he said, and opened the door
to the corridor.

'What the hell for?' Djanali wondered.

Winter phoned the police station in Tredje Långgatan.

'Police, Majorna-Linnéstaden, Alinder.'

Winter explained who he was and what he wanted.

'It sounds vaguely familiar,' said Alinder.

'Do you know who took the call?'

'Lena Sköld, did you say? The little girl who said
she'd been with a mister? I recognise that. It was me.'

'OK. Do you have time to check the record right
away?'

'Give me five minutes to rummage through the files.
What's your number?'

Alinder phoned back seven minutes later.

'I've got the notes in front of me.'

'OK.'

'The girl's name is Ellen, and her mother, who's a
single parent, wasn't sure if it was just a figment of her
daughter's imagination.'

'What did the girl say had happened?'

'Hang on, let's have a look. She'd been sitting in a
car with a mister she didn't know. That was all.'

Winter could hear the rustle of paper.

'No, just a minute,' said Alinder. 'The girl said she'd
been given sweets as well.'

'Had the mother spoken to the staff at the day
nursery?'

'Yes. Nobody had noticed anything.'

'Is that what they said?'

'Yes.'

'Was she upset?'

'When?' said Alinder. 'When she phoned me, you
mean?'

'Yes.'

'No.'

'Is there anything else?' Winter asked.

'Yes. I'm reading it now. I asked her to check if
anything had disappeared, and she phoned back later
to say the little girl had had a little silver charm in a
secure pocket in her jumpsuit, and that it was no longer
there.'

'And the loss coincided with when she met this man?'

'I asked the same question and she said it did. And
that it would have been impossible for the talisman or
whatever it was to fall out by accident, and that the
girl wouldn't have been able to take it out herself.'

'Perhaps the girl didn't even know it was there,' said
Winter. I must ask Lena Sköld about that, he thought.

'No. Her mother said it was supposed to bring her
good luck or happiness or something of the sort. She'd
had it herself when she was a little girl.'

'And now it's disappeared.'

'That's what she said. I can't confirm that, of course.'

'I'll ask her,' said Winter.

'Why are you asking me all this?' Alinder asked. 'And
how did you know she'd phoned me?'

'My partner met her at a parents' meeting,' said
Winter. 'We use the same day nursery.'

'Well I'll be damned!'

'Thanks for your help,' said Winter.

'Why the interest in the first place?' Alinder wondered.

'I'm not sure really,' said Winter. 'It was just a
thought.'

'I heard about that business with the little lad,' said
Alinder.

'What did you hear?'

'That he'd been abducted and dumped somewhere.
I've just read about it on the intranet. A bloody nasty
business. How is he?'

'He's been struck dumb,' said Winter. 'Hasn't said a
word yet. But his eyes will be fine.'

'Can you really see a link here? Between this woman's
phone call and what happened to that little boy?'

'What do you think, Alinder? How do you see it?'

'Well . . . I've only just heard about your case. But I
suppose I might have started to put two and two together
after a while. I don't know. I could well have done. I
might have been in touch with you after a while. But then
again, I might not. Anyway, the notes are here on file.'

'You haven't had any similar calls to your station, I
suppose? You or some other officer?'

'I haven't. And none of the others have said anything.
I'll check up with them.'

'OK, many thanks for your help,' said Winter, and
hung up.

He phoned Lena Sköld. They met half an hour later at
her home. Ellen was sitting at the table, drawing a
snowman.

'Has she ever seen snow?' Winter asked.

'When she was one. It lasted for three days,' said Lena.

The west coast climate – although now it's milder
than ever, Winter thought. Soon there'll be palm trees
along the Avenue.

'That looks like a real snowman,' he said. 'My Elsa's
a bit younger, of course, but I'll be proud of her when
she can draw as well as that.'

'Would you like a cup of coffee?'

'Yes please.'

'You can ask me your questions while I'm making it.'

She stood up. Winter remained seated at the kitchen
table opposite Ellen, who was starting a new drawing.
He saw something that looked like a car, only upside
down from where he was.

Children and drawings. He thought about a case
he'd solved a few years earlier: Helene, the dead woman
who had remained anonymous for so long. Her face
in the ditch near Lake Delsjö at dawn, her teeth
exposed, as if she'd uttered a cry from the far distance
that had echoed down through time; the past had cast
shadows over the future, and the truth was hidden in
the darkness. The only clue he'd had was a child's
drawings. The child saw what she saw, and then drew
her memories.

Memories could be revisited like wide-open gates,
enabling him to go in, or allowing somebody else to
enter. Somebody else might get there first, and that could
be the equivalent of falling into the abyss. He had seen
it before. When memories were opened up the result
could be a catastrophe, the ultimate one.

If he wasn't there at the time.

Why am I having such thoughts just now? The
drawing, yes. But something else as well. Is all this linked
to a memory?

'A car,' he said to Ellen.

She nodded.

'A big car.'

She nodded again. Drew the wheels.

'She drew a similar one when she came home and
told me about the stranger,' said her mother, who had
come back with two mugs of coffee and a little jug of
milk.

'Do you still have it?'

'Of course. I save all her little works of art.'

'I'd like to have a look at it later.'

'Why?'

'I'm not sure. It might contain something I can make
use of.'

'For what?'

'I'm not sure of that either,' he said, and smiled.

'What do you think about all this, then? What Ellen
said?'

The girl looked up.

'I think it's important enough for me to come here
and talk to you,' he said, taking a sip of coffee.

'What happens now, then?' asked Lena.

'I don't know that either.'

'What's your next move?' She looked at him. 'Isn't
that what you say?'

Winter looked at the girl, who looked up again and
smiled.

'Surely you're not going to interview her?' She looked
first at Winter, then at her daughter.

Winter gestured as if to say: I don't know.

'Has this happened in other places? What might have
happened to Ellen?'

Same gesture from Winter.

'You don't know?' she asked.

'We'll check it out and see if we can find any links,'
he said.

Winter was sitting in Ringmar's office that afternoon.
It was the same standardised design as his own, but the
window faced another direction.

The city outside was at its most electric now. Dusk
was closing in and Gothenburg was starting to glitter
in sheer joy at the approach of Christmas.

'Have you bought any Christmas presents?' asked
Ringmar, who was in the window watching the lights
come on.

'Of course,' said Winter, untruthfully.

'Books?'

'Yes. For Elsa so far.'

At least that was true.

'Hmm,' Ringmar grunted.

'Then there'll no doubt be some last-minute shopping
as usual,' said Winter.

'When's your flight to the sunshine coast?'

'The day before the day.' Winter rolled a cigarillo
between his fingers without lighting it. It smelled good
even so. 'But I don't think I'll make it.'

'Really?'

'Well, do you?'

Ringmar turned round.

'You mean you think we'll still be looking for him?'

Winter didn't reply.

'Perhaps we'll have cracked it by then, so that we
can enjoy some peace and quiet like all the other citizens,'
said Ringmar, turning back to look out of the
window.

'Did you send out the CID appeal?'

'Half an hour ago.'

They'd also sent messages to all their police colleagues,
but who got round to reading all those e-mails that
flooded in every day? The CID information sheet was
a better bet. Were there any more like Alinder? And
Lena Sköld? Worth a try.

They got no information at CID headquarters. If
something came to them specifically, they would hear.
But otherwise, they hadn't a clue what was going on.
Nobody co-ordinated information coming into individual
stations and departments any longer.

'Nobody co-ordinates stuff any more,' Ringmar had
said to young Bergenhem. 'Nobody phones CID direct
nowadays. In the old days, before the reorganisation,
everything was sent to the head of CID, who read it
all and kept duplicates – about paedophiles, for
instance. Suspicions, or even things people had noticed
that seemed a bit odd.' Ringmar had nodded at his
own words. 'A lot of people imagine child molesters
everywhere all the time, but it's important not to
ignore their reports. Don't you think? We ought to
collect all the documentation so that we can sift
through it when we are looking for a really nasty
specimen.'

Winter was still on the chair, rolling his cigarillo.

'It seems as if the boy has lost the ability to speak,'
said Ringmar. 'I was there an hour ago.'

'Nothing new?'

'No.'

'We'll have to see what we've got so far,' said Winter.

'The Sköld girl? Could be imagination. The day
nursery staff didn't notice anything.'

'We'll have to see,' Winter said again.

The neighbour had set up his Christmas lights when
Ringmar got back home. Every sleeping aspen and maple
in the garden on the other side of the skeletal hedge
was laden with hundreds of little glittering lights that
were reflected in the dull paint of his unwashed Audi.

Each of the next-door windows was lit up by a set
of electric Advent candles. That's the home of somebody
who's not short of a penny or two, Ringmar thought.
A private illuminations warehouse. A plethora of
light.

The disgust was still visible in his face when he entered
the hall.

'Have you eaten something that's disagreed with you?'
asked Moa, who was on her way out.

'Where are you going?'

'What kind of tone is that?'

'I'm sorry.'

'I'm going to buy a Christmas present, if I can find
what I'm looking for,' she said. 'Which reminds me, I
haven't seen a wish list from you yet.'

'A wish list? I haven't written one of those for five
years. Or is it seven?'

'But now I'm living at home, temporarily, and so you
need to write a wish list,' said his daughter, pulling the
other boot over her ankle.

'You should know already what's at the top of my
list,' he said.

She looked up from the stool under the light that
illuminated her hair and made her look like one of the
handmaidens in a Queen of Light procession. Or even
Lucia herself.