Frozen Tracks (28 page)

'That cap has cropped up again,' said Ringmar.

'Where?'

'We've heard from three witnesses during the night
who think they saw a man pushing a pushchair with a
child in it from H & M or somewhere near there, and
he was wearing a checked cap. No leading questions.'

'How come they noticed that?'

'A woman was working right by where the mother left
the pushchair, and she noticed that it was unattended for
a while and then a man came up and went off with it.'

'And she didn't react?'

'Well, it seemed natural enough at the time. She
recalled the incident when we started rooting around.'

'Good God, Bertil! If what she says is right, we're
on to something here.'

'Not that it fills me with joy, you might say.'

'What about the other witnesses?'

'Independently of each other, they both saw that cap
in Nordstan.'

'Nobody saw it outside?'

He could hear Bertil sigh. Bertil had had another
sleepless night. Winter hadn't been able to stay with
him, it wouldn't have been pos sible. It had been necessary
to discuss the Christmas holiday with Angela. And
to make a snowman with Elsa.

'We've had the usual idiots who've seen everything
we'd like them to see. There've been more than ever of
them, but that probably has to do with Christmas,' said
Ringmar.

Winter didn't ask him what he meant by that.

'Have you made copies of the photo?' he asked.

'Hundreds.'

'I'll be with you in half an hour.'

'I haven't got round to talking to the other parents
yet,' said Ringmar.

'I heard Micke's father was taken into hospital last
night,' said Winter.

'I've seldom seen anybody in a worse state of shock,'
said Ringmar. 'It hit him afterwards, like an avalanche.'

'Nothing new from the mother? Carolin?'

'She's told her side of the story,' said Ringmar. 'She
didn't set up a kidnapping scenario, I don't think so.
But we'll be talking to her again.'

'I thought of having another chat with Simon
Waggoner later this morning,' said Winter.

'In the family home? Or at the station?'

'At home. Do you have the video camera?'

'It's here on my desk.'

'How are the checks on the day nursery staff going?'
Winter asked.

'It's progressing. It takes time, as you know.'

'We have to check up on
everybody
who works, or
has worked, at those places. I take it that Möllerström
is aware of that? Even if we have to go back ten years,
or even longer.'

He embraced Elsa and whispered things in her ear that
made her giggle. The bags were all packed.

'We should have had some sort of Christmas party
last night,' said Angela.

'We'll do it in just a few days' time,' he said.

'Don't fool yourself,' she said.

He didn't respond.

'We've both hidden a Christmas present for you somewhere
in the flat,' she said.

'You'll NEVER find mine!' said Elsa.

'Animal, vegetable or mineral, or somewhere in
between?' he said.

'Fish!' Elsa shouted.

'It's a secret, Elsa!' said Angela.

'Is it easy to find the parcels?' Winter asked.

'There's a letter in the kitchen with clues,' said Angela.

The taxi was waiting. The snow had gone, but the sun
was there, located quite low in the blue expanse.

'Daddy is coming as well,' said Elsa as she got into
the car. She looked miserable.

What am I doing? Winter thought.

The driver crammed the bags into the boot. He
glanced at Winter. He'd heard.

Winter's mobile rang in his inside pocket – two, three
signals.

'Aren't you going to answer?' asked Angela from the
back seat, through the open door.

He saw 'private number' on the display, and answered.
It was Paul Waggoner, Simon's father.

'I just wanted to check what time we could expect
you,' he said.

Winter exchanged a few words with him, then
hung up.

'I'll take you to the airport,' he said, starting to take
the bags out of the boot.

'A Merry Christmas,' said the taxi driver as he
prepared to drive his empty car away.

Winter and Elsa sang Christmas carols all the way
to Landvetter airport.

The check-in queue was shorter than he'd expected.

Angela smiled and waved from the escalator up to
the terminal. He needed that. She was a good woman.
She understood.

The question was how much she understood, he
thought as he drove back to Gothenburg from the
airport. On the way he listened to the news reports
about the reality of his work life. Now that was all he
needed to think about.

Winter came to the roundabout at Linnéplatsen,
continued along the trunk road and turned off towards
Änggården.

The Waggoners lived in one of the English-style semis.
Of course. There was a Christmas tree outside the front
door. There was still snow on the lawn, a thin rectangular
drift that could have been a snowman once upon
a time. Winter thought he could make out an orange
carrot as he rang the doorbell. He rang again. He was
carrying his equipment himself.

Simon Waggoner had not spoken, not drawn
anything, not said anything about what had happened.
It hadn't worked in the room they'd set up at police
headquarters. Perhaps it might work now.

When a child is about one, it communicates in single
words; at about eighteen months it starts using two-word
sentences, and later uses three-word sentences. He knew
that from the interviews he'd conducted with children, and
from the literature. Christianson, Engelberg, Holmberg:
Advanced Interview and Interrogation Methodology
.

And he knew from his conversations with Elsa.

He knew that a child's language exploded between
the ages of two and four.

After the age of two, a child is aware that it is an
individual in its own right.

The child can start to link its experiences to a concept
of itself, and explain to others what it has experienced. It
has a memory. It is pos sible to find that memory, find paths
leading to it. Forgetfulness disappears as language develops.

Four-year-olds can talk about experiences they have
been through.

Simon Waggoner was four. He was nowhere to be
seen as Winter stood in the hall, greeting the parents,
Paul and Barbara. There was a smell of Christmas spices
in the house, but not quite the same as in a typical
Swedish home. Perhaps there was a Christmas pudding
on the stove, slowly cooking for another few hours.

'Simon is very tense,' said Paul Waggoner.

'I understand that,' said Winter.

'As far as we can gather, he's been telling his teddy
bear what happened,' said Barbara Waggoner. 'He
confides in his teddy bear.' She looked at her husband.
'I don't know what we should make of that.'

'The teddy bear can be present at the interview,' said
Winter. 'What's his name?'

'Billy.'

Billy can do the talking, Winter thought. Billy can
talk via Simon.

'We've arranged the guest room,' said Barbara
Waggoner. 'We moved some of the furniture.'

'Is Simon used to being in the room?'

'Oh yes. He's in there every day. He likes to sit there
drawing.'

'Good.'

'Follow me, I'll take you to it.'

The room was on the ground floor. They passed
through the kitchen, which was big and light and had
a window facing east. Sure enough something was
cooking in a large saucepan, and it wasn't a Christmas
ham. There were newspapers and drawing paper and
coloured pencils on the kitchen table, various small
moulds, wrapping paper and a stick of sealing wax.
Two candles were burning in low candlesticks. There
were Advent candles in the window, with three of them
burning. The fourth one would be lit tomorrow, on
Christmas Eve. But as this was an English family, no
doubt their main celebration would be the day after, on
Christmas Day. With full stockings in the morning.

The radio was murmuring away on the kitchen work
surface, just as in Winter's flat, and he recognised the
BBC voice, dry, reliable, clear. Facts, no rumours.

He hoped the Waggoners would avoid reading the
newspapers, miss all the rumours and speculation.

The guest room was good, out of the way, no voices
audible from elsewhere. No distracting toys on the floor
or table, no Christmas deco rations.

'Good,' said Winter again.

'Where shall I put the tripod?' asked Paul Waggoner.

'We need the camera to be as far away from Simon
as possible,' said Winter. 'But he must be able to see it.'

They placed it against the north wall, in the middle,
clearly visible. Winter would work it himself, using the
remote control.

The picture would have to contain both himself and
Simon all the time. It was the interplay between them
that had to be documented; he would need to keep
coming back to the recording to see if something he
did, some movement or other, affected the boy.

And he needed to capture Simon's face, his body
movements. The technology would assist him; he had
the latest camera, which enabled him to focus on Simon's
face in a separate picture.

'It's ready,' said Winter. 'I'm ready.'

He went out of the room and waited in the little
hallway that led to the staircase. There was a window
in the wall behind, so he couldn't really see Simon's face
properly as he came down the stairs against the light,
holding his mother's hand.

This wasn't the first time Winter had met Simon. It
might have been the third time, possibly the fourth.

He squatted down so that he could greet Simon at
eye level.

'Hi, Simon.'

The boy didn't answer. He clung on to his mother's
hand and took a step to one side, diagonally backwards.

Winter sat down on the floor, which was polished
and varnished wood, possibly pine. It was soft.

Simon sat down on Barbara Waggoner's knee. After
a short while he slid down on to the floor.

He was holding Billy tucked under his arm. The teddy
bear's eyes were aimed straight at Winter.

'My name's Erik,' Winter said, 'and we've met before,
haven't we?'

Simon didn't answer. Clung on to his teddy bear.

'What's your teddy called?' Winter asked.

The boy looked at his mother, who nodded and
smiled.

'I used to have a teddy called Willy,' said Winter. It
was absolutely true. It suddenly occurred to him that
there was a photograph of Willy in the family album,
with Winter wearing a romper suit, sitting and looking
up at something outside the picture, holding the teddy
bear with his left hand. When had he last looked at it?
Why hadn't he shown it to Elsa yet?

Simon looked at Winter.

'Mine was called Willy,' said Winter again, looking
at Simon's friend.

'Billy,' said Simon.

That was the first word Winter had heard Simon utter.

'Hello, Billy,' said Winter.

Simon held Billy out with his uninjured arm.

'I'm a policeman,' said Winter to both his interviewees,
and then he looked at Simon: 'My job is to
find out about things. Things that have happened.' He
slowly adjusted his position on the floor. 'I want to ask
you about that.'

Winter knew how important it was to start by placing
the interview in a frame. He needed to de-dramatise the
whole thing, while still being clear and natural, and
make the boy feel secure. He must use simple words,
short sentences, try to speak like Simon did. He must
approach the centre in ever-decreasing circles. Perhaps
he would never get to the very centre. Or perhaps he
would get there amazingly quickly.

'I want to have a little talk with you,' Winter said.

Simon looked at his mother.

'You don't have to answer, Simon.'

Winter moved again. He was getting stiff from sitting
on the floor.

'Erik's going to talk to you in the guest room,' said
Barbara Waggoner.

Winter nodded.

'Why?' asked Simon.

'I have a camera there. It will film us,' said Winter.

'A camera?'

'It will film us,' said Winter. 'When I press a button.'

'We have video camera as well,' said Simon, looking
at his mother.

'We've lent it to Grandma,' said Barbara Waggoner.
'You remember when we were there with it, Simon,
don't you?'

The boy nodded.

'Do you want to see my camera?' Winter asked.

The boy seemed to hesitate, then he nodded.

Winter stood up and led the way into the guest room.
That was important. Simon came in with his mother.
Normally relatives were not allowed to sit in on interviews,
but this wasn't normal. Winter knew that Simon
wouldn't say a word if he couldn't see his mother.

'It's not very big,' said Simon.

'I'll show you,' said Winter, and nodded to Mrs
Waggoner, who lifted Simon up while Winter sat on the
chair Simon would be sitting on. Simon looked into the
camera.

'Can you see me?' Winter asked.

Simon didn't answer.

'Can you see when I move my hand?' asked Winter.

'Yes,' said Simon.

They sat down where they were supposed to sit. The
camera was rolling. Winter started his journey towards
the centre in ever-decreasing circles. He had to start with
neutral subjects: that would give him an indication of
how well Simon spoke, what he could talk about, his
linguistic ability, imagination, behaviour patterns. His
ability to pin down time in relation to events.

'Have you made a snowman, Simon?'

Simon nodded.

'When did you make it?'

The boy didn't answer.

'Where's the snowman now?'

'Out there,' said Simon, pointing at the window.

'On the lawn out there?'

'It's broken,' said Simon, gesturing with his uninjured
hand.

Winter nodded.

'It's melted,' said Simon.

'I saw the nose when I arrived,' said Winter.

'I fixed the nose,' said Simon.

Winter nodded again.

'Have you made a snowman at the nursery, Simon?'
he asked.

The boy nodded.

'Have you made lots?'

'There hasn't been snow.'

'Do you play indoors then?'

Simon didn't answer. He was still holding Billy, the
teddy bear, but not so tightly now. He didn't look as
often at the camera, nor at his mother.

For the first few minutes Winter had wondered if it
was a mistake to allow her to be in the room, but he
didn't think so now.

'Do you play indoors when it isn't snowing, Simon?'

'No. Play outside.'

'What games do you play?'

The boy seemed to be thinking about what to say.
Winter was trying to make him start saying more.
Perhaps it was too soon.

'Do you play hide and seek?'

'Yes.'

'Do you play tag?'

Simon didn't answer. Perhaps he didn't know what
tag was.

'Do you play a game where you catch each other?'

'Yes.'

'Do you play on the swings?'

'Yes. And the slide.'

'Do you like the slide?'

'Yes. And the train.'

'Do you have a train at the nursery?'

Simon didn't answer. Winter thought. Suddenly they
were at the playground where Simon had disappeared,
next to the big park. A regular outing for the day nursery.
There was a wooden train, as close to life-size as it
could be for children. Engine and coaches, on the edge
of the big playground that was always full of children.

Suddenly they were there, he and Simon. Should he
take them back to the secure place where they had been
before, back home, and to the nursery, continue the
circular movement? Or should they stay where they were
and get closer to the boy's trauma, continue the inward
journey into the darkness? Winter knew that if he moved
forward too quickly he might not be able to go back
to a position where the boy would say what actually
happened. They would revert to silence, and they
wouldn't find anything out.

'Did you drive the train?'

'Yes.'

'Where did you drive the train, Simon?'

'At the playground.'

'Was that an outing from the nursery?'

Simon nodded.

'Drove lots of times,' said Simon, shuffling on the
chair.

Soon we'll stop for juice and a bun and a coffee and
a cig . . . no, not a cigarillo. But he felt the desire, it
increased as he became more tense himself.

'Do you often drive the train?'

'Yes!'

'Are there lots of people travelling with you, Simon?'

'Arvid and Valle and Oskar and Valter and Manfred
and . . . and . . .' he said, and Winter had time to think
about how times change, old-fashioned names become
fashionable again, old people revert to their childhood.
Twenty years ago Simon could only have been describing
a group of old-age pensioners clambering into a toy
train.

'Did Billy travel with you as well?'

'No.'

'Where was Billy?'

Simon looked baffled. It was a difficult question.

'Was Billy at home?' Winter asked.

Simon still looked confused. What was wrong? What
am I doing wrong? Winter thought.

'Was Billy at the nursery?' he asked.

Simon looked at Billy and leaned down closer to the
bear's little face, which was turned towards the boy
now, as if he no longer had the strength to listen to this
conversation. Simon whispered something to Billy, but
very quietly. He looked up again.

'Can Billy say where he was?' asked Winter.

'On the train,' said Simon. 'Billy rode the train.'

'Billy rode while you were driving?'

Simon nodded again.

'Billy rode on the train all the time?'

Simon nodded.

'Not the car,' he said out of the blue, and leaned over
Billy again, as if he wanted to hide his own face in the
teddy bear's. Winter could see that the boy had become
more tense, from comfortable calm to sudden unrest.

My God, Winter thought. This is quick. I've got us
to this point, but has it been too quick? But it was
Simon who'd said that, of his own accord.

'Didn't ride in the car,' said Simon.

He's starting to tell us what happened, Winter
thought. But what does he mean? We know he was
abducted. Wasn't it in a car?

'Tell me about the car, Simon.'

What Winter needed to do now was let Simon tell
his story at his own pace, in his own way. He hoped
Simon felt sufficiently secure to start telling the tale.
That was all he could ask for.

He remembered what he had read, and passed on to
his colleagues: