Frozen Tracks (36 page)

'Shall we have a coffee?' said Ringmar. 'Or whatever
we ought to call the stuff.'

The coffee room was quiet, they were the only ones
there. Winter could see the day turning outside. A big
spruce fir on a hill in the Lunden direction had been
decorated and was glittering in the distance. He thought
of Halders and his children. What were they doing now?
Was Halders capable of boiling a ham, coating it with
egg and breadcrumbs and roasting it for the right length
of time?

'Another thing's cropped up,' said Ringmar, putting
two steaming mugs down on the table.

'Oh yes?' Winter blew at his machine-made coffee,
which smelled awful, but would do him a bit of good
nevertheless.

'Beier's forensics boys have had the results of the
analyses of the lads' clobber, and established a few things
themselves as well.'

They had taped the injured students' clothes and
vacuumed their shoes, which was standard practice after
crimes of violence.

The children's clothes had been carefully scrutinised
in the same way, and the technicians had found dust
and hair that could have come from anywhere until they
had something to compare them with.

'They've found some kind of clay,' said Ringmar.

'Clay?'

'There are traces of the same kind of mud on the
lads' shoes,' said Ringmar. 'And one of them – Stillman,
I think – had it on his trousers as well.'

'When did you hear about this?'

'An hour ago. Beier isn't there, but a new officer
came down to tell us. Strömkvist or something of the
sort. I have—'

'And they've been working on this today?'

'They're working overtime on the kiddies' clothes,
but the other stuff was lying around doing nothing, as
he put it. They'd had to put it on one side when the
Waggoner thing happened, and the manslaughter out at
Kortedala, but now they had a window.'

'Anything else?'

'No. It's up to us, as he put it. For the time being.'

'Mud. There's mud everywhere. Gothenburg is full
of mud. The town is built on clay, for Christ's sake!'

'I know,' said Ringmar.

'It could be the mud outside the halls of residence at
Olofshöjd.'

'I know.'

'Have they started comparing?'

'Yes, but they can only do one thing at a time. The
other bus—'

'There's a quicker way,' said Winter.

'Oh yes?'

'The mud out at Georg Smedsberg's place.'

'You mean that . . .'

'Bertil, Bertil. They were all there! There's the connection!
Gustav Smedsberg and Aryan Kaite were there,
we know that. Why couldn't the others have been there
as well?'

'Why haven't they mentioned it, then?'

'For the same reason that Kaite hasn't mentioned it.
Or lied about it. Or tried to keep quiet.'

'What is there to lie about?' said Ringmar.

'Precisely,' said Winter.

'What happened out there?'

'Precisely.'

'Why did they all go there together?'

'Precisely.'

'Did they witness a crime?'

'Precisely.'

'Are they being threatened?'

'Precisely.'

'Is that why they're keeping quiet?'

'Precisely.'

'Were the assaults a warning?'

'Precisely.'

'Somebody will have to drive out there and do a spot
of digging,' said Ringmar.

'Precisely,' said Winter.

'What is this?' said Aneta Djanali, who was standing
in the doorway of the coffee room.

'Now listen, Micke. I have to go out for a bit. Can you
be such a good boy that, er, that you can behave yourself
till I get back?'

The boy's eyes opened then closed again, but he didn't
know if the lad had heard, or understood.

'I want you to nod if you understand what I say.'

The boy seemed to be asleep, didn't nod. He could
hear him breathing. He'd checked carefully to make sure
that the scarf wasn't covering the boy's nose as well. If
it was, he wouldn't have been able to breathe.

The boy had said 'hurt' when he untied the scarf
some time ago, and he tried to find out where it was
hurting but that was hard. He wasn't a doctor. The lad
must have had a pain even before he'd decided to look
after him. Seeing as nobody else was. His mum, or
whoever she was, hadn't been taking care of the boy.

'It's the best I can do.'

'Hurt,' the boy had said.

'It'll pass.'

'Want to go HOME.'

What should he have said to that?

'Want to go HOME,' the boy had said again.

'And I want you not to shout.'

The boy had mumbled something he couldn't hear.

He'd told the boy about himself. Things he'd never
told anybody else before.

He'd adjusted the boy's arms, which seemed to be
lying a bit awkwardly behind him. There were no marks
from the string he'd used to tie him with, of course not.
He'd only done that because he thought the boy needed
to rest a bit, he'd been running around too much. He
needed some rest, as simple as that.

Micke was being well looked after here.

He'd shown him the ceiling, the stars on one side
and the blue sky and the sun on the other.

'I painted that myself,' he said. 'Can you see? No
clouds!'

It was his sky, and now it was the boy's as well. They
had lain side by side, looking up at the heavens.
Sometimes it was night and sometimes it was day.

'When I come back you'll get your Christmas present,'
he told the boy, who was lying nicely now after the
adjustments. 'I haven't forgotten. Did you think I'd
forgotten?'

Winter, Ringmar and Aneta Djanali were watching the
video recordings, over and over again. The children looked
so small, smaller than any of them had remembered, and
the police officers looked like giants. It sometimes seems
almost threatening, Winter thought. It's not easy.

Ellen Sköld's face was in the picture:

'Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa,' she said, and pirouetted like a
ballerina.

'Do you mean your papa, your dad?' asked Djanali.

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 hoping for help.

'This is the bit I was thinking of,' she said, nodding
towards the picture of herself. She turned to Winter.
'She says that over and over again.'

'Co-co-co-co.' Ellen's voice came through the speakers.

Winter said nothing, continued watching and listening.
Ellen told how some mister had said rude words on the
radio. It was obvious she objected to that.

Winter came to the same conclusion as Djanali: the
man hadn't heard the rude words. But he'd had the radio
on.

Maja Bergort had also heard rude words.

Simon Waggoner had nodded. Perhaps he had heard
them as well.

'He has a special time,' said Winter. 'He goes on his
excursions at the same time.'

Djanali suddenly went cold at the thought.

Ringmar nodded.

'Is that because of his job?' wondered Djanali. 'His
work?'

'That's possible,' said Winter. 'It's during the day. He
has to adapt. He does shift work. Or he doesn't work
at all and so has all the time in the world.'

'But even so, it always happens at the same time?'
said Djanali.

'We don't know that for certain,' said Winter. 'It's
just me thinking aloud.'

'Who is the man swearing on the radio?' asked
Djanali.

'Fred Gustavsson,' said Ringmar. 'He swears all the
time.' He looked at Djanali. 'Radio Gothenburg. He's
been on ever since it started.'

'Is he still on now?' asked Winter.

'I don't know,' said Ringmar. 'But if there's somebody
saying rude words on the radio it's bound to be
him.'

'Find out if he's still working for Radio Gothenburg,
and if so when that programme is broadcast,' said Winter.

Ringmar nodded.

Djanali wound back to the beginning and pressed
'play' again.

'Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa,' said Ellen Sköld.

Winter didn't listen this time, he simply tried to study
her face, her facial expressions. That was the main
reason they used the video recorder. Her face was in a
separate picture now.

There was something there. In her face. In her mouth.
Her eyes.

'She's aping somebody!' said Winter. 'She's imitating
somebody!'

'Yes,' said Djanali. 'It's not her face any longer.'

'It's not her own face when she says pa-pa-pa-pa-pa,'
said Winter.

'She's imitating
him
,' said Ringmar.

'Bi-bi-bi-bi-bi,' said Winter.

'Co-co-co-co-co,' said Ringmar.

'Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa,' said Winter.

'What is she trying to say?' asked Ringmar.

'It's not what
she's
trying to say,' said Winter. 'It's
what he's trying to say to her.'

'Pa-pa-pa-pa-parrot,' said Djanali.

Winter nodded.

'He stutters,' said Djanali, looking at Winter, who
nodded again. 'He stutters when he talks to the children.'

* * *

They were sitting in Winter's office. Ringmar had sent
out for a Thai takeaway in attractive cardboard cartons.
Winter could taste coriander and coconut with prawns
in red chilli paste. It was spicy, and he could feel the
beads of sweat on his forehead.

'Anyway, Merry Christmas,' said Aneta Djanali,
waving her chopsticks in the air.

'It's not brawn and red cabbage, I'm afraid,' said
Ringmar.

'Thank God for that,' said Djanali.

'Do you eat any of the traditional Swedish Christmas
fare?' asked Ringmar.

'I was born here in Gothenburg,' said Djanali.

'I know that. But the question stands.'

'Do you think it's genetic or something?' she said,
fishing up a prawn with her chopsticks.

'God only knows,' said Ringmar. 'I'm just curious.'

'Jansson's Temptation,' she said. 'I just love the
herring baked in cream with onions and potatoes.'

'Did your African parents make Jansson's Temptation
at Christmas time?' asked Ringmar, dropping a lump
of chicken, which fell back into the carton.

'Thai food shouldn't be eaten with chopsticks,' said
Winter. 'We can blame Chinese restaurants for drumming
the wrong ideas into our heads. Thai people use
a fork and spoon.'

'Thank you for that, Mr Know-it-all,' said Ringmar,
'but couldn't you have mentioned that sooner?'

'It was just a thought,' said Winter. An attempt to
distract you, he thought.

'Have you got any forks in your office?' Ringmar
asked.

'In Thailand you should never put your fork inside
your mouth,' said Winter in an exaggeratedly pompous
tone of voice. 'It's just as bad as us putting a knife into
our mouths.'

'No wonder they're all so small and thin,' said
Ringmar.

'You're on the wrong track, Bertil,' said Djanali. 'You
can shovel more food down if you use a spoon.'

'Do you have any spoons in your office, Erik?'
Ringmar asked.

It was dusk. Winter had switched on the lights in his
office. He was smoking by the window, the day's first
Corps. It was a must after the food, even though the
chilli and coriander didn't really go with the spices in
the cigarillo.

He could see the stars, very faintly. It might just be a
clear Christmas Eve evening. A sky full of stars. The silent
beauty in the sky. He thought of Simon Waggoner. He
had decided not to undertake any telephone interviews.
That might only confuse the boy, spoil the possibilities.

He took a drag at his cigarillo. He'd had a taste of
roasted onion in his mouth that had disappeared thanks
to the smoke. Many thanks. Peeling an onion, he
thought. This job is like peeling an onion, layer after
layer. What would there be in the centre? That's our
problem, isn't it, Erik? An onion is made up of its layers.
When the last one has gone, there's nothing left. But
we peel even so.

He heard a tram approaching before he saw it. A
distant and muffled clattering on the tracks.

They'd talked about it.

'Chasing around after a tram?' Ringmar had said.

'Follow the tracks,' Djanali had repeated. 'Why do
you think of tramlines, or tram tracks, Erik?'

'Maybe because it was the first thing I thought of,'
he'd said. 'I was in the Allé and I could see the trams
and the tramlines and I just associated them with what
Simon had said.'

That was where they had got to now. He turned
round.

'Be careful,' said Ringmar.

'I know,' said Winter. 'But we don't have much time.
If an idea crops up, you make a grab for it.'

'But what if we think about other tracks?' said
Djanali.

'Do,' said Ringmar.

'His own tracks,' said Djanali. 'He was driving round
with Simon and following his own tracks.'

'A criminal returns to the scene of the crime,' said
Ringmar. 'Or retraces his tracks.'

'What were his tracks?' wondered Winter.

'Where he'd been before with the children,' said
Djanali.

'But then the question is:
why
just
there
?' said Winter.
'If we assume that the places weren't chosen at random,
that there was a reason why he picked those particular
ones.'

'Maybe he lives nearby?' said Djanali.

'Near what?' said Ringmar. 'The locations of those
playgrounds and day nurseries cover an area several
kilometres in diameter.'

'Near one or more of them,' said Djanali.

'We've already followed up that possibility,' said
Ringmar. 'We're trying to run a fine-tooth comb over
the various housing estates.'

'But he might not live there at all,' said Winter. 'The
point could be that he lives a long way away from all
the places.'

'Which are
quite
close to one another nevertheless,'
said Djanali, glancing at Ringmar. 'Central. Apart from
Marconigatan.'

'Which is only ten minutes by tram from Linnéplatsen,'
said Ringmar.

Winter took another drag at his cigarillo. He could
feel the chill from the open window.

'Say that again, Bertil.'

'Er, what?'

'What you just said.'

'Er, well . . . Marconigatan, which is only a ten-minute
tram ride away from Linnéplatsen. But the same from
loads of other places as well, I assume.'

'The tram,' Winter said.

'Wasn't the idea that we should forget the tram link
for a moment or two?' asked Djanali.

'Where were we, then?' said Winter.

'A criminal returns to the scene of the crime,' said
Ringmar.

'I want to drive around with Simon again,' said
Winter. 'It's necessary. It might work better this time.'

'Does he remember what route they took?'

'I don't know,' said Winter. 'Probably not. But we know
where he was picked up, and we know where he was
dropped off. Obviously we know the area in between –
but there are lots of possible routes. There again, there
can't be all
that
many different ways of getting from A
to B.'

'Assuming that he took the direct route,' said
Djanali.

'I didn't say he did,' said Winter.

'He could have circled around as many times as you
like,' said Djanali. 'Tunnels, roundabouts.'

'He didn't have unlimited time,' said Ringmar.

'We know approximately when Simon went missing,'
said Winter, 'and approximately when he was found.'

'Which isn't the same as when he was dropped off
there,' said Djanali.

'The radio programme,' said Ringmar.

'I'll try to take him for a spin tomorrow morning,'
said Winter.

'Were they on the way to the kidnapper's home?'
wondered Djanali, mainly to herself. 'But something got
in the way?'

'The question is: who got in the way?' said Ringmar.

'Good,' said Winter.

'Was it something Simon said or did?'

Winter nodded.

'Something that disappointed our kidnapper?'

Winter nodded again.

'Or was it the intention from the start?' said Djanali.
'Part of a plan. A plan that didn't work out?'

'What sort of a plan?' asked Winter, looking at
Djanali.

'The same plan that did work the next time,' she
said. 'Micke Johansson.'

'He got scared when he was with Simon,' said Ringmar.
'He didn't dare . . . didn't dare to go through with it.'

Go through with what? thought Aneta Djanali, and
she knew that the others were asking themselves the
same question.

'But the way of going about it is very different,' she
said instead. 'It might not be the same person at all.'

'It isn't different,' said Winter. 'Or needn't be. He
might have followed Carolin and Micke from the day
nursery. He might have been standing outside there day
after day, waiting for an opportunity. There and at the
other places as well.'

'And filming,' said Ringmar.

'Or he might have been roaming around Nordstan,'
said Djanali. 'It's no accident that everything happened
there, OK? Not just a coincidence. He may have stood
day after day outside a playground or a day nursery.
And it's just as likely that he wandered around Nordstan.
For instance. Maybe the same days, the morning here,
the afternoon there.'

'Good, Aneta,' said Winter.

'He might live out in the sticks,' said Ringmar, looking
at Winter. 'As far away as possible from Nordstan, which
is the image mentally deficient people have of a big city.'