Frozen Tracks (29 page)

Hand control over to the child and let the child itself
say which people are going to be described. Let the child
decide on the scenario. It's important that the interrogator
makes it clear that he or she doesn't know what
happened.

He would try to break down Simon's reluctance to
tell.

He must give the boy time.

He suddenly felt the need to make a note, but resisted
it. He hadn't said anything about making notes before
the interview started. It would only distract Simon now,
perhaps spoil something.

'Tell me about the car, Simon.'

Simon turned to Billy again. He whispered something
that Winter couldn't hear.

Now it's time for Billy. Winter said Billy's name and
then Simon's. Simon looked up.

'Have you told Billy about the car?' Winter asked.

Simon nodded.

'Do you think he could tell me about it?'

Simon leaned down over Billy again and Winter
waited while the pair of them discussed the matter.

'Billy wants to hear the question,' said Simon.

'I want Billy to tell me what you told him about the
car,' said Winter.

'You have to ask,' said Simon.

'Was the car next to the train?'

'Simon says it was in the woods,' said Simon. His
tone of voice was darker; the shift was barely noticeable,
as if he had left his own body and moved into
Billy's little brown one, which he had now lifted up to
face level and was holding out like an overdemonstrative
ventriloquist. Winter felt a shudder, and another. I've
used cuddly toys before, but this is different, he thought.
He looked at Barbara Waggoner. She looked scared stiff.

'Tell me about the car, Billy,' said Winter.

Simon held Billy in front of his face, then lowered
the teddy a little bit.

'It was a big car in some big, big woods,' he chanted
in his changed voice, as if he were about to tell a fairy
story, or a ghost story. 'The boy went into the big woods
and the car drove through the woods.'

Simon was looking at Winter now, not at his mother,
not at the camera, and not at Billy. Winter stayed motionless.

Barbara Waggoner tried not to move.

'The mister had some sweeties and there were sweeties
in the car,' said Billy. 'Brrrrrrmmm, brrrrrrrm, the car
drove off with sweeties!'

Billy paused. Simon looked up.

'Billy rode in the car,' said Simon.

Winter nodded.

'Yes, so he said.'

'No, no, Billy didn't ride in the car!' said Simon. He
looked at Winter, then at his mum.

'No, no,
Billy
rode in the train. Billy rode in the car!'

'Did Billy ride in the train and the car as well?' asked
Winter.

'No, no.'

Simon shuffled restlessly on the chair. They were
getting close to the incident.

'There was a Billy that rode in the car?' said Winter.

'Yes, yes!'

'But it wasn't your Billy? The Billy who's sitting here?'

'No, no!'

'Was it a teddy who rode in the car?' Winter asked.

'No!'

'What was it?'

'Billy, Billy. Billy Boy!' Simon was almost shouting
now, in yet another voice, almost croaking. 'Billy Billy
Boy!'

'Did the mister have a Billy?' asked Winter.

Simon picked up his teddy again, returned to the
teddy bear's voice:

'The mister had Rotty on the mirror.'

'Rotty?' asked Winter.

Simon lowered the teddy, and croaked:

'Rotty, Rotty! Billy Boy, Billy Boy!'

Pretty Rotty, Winter thought. Pretty Polly.

'Did the mister have a parrot?'

Simon put the teddy bear in front of his face again
and said:

'Yes, yes. Billy Rotty!'

Rotty on the mirror. The man had a parrot hanging
from his mirror. A bird hanging from his rear-view
mirror.

Jesus, we're on our way.

Aneta Djanali had got those responsible to furnish the
interview room with armchairs children could creep on
to, in warm colours. Everything that Ellen Sköld might
regard as a toy had been taken away. The girl's interest
had to be concentrated on Djanali.

Aneta had entered the room first. Now she was
holding the remote control – Ellen had already familiarised
herself with the camera.

Lena Sköld was waiting outside. Djanali wanted to
try that first. We'll see how long the girl can sit still.

Ellen was cheerful and inquisitive. Djanali watched
her trying out various sitting and lying positions on the
armchair.

This is not a traumatised child. I must try to bear
that in mind when the questions are asked and the
answers given. If they are.

They chatted for a while. Ellen played with her fingers
as she answered Djanali's questions. Or rather,
commented on them, it seemed to the detective inspector.

'Your mum told me that it was your birthday a month
ago, Ellen.'

The girl nodded, up and down, up and down, but
said nothing.

'How old are you now?'

'Four,' said Ellen, holding up a bunch of fingers.

'Wow,' said Djanali.

Ellen nodded again, forcefully.

'Did you have a fun birthday party?' asked Djanali.

'Yes!'

'Tell me about it.'

Ellen looked as if she wanted to talk about it, but
couldn't choose between all the fun things that had
happened on her birthday.

'Dad came,' she said when Djanali was on the point
of asking a follow-up question. 'Dad came and brought
some presents.'

Djanali thought about the single mother on the chair
in the corridor. Lena Sköld had sole custody, she knew
that. Even so, there was an absent father who came to
his four-year-old daughter's birthday party with presents.
Not all children with a lone parent were so lucky.
The children are just as single as their parents, she
thought.

'What presents did you get?'

'From Dad?' asked the girl.

'Yes,' said Djanali. This girl is bright, she thought.

'I got a doll called Victoria. And I got a car that the
doll can ride in.' She gave Djanali a meaningful look.
'Victoria has a driving licence. Really.' She looked at
the door, next to the camera. 'Mum doesn't have a
driving licence.' She looked at Djanali. 'Do you have
a driving licence?'

'Yes.'

'I don't have a driving licence.'

'It's mostly grown-ups who have a driving licence,'
said Djanali.

The girl nodded. Djanali could picture her in a front
seat with a grown-up who had a driving licence. Did
the girl have Victoria with her in the car? Did they have
any information about that? Victoria wasn't with her
now. But if Victoria had in fact been in the car as well,
she might have seen something Ellen hadn't seen. Victoria
had a driving licence, after all.

'Do you like riding in cars, Ellen?'

Ellen shook her head and her expression seemed to
become more tense – barely noticeable, but even so . . .
I must check the recording afterwards, Djanali thought.

'Do you and your mum have a car, Ellen?'

'No. My mum doesn't have a driving licence. I said
that.'

'Yes, you did say that. I forgot. So in your house it's
only Victoria who has a car and a driving licence, is
that right?'

The girl nodded, up and down, up and down.

'Where's Victoria now?'

'She's ill,' said Ellen.

'Oh dear.'

'Mum and me are going to buy some medicine for
her.'

'What's the matter with her?'

'I think she has a cold,' said Ellen, looking worried
for a moment.

'Has the doctor been to take a look at her?'

She nodded.

'Was it a nice doctor?' asked Djanali.

'It was me!' shouted Ellen, and giggled.

Djanali looked at her and nodded. She looked at the
eye of the camera, that might be seeing everything. She
wondered how long Lena Sköld would be able to wait
outside. Victoria had to have her medicine. Christmas
would be here soon. It was the day before the day now.
She hadn't bought all her presents, nothing yet for
Hannes and Magda, although she had bought two CDs
for Fredrik, with Richard Buckner and Kasey Chambers,
because that was what Fredrik had wanted, among other
things. She had written a wish-list herself. She would
have a Christmas meal on Christmas Eve, Swedish style,
with the Halders family, or what was left of it; she might
even try the super-Nordic tradition of 'dipping in the
pot' (she'd never tried dipping bread into the stock from
the Christmas ham before), and hoped to avoid having
to listen to jokes from Fredrik apologising for not having
camel meat and tapioca pudding, today of all days. She
would open presents piled under the Christmas tree.

She looked at the girl, who had left the armchair
now. It was almost a miracle that she had sat on it for
so long.

Would Dad come back to the Sköld family, or what
was left of it?

'You told Mum that you went for a ride with a mister,'
said Djanali.

'Not ride,' said Ellen.

'You didn't ride in the mister's car?'

'Didn't ride,' said Ellen. 'Stood still.'

'The car stood still?'

She nodded.

'Where was the car?' asked Djanali.

'In the woods.'

'Was it a big forest?'

'No! At the playground.'

'So the woods were at the playground?'

'Yes.'

'Was Victoria with you when you sat in the car?'

Ellen nodded again.

'Did Victoria want to drive the car?'

'No, no.' Ellen burst out laughing. 'The car was big!'

'Was the mister big as well?'

The girl nodded.

'Tell me how you met this mister,' said Djanali. Ellen
was now standing next to the brightly coloured armchair.
A split had developed in the cloud cover that lay like
paper over Gothenburg as it waited for Christmas to
arrive, and the split let through a beam of sunshine that
shone in through the window and on to the back of the
armchair. Ellen shouted in delight and pointed at the
sunlight, which suddenly disappeared again as the clouds
closed.

'Tell me about when you met the mister with the car,'
said Djanali.

'He had sweeties,' said Ellen.

'Did he give you some sweets?'

She nodded.

'Were they good?'

She nodded.

'What kind of sweets were they?'

'Sweeties,' she said dismissively. Sweets were sweets.

'Did you eat all the sweets?'

She nodded again. They had vacuumed the place
looking for sweet wrappings, but had naturally realised
before long that it was like looking for a needle in a
haystack. This was a playground, a park, children,
parents, sweets . . .

'What did the mister say?'

Ellen had started to dance around the room, like a
ballerina. She didn't answer. It was a difficult question.

'What did the mister say when he gave you the sweets?'

She looked up.

'You want a sweetie?'

Djanali nodded, waited. Ellen performed a little
pirouette.

'Did he ask you anything else?'

Ellen looked up again.

'Ca-ca-ca-ca,' she said.

Djanali waited.

'Swee-swee-swee-swee,' said Ellen.

Time for a break, Djanali thought. Past time, in fact.
The girl is tired of all this. But Djanali had intended for
Ellen to look at a few different men from around police
headquarters – a twenty-year-old, a thirty-year-old, a
forty-year-old, a fifty-year old and a sixty-year-old –
and point out the one that looked most like the man
in the car. If that was possible. This collection of Swedish
manhood was so vain that the fifty-year-old wanted to be
forty, and the forty-year-old would have looked devastated
if she'd guessed his age correctly. Only the twenty-yearold
and the sixty-year-old were unconcerned. That must
mean something. Perhaps most for men. But men were
only people. She must try to remember that.

She'd also hoped that Ellen would be persuaded to
draw something, including a car in some trees.

'Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa,' said Ellen now, and danced around
the room again.

'Do you mean your papa, your dad?'

The girl shook her head and said 'PA-PA-PA-PA!'

'Did the mister say that he was your dad?'

She shook her head again.

'We-we-we-we,' she said.

Djanali looked at the camera, as if seeking help.

'Why did you say that?' she asked.

The girl didn't understand the question; or perhaps
it was Djanali who didn't understand if she'd understood.

'Co-co-co-co,' said Ellen.

Djanali said nothing. She tried to think.

'Had a radio,' said the girl now. She'd moved closer
to Djanali.

'This man had a radio?'

Ellen nodded.

'Did he have a radio in the car?'

Ellen nodded again.

'Was the radio switched on?'

Ellen nodded again.

'Was the radio playing a song?'

Ellen didn't answer.

'Was there somebody singing on the radio?' Djanali
asked.

'The mister said rude words,' said Ellen. By now she
was standing next to Djanali, who was sitting on the
floor, which was colder than it looked.

'Did the man in the car say rude words to you?'

Ellen shook her head. But her expression was serious.

'Who said rude words?' Djanali asked.

'The radio,' said Ellen.

'The radio said rude words?'

Ellen nodded, solemnly.

'Did a mister on the radio say rude words?'

Ellen nodded again. That's not
allowed
.

A man on the radio says rude words, Djanali thought.
It's afternoon. Somebody is sitting in the studio and
swearing. Does that happen every day? Can we trace
the programme? And what do children think is a rude
word? Often the same ones as we do. But children are
so much better at picking up on them. But I won't ask
her now what the words were.

'I held my hands over Victoria's ears,' said Ellen.

'So Victoria didn't hear anything?' asked Djanali.

Ellen shook her head.

'Has she said anything about it to you?'

She shook her head again, more firmly this time.

Djanali nodded.

'
Rude
words,' said Ellen.

'What did the mister in the car say about these rude
words?' asked Djanali.

Ellen didn't answer.

'Did he think they were rude words as well?'

Ellen didn't answer. There must be something in the
question that's too subtle, Djanali thought. Or in her
failure to answer. She's not answering because the man
didn't make any comment about the rude words. He
didn't hear them.

'Bi-bi-bi-bi-bi-bi,' said Ellen.

He made a cup of hot chocolate for the boy using the
old-fashioned method: first he mixed the cocoa with
milk and sugar, then he added the hot milk and stirred
it with a spoon. In fact he had made an extra effort,
and mixed the cocoa and sugar with cream!

But the boy didn't want it. Would you believe it? He
must be both hungry and thirsty, but he drank nothing,
ate nothing, he cried and he shouted and it had been
necessary to tell him that he had to be quiet because
the neighbours needed to sleep.

'Sl-sl-sl-sl,' he said. He tried again: 'Sl-sl-sleep. You
must sleep.'

He pointed at the chocolate, which was still quite
hot.

'Cho-cho-cho-chocolate.'

He could hear his voice. It had to do with the excitement.
He could feel a hot force gushing through his
body.

The boy had been asleep when he carried him into
the building and then into the flat. He had driven him
around the main circular roads and through the tunnels
until he was so fast asleep that nothing would wake
him up.

The pushchair was in the car boot. It was safe there,
just as the boy was safe here, he thought, nodding at
the chocolate once again. Now he felt calmer, as if he
had found peace and knew what was going to happen,
maybe not right now, but shortly.

He knew that the boy was called Micke.

'Micke Johansson,' the boy had said. His pronunciation
was good.

'Drink now, Mick,' he said.

'My name's Micke,' the boy said.

He nodded.

'Want to go home to Daddy.'

'Don't you like it here?'

'Want to go home to DADDY.'

'Your dad's not at home.'

'I want to go home to DADDY,' the boy said again.

'It's not good, being at home with your daddy,' he
said now. He wondered if the boy understood. 'It's not
good at all.'

'Where's Mummy?' asked Micke.

'Not good.'

'Mummy and Daddy,' said Micke.

'Not good,' he said again, because he knew what he
was talking about.

The boy was asleep. He'd made up a bed for him on
the sofa. He had a Christmas tree that he was decorating.
It was made of plastic, which was good because
it didn't drop any needles. He was longing for the boy
to wake up so that he could show him the pretty
Christmas tree.

He had phoned work and told them he was ill. He
couldn't remember what he'd claimed was wrong with
him, but the person who received his call simply said,
'Hurry up and get better,' as if it didn't matter if he was
at work or not.

He had shown the boy how you drive a tram, drawn
the tracks, and the route he was most familiar with.

That was where he always went back to when he
wanted to talk to children and look after them. He had
seen the places from his driver's window, and thought,
this is where I want to come back to.

Just as he liked to go back to the Nordstan shopping
centre when there were a lot of people around, the
brightly lit-up windows looking festive, the families, the
mums and dads with children in pushchairs who THEY
DIDN'T LOOK AFTER PROPERLY but just left in any
old place, IN ANY OLD PLACE, as if the pushchair
and its contents were a sack of rubbish that didn't
matter. What would happen if he were not there? Like
on this occasion? What would have happened to Micke?