Frozen Tracks (30 page)

It hardly bore thinking about.

When most of the Christmas holiday was over, he
and Micke would go back there, like everybody else
would be doing, Micke in his pushchair and him pushing
it.

He'd shown Micke his Billy Boy.

The press conference was chaotic as usual, but worse
than ever on this occasion: Winter could smell the stench
of fear that would spread once the idio . . . the journalists
assembled here had published their articles.

There were honest people here. But what could they
do? The moment they had left this room their influence
would be over. Come to that, it was over even before
they entered it.

He saw Hans Bülow two rows back. So far Bülow
had behaved honourably. It could be that his colleagues
would consider him to be a traitor, but his willingness
to compromise had made his articles better than the
others, and more truthful, if such an expression still
existed.

Winter was dazzled by three flashbulbs going off
simultaneously.

He was on the stage once again. The show must go
on.

Birgersson had backed out at the last moment. An
important meeting with the Chief of Police. At the same
time as the press conference. I wonder what that means.

'What traces have you found of the boy?' asked a
woman who always asked the first questions at shows
like this, and always wrote articles without an ounce,
without a single gram of fact or credibility.

'At the moment we are working on information we
have received from the general public,' said Winter. 'A
lot of people contacted us as a result of our appeal.'

Far too many, he thought. Thousands of Gothenburgers
had seen men with small boys in pushchairs, in cars,
on the way into and out of buildings, into and out of
shops, department stores, cars, trams, buses, even more
than usual because so many people were out doing lastminute
Christmas shopping.

'Do you have a suspect?' asked the same woman,
and somebody in the pack of journalists smirked in the
same cynical way that Halders sometimes did.

'No,' said Winter.

'You must have a long register of paedophiles and
others who interfere with children,' said the woman.
'Who abduct children.'

'We don't know if Micke has been abducted,' said
Winter.

'Where is he, then?'

'We don't know.'

'So are you saying he got out of the pushchair and
wandered off on his own?'

'We don't know.'

'What
do
you know?'

'We know we are doing all we can to make sure this
boy returns home,' said Winter.

'So that his mother can abandon him again?' asked
a male journalist sitting next to Hans Bülow.

Winter said nothing.

'If she hadn't left the boy, this business would never
have happened, would it?'

'No comment,' said Winter.

'Where is she now?'

'Any other questions?' said Winter without looking
at the man.

'How are you ever going to be able to find this boy?'
asked a woman who was young and wore her hair in
pigtails. It's a long time since I last saw an adult wearing
pigtails, Winter thought. They make everybody look
younger.

'Like I said, we are doing everything we can,' he said.

A man on the fourth row raised his hand. Here it
comes, Winter thought. Until now this has been kept
away from the public, but not any more. I can see it in
his face. He knows.

'What connection does this disappearance have with
the other children who have been interfered with by a
strange man this last month?' asked the man, and several
heads turned to look at him.

'I don't understand what you mean,' said Winter.

'Isn't it a fact that several children have been
approached by a man at playgrounds in various parts
of Gothenburg?'

'There have be—'

'In one case a little girl was actually kidnapped and
was eventually found with injuries,' said the man.

Boy, Winter thought. Not girl. He said nothing.

'Why don't you answer my question?'

'It sounded more like a statement to me,' said Winter.

'Then I'll ask it again. Have children been picked up
by a man at playgrounds? Or simply approached? Are
the police aware of any such cases?'

'I can't answer that question at this moment for
reasons connected with the case,' said Winter.

'Well that's a pretty clear answer, isn't it?' The male
reporter looked at Winter. He was wearing a leather
jacket and had long black hair and a black moustache,
and his whole body language expressed an attitude that
Winter often came across in journalists, a sort of rueful
arrogance that suggested that the truth wouldn't make
anybody happier, just as lies wouldn't make people all
that much unhappier. Perhaps in fact it was better to
take lies with you on a journey that wasn't anything
special, and life wasn't anything special.

'So there is a link?' the reporter persisted.

'No comment,' said Winter.

'Have children been kidnapped from day nurseries
here in Gothenburg?' asked another reporter, a woman
Winter didn't recognise as an individual, but was familiar
with as a type.

Winter shook his head.

'What kind of a bloody cover-up is this?' shouted a
young man who seemed to have wandered into the room
from a film. With exaggerated gestures he started making
his way towards the stage where Winter had hitherto
been the only entertainer. 'What are you trying to conceal
from the general public?'

'We are not concealing anything,' said Winter.

'If you'd placed your cards on the table from the
start, Micke Johansson might not have been kidnapped,'
said the young reporter, who was now only a metre
away from Winter, and looked up at him. Winter could
see that the man's eyes were bloodshot, and it might
not have been only from excitement.

'Cards on the table? This is not a game of cards,'
said Winter.

He also thought about the man in the checked cap
who had been filming the children as they crossed the
football pitch. They had good enlargements now, but
he had waited before making the pictures public. Had
that been a mistake? He hadn't thought so thus far. The
flood of tip-offs would be even more overwhelming and
difficult to oversee, running off in all directions. Who
would be able to absorb all this, sort it, filter it? He
didn't have the resources, the staff. Perhaps he could
borrow this group of people in front of him, a one-off
measure. No, he didn't have the time to coach them.

'I declare this press conference closed,' he said, and
turned his back on the flood of questions that always
came when the event was over.

Winter tried to talk to Bengt Johansson. There was a
framed photograph of Micke on the desk, and also a
PC.

Micke was climbing up a frame with an expression
on his face suggesting that he wanted to climb up,
up, up. There was wind in his hair and in the trees
behind him. He was wearing a jumpsuit, blue or
possibly black. His tongue was visible between his
narrow lips.

Johansson sat on his swivel chair swaying back and
forth, back and forth as if he were merely a part of an
intricate balancing system. Which was what he was, in
a way, Winter thought. He's swaying on that chair in
order to keep his balance, whatever good that might do
him.

Johansson had only just come home from hospital.

It hadn't been easy to talk to him, but it had been necessary.

Now more was expected of him.

Johansson looked up.

'Is it true that this has happened before?' he asked.

'What do you mean?'

'That Micke isn't the first.'

He's forgotten, Winter thought. Repressed it.

'I told you at the hospital about another boy. Simon
Waggoner. And about our suspicions regarding a man
who makes contact with children.'

'Hmm.'

'I asked you if you'd seen or heard anything that you
maybe didn't think twice about at the time, but that
stayed in your mind. Anything suspicious.'

'Yes, yes.' He sounded very weary.

Now he had seen the newspapers. Winter saw a newspaper
on the floor, folded up, or rather
scrunched
up
behind Johansson. The words of the press weigh more
heavily than mine. It becomes clearer when it's written
down.

'And now I want to ask you again,' said Winter. 'Is
there anything that has occurred to you?'

Open questions. He felt that to some extent he was
in the same interview position as with a child. Bengt
Johansson was traumatised, his own private hell had
fallen in on him.

'What might that be?' asked Johansson.

'Well, for example, have you noticed a stranger talking
to Micke? Or trying to talk to him?'

'You'll have to ask the day nursery staff about that.'

'We have done.'

'And?'

'No. Nobody noticed anything.'

'I'm with Micke for nearly all the rest of the time,'
said Johansson. 'It's him and me.' He looked up. 'The
one you should talk to is Car . . . Carolin. My ex-wife.'
He looked again at the photograph. 'Jesus Christ . . .'
He buried his face in his hands. 'If only I'd known, if
only I'd realised. Oh God!'

'If only you'd known what?' Winter asked.

'What she . . . what she intended to do.' He looked
up again at Winter with his bloodshot eyes. 'That she'd
intended . . . that she wanted . . .' And he burst out
crying. His shoulders started to shake, slightly at first,
then more and more violently.

Winter stood up and walked over to him, kneeled
down and embraced the man as best he could, and it
was sufficient. He could feel the man's movements
echoing in his own body, his spasms, his noises close
to his own face. He could feel the man's tears on his
own cheek. It's part of the job. This is the work I've
chosen to do. This is one of the better moments. It's
not much of a consolation, but it's an emotion shared
with a fellow human being.

Bengt Johansson gradually calmed down. Winter
continued to embrace him, waist-hold, half-nelson, whatever
– he didn't need any macho excuse. The man snorted
loudly.

Neither of them spoke. Winter could hear the sound
of passing cars. There was an overhead street light
outside and something had broken and the light was
flashing at intervals through the open venetian blinds.

Johansson disentangled himself.

'I'm . . . I'm sorry,' he said.

'For what?' Winter asked, rising to his feet. 'Would
you like something to drink?'

Johansson nodded.

Winter went to the kitchen that was next to the
bedroom they had been sitting in: Johansson's king-size
bed, the desk, the photograph of Micke.

Winter took a glass from the draining board, waited
until the tap water turned cold, filled the glass and took
it in to Johansson, who drank deeply and said:

'I don't think I can cope with this.'

'I understand that you are going through hell,' said
Winter.

'How can you understand? Nobody can understand.'
Johansson shook his head. 'How can you understand?'

Winter stroked the right side of his head with his
right hand. His hair felt cool, like something that was
a secure part of himself. Something of that sort. He
could see Angela's face seconds after they had hacked
their way into that horrific flat where she'd been held
captive. His thoughts when she had disappeared, his
thoughts about her thoughts when she was held there.
Not knowing what she had been feeling, what she
had been thinking. That had been the worst part of
all.

'I've been there,' he said.

It was Halders who took the call, via Möllerström.

'I gather you are looking for me.' It was Aryan Kaite's
voice at the other end of the line.

'That was a hell of a long piss break you took, milad,'
said Halders. 'Three days.'

Kaite mumbled something.

'Can you reveal where you are?' asked Halders. 'Or
are you still straining away somewhere?'

'I'm at Josefin's place.' Halders heard a voice in the
background. 'Josefin Stenv—'

'Stay where you are,' said Halders. 'I'm coming.'

'There's some . . . something else as well,' said Kaite.

'Well?'

'I have a mark. A mark on my head. I thought it was
just a scar but Josefin says it looks like something.'

'Stay where you are, or there'll be all hell to pay,'
said Halders.

* * *

Aneta was trying to interview a child, Bergenhem was
trying to interview a child, Winter was trying to interview
a missing child's father. Halders and Ringmar were
in a police car. The heavens had closed again, or opened
up if you preferred: rain was pelting down, whipped up
by a northerly wind.

'This is also what I'd call a hell of a long piss break,'
said Halders, indicating the rain being swept off the
windscreen by the wipers.

'Break?' said Ringmar.

'Ha ha.'

Ringmar took a piece of paper out of his inside
pocket. Halders saw something that looked like a crude
drawing, which was what it was: Natanael Carlström's
sketch of his farm's symbol.

'Do you think it will be possible to detect a similarity?'

Ringmar shrugged. Halders looked at him, at the
streets flashing past them, then at Ringmar again.

'How are you, Bertil?'

'Eh?'

'How are you feeling?'

Ringmar didn't answer. He seemed to be perusing his
notes, but when Halders looked more closely at the
piece of paper he couldn't see any notes.

'You give the impression of being extremely worried
about something,' said Halders.

'Drive straight through the roundabout, don't turn
right,' said Ringmar. 'It's quicker that way.'

Halders concentrated on driving. He continued in a
southerly direction after the roundabout. They could
see the blocks of flats on top of the hill. Josefin Stenvång
lived in one of them.

'Perhaps he's been there all the time,' said Ringmar.

'No,' said Halders. 'The girl has also been uncontactable.

You know that.'

'That's only because we haven't felt up to looking
for her,' said Ringmar.

'Felt up to looking for her?' said Halders. 'I have.'

'I haven't,' said Ringmar.

'For Christ's sake, Bertil. What's the matter?'

Ringmar put the piece of paper back in his inside
pocket.

'Birgitta's done a runner,' he said.

'Done a runner? What do you mean, done a runner?'

'I don't know,' said Ringmar. Did Fredrik know about
Martin? he wondered. What did it matter? 'I'll have to
prepare the Christmas ham myself.'

Halders gave a laugh.

'Sorry, Bertil.'

'No, it's OK. I think it's funny as well. And I haven't
even bought it yet.'

'So you can relax,' said Halders. 'All the good ones
have gone. You have to order six months in advance.'

They drove into the rectangular car park. Ringmar
unfastened his seatbelt.

'You're right, that means I can relax,' he said.

Aryan Kaite's face was shadowed with fear, if that was
possible in a face like his, Halders thought. There were
scars on the back of his head from his wound. But why
not? There were always scars after wounds. This one
could be a brand or an owner's mark, but it could also
be part of the natural healing process, as far as Halders
could see. Pia Fröberg had better take a look at it. The
weapon might have come from Carlström's farm, but
it might not. Still, Kaite had been out there in
Godforgetmeland. Perhaps the old bloke didn't like
darkies, and so he flew to Gothenburg on a broomstick
and dived down from the sky and branded those bastards
with his seal. That sounded logical enough, didn't it?
Even without the broomstick bit.

There is a connection between these frisky students,
Halders had thought in the car on the way there. And
the same thought occurred to him again.

Josefin Stenvång was sitting next to Kaite and looked
guilty, even more guilty.

'It's a CRIME to fail to appear for an interrogation,'
said Halders without bothering to sugar his words.

Kaite said nothing.

'Why?' asked Ringmar. He was standing beside
Halders, who was sitting down.

'I'm here now,' said Kaite. He looked up. 'I phoned
you, didn't I?'

'Why?' asked Halders.

'Why what?'

'Why did you phone? Why did you get in touch with
us?'

'It was these marks, Josefin said that they—'

'Don't give me that CRAP about it being because of
some marks on the back of your head or on YOUR
ARSE,' said Halders. 'Perhaps you know that we are
busy just now with a case concerning a missing child
and WE DON'T HAVE THE TIME to sit here listening
to you telling us A LOT OF SHIT.' He stood up. Josefin
flinched; so did Kaite. 'I want to know HERE and NOW
why you did a runner.'

Kaite said nothing.

'OK,' said Halders. 'You're coming home with us.'

'Ho . . . home with you?'

'To jail,' said Halders. 'On with your gloves and
woolly hat.' He headed for the door. 'You'd better have
a pee first, to be on the safe side.' He turned round and
looked at the girl, who looked at Kaite. 'You as well,
miss. You're coming as well.'

She was the one who replied to the big question
WHY:

'He was scared,' she said.

'Josefin!'

Kaite started to stand up. Ringmar took a step
forward. Stenvång looked at Halders. Halders saw that
she had made up her mind. She looked at Kaite again.

'Are you going to tell them, or shall I?' she said.

'I don't want to finger anybody,' he said.

'You're just being stupid,' she said. 'You're only
making things worse for yourself.'

'It's private,' said Kaite. 'It's got nothing to do with
THAT.'

'Will one of you kindly tell us what this is all about?'
said Halders. 'If not, we're going to the station.'

Kaite looked up, at something halfway between
Halders and Ringmar.

'I was out there,' he said. 'At . . . at Gustav's place.'

'We know,' said Ringmar.

'W . . . what? You know?'

He looked genuinely surprised.

'We've been there,' said Ringmar. 'We've spoken to
Gustav's father.'

Kaite still looked just as surprised. Why does he look
like that? Ringmar thought. What's so surprising about
our going to see old man Smedsberg? Or could it be
that we have been talking to Smedsberg and still don't
know
? What don't we know?

'He said that you and Gustav had been on the farm.
And helped with the potato picking.'

Kaite nodded. His face was different now.

'Is that where you were when you disappeared?' asked
Ringmar.

Kaite looked up. Yet another expression: How the
hell could you think that?

'Is this something to do with Gustav?' asked Ringmar.

Kaite didn't answer.

'Is he the one who threatened you?'

Kaite nodded.

'Have you felt threatened by Gustav Smedsberg?'

Kaite nodded again.

'I want to hear an answer,' said Ringmar.

'Yes,' said Kaite.

Ringmar could see relief in the boy's face now. It was
a reaction he'd often seen before. But his face revealed not
only relief. There was something else as well. He couldn't
quite make out what it was. He recognised it, but he would
have to think a bit more about what it stood for.

'Is that why you've been hiding away?'

'What?'

'Why have you kept out of the way? Why have you
been in hiding?'

'He was SCARED,' said Stenvång. 'He's already said
so.'

'I'm asking Aryan,' said Ringmar calmly. Halders
glared the girl into silence. 'Why did you keep out of
the way for three days even though you knew we were
looking for you, Aryan?'

'I was scared,' he said.

'Were you scared of Gustav?'

'Yes.'

'Why?' asked Ringmar.

'Something . . . something happened out there,' said
Kaite.

'Out there? Do you mean at Gustav's place? At the
farm?' Talk about leading questions, Ringmar thought.

Kaite nodded.

'What happened out there?' asked Ringmar. Here it
comes, he thought. Now we'll solve this business, or
parts of it.

'He hit him,' said Kaite. 'He hit him.'

'What do you mean? Who hit who?'

'Gustav's dad. He hit Gustav,' said Kaite. 'I saw it.'

'You saw Gustav being beaten by his father?'

'Yes.'

'How?'

'What do you mean?'

'What happened?'

'He just hit him. On the head. I saw it.' He looked
up, at Halders and Ringmar and then at the girl. 'He
saw that I'd seen.'