Frozen Tracks (40 page)

Alinder had the conversation on tape, and had just
listened to it:

'We can help you.'

'H-h-h-h-h-h . . .'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Ho-ho-ho-ho-how?'

'He was really stressed,' said Alinder. 'Maybe not all
that surprising, but he was extremely nervous. I don't
know. He was odd, as I said.'

Winter could hear paper being turned over at the
other end of the line.

'That's about all I can come up with on the stuttering
front,' said Alinder.

'What was the driver's name?' Winter asked.

More rustling of paper.

'His name is Mats Jerner,' said Alinder.

Winter felt his hair stand on end; a draught of wind
blew through the room he was standing in.

'Could you say that again?'

'His name? Mats Jerner. With a J.'

'He crops up in another case,' said Winter. 'I interrogated
him yesterday. Today.'

'You don't say.'

'What route is it he drives?' Winter asked.

'Hang on a minute.' Alinder looked it up and
reported: 'Number three.'

'What direction was he coming from when the accident
happened?'

'Er, from the west. Masthugget.'

'OK.'

'There's another thing,' said Alinder.

'What?'

'It makes the whole thing even odder.'

'Well?'

'I don't have any notes about it or anything like that.
I didn't remember it tonight in the car when I phoned
you, or when we were driving to the station. I thought
about it again when I read the reports from the accident
and the interviews.'

He remembered it like this:

He had been the first one to enter the tram after he'd
managed to get the driver to open the doors. He'd looked
round: the man at the front with the blood pouring out
of him, a woman weeping and making high-pitched
wailing noises, some children huddled together on a seat
with a man who was still holding his arm round them
as protection against the crash that had already taken
place. And two young men, one white and one black.

The driver had just sat there, staring straight ahead.
Then he'd slowly turned his head to look at Alinder.
He'd seemed uninjured and calm. He'd lifted up his
briefcase and placed it on his knee. Alinder hadn't
noticed anything special in the driver's cab, but then
again, he didn't know what they normally looked like.

There'd been something hanging from a peg behind
the driver. Alinder had registered that it was a toy animal,
a small one,
a little bird, perhaps, green in colour
, that
didn't stand out from the wall it was hanging against.
It had a beak. Maybe there was a bit of red there as
well. It had looked like a sort of mascot.

The driver had swivelled round in his seat, raised his
left hand, unhooked whatever it was and put it into his
briefcase. A-ha, Alinder had thought. A mascot. We all
need some kind of company. Or protection, perhaps.
To ward off bad luck. But that bundle of feathers hadn't
done much to help this poor bastard, he'd thought.

A little bird, green in colour.

Jerner had brought with him a brown briefcase that
looked to be about as old as he was. Winter had seen
it. Jerner had it tucked under his arm, Winter had
seen it leaning against the visitor's chair when they
stood up to leave.

Oh my God.

Winter felt he couldn't really control the hand still
holding the damn receiver, which had almost become a
part of him over the last few hours.

Was that a car he could hear outside? Had traffic
started moving? Was it that early, or late?

Stay CALM now, Winter.

There was one thing he had to do, without delay. He
dialled the number for Police Operations Centre.

'Hello, Peder, it's Winter again. Send a car immediately
to this address.'

He listened to what his colleague had to say.

'It's to the home of somebody called Mats Jerner,' he
said. 'No, I don't know exactly which flat, I've never
been there. But the nearest team must go there as quick
as a shot. What? No, wait outside. Outside the door to
the flat, on the landing, yes. They are to wait for me.
I'm on my way.' He needed to clear his throat. 'Send a
locksmith there as well. Fast.'

What was the number 3 route? Westwards from
the city centre? Eastwards, southwards? Perhaps
Jerner didn't drive that route exclusively. Did he
remember rightly that they had changed the number
3 route recently? It had stopped passing by Winter's
flat, didn't stop at Vasaplatsen any more. Then it had
come back again. He seemed to remember noticing
that.

He put on a sweater, stepped into his boots, wriggled
into his leather jacket and took hold of the door
handle just as the bell rang from the other side.

He opened it and found Ringmar standing there.

'Are you on your way out, Erik?'

'Where's your car?'

'Just outside your front door.'

'Good. I can drive,' said Winter. 'Come on, I'll explain
on the way.'

They took the lift. Ringmar had left the folding doors
open so that it didn't automatically return to the ground
floor.

'It's Smedsberg,' said Ringmar as they rattled down.

'What?'

'Old man Smedsberg. Georg Smedsberg. He was the
one who attacked the students.'

'Where have you been, Bertil?'

Ringmar's face was blue in the red light of the lift,
which tended to highlight his features. There was fire
in his eyes. Winter detected a smell coming from him
that he'd never noticed before.

'His son knew that all the time, of course,' said
Ringmar. 'Or nearly all the time.'

'Have you been OUT THERE, Bertil?' Winter looked
askance at Ringmar, who was staring straight ahead.
'Did you go there ON YOUR OWN?' Ringmar continued
to stare straight ahead. 'For Christ's sake, Bertil. I've
been trying to get hold of you.'

Ringmar nodded and continued to tell his story as if
he hadn't heard Winter's question.

'They've all been out there. All the victims. I have
half a kilo of muddy soil that will prove it, but we'll
manage without the need for forensic evidence.'

'Has he confessed?' Winter asked.

Ringmar didn't answer the question, but continued
telling his story.

'I went into the house just as he was about to do
God only knows what to the boy. His son. Then it was
just a matter of listening. He wanted to talk. He'd been
waiting for us, he said.'

They were down. Winter opened the door and
Ringmar accompanied him, almost tentatively, still
absorbed in his story. Their footsteps echoed in the stairwell.

Ringmar's voice echoed: 'Gustav knew his father
wanted to punish the others – or warn them, rather,
give them a serious warning that they were not to say
anything, that he'd already done it and would do it
again – so he came to us with his fairy tale about
branding irons.'

They were standing on the pavement. Ringmar's
unmarked police car felt warm when Winter touched
the bonnet.

'I'll drive,' he said. 'Give me the keys.'

'But it wasn't really a fairy tale, was it?' said Ringmar
as they got into the car. 'Branding irons like that
did
exist, and we checked up. And came to Carlström. And
from him to old man Smedsberg. Or was it vice versa?'
Ringmar stroked his nose and took a deep breath. 'The
boy had hoped we'd get on to his father.' He looked at
Winter. 'He didn't dare to say anything himself. He was
too scared. He knew he'd never be able to get away
from the old man.'

'Has he told you that?' asked Winter, jumping a red
light in the deserted Allé.

'He came home with me in the car,' said Ringmar.

'Good Lord. Where is he now?'

'In his room.'

'Are you sure?'

Ringmar nodded.

'Do you believe it all?'

'Yes.' Ringmar turned to look at Winter. 'You weren't
there, Erik. If you had been, you'd have understood.'

'Where's old man Smedsberg?'

'With our colleagues in Skövde by now,' said Ringmar,
checking his watch. 'Christ, is that the time?' He looked
at Winter again. 'They were out there, Kaite and the
other lads, and saw the old man attack his son. I'm not
clear about all the details, but they surprised the bastard.
The boy, Gustav, must have been paralysed. Petrified.
His father laid into him.' Ringmar rubbed his face. 'It
must have been going on for ages.' He rubbed his face
again, making a scraping noise against the stubble on
his chin. 'Destroyed, of course. Ruined.' He rubbed, and
rubbed again. 'There's nothing to see on the surface, of
course, but it's there inside. Ruined by his father. It
came—'

'Bertil.'

Ringmar gave a start, as if waking out of something
else, from a different dimension. The word came into
Winter's head, dimension. We're moving in different
dimensions here, one, two, three. The heavens, the ocean,
the earth, out and in, down and up. Dreams, lies.

He jumped another red light – the system seemed to
be stuck on the merry colour of Christmas. He drove
in a semicircle, past the old Ullevi Stadium, the
Göteborgs Posten
offices, Central Station. It was early
morning, but still black night. Dark taxi cabs were
parked alongside the railway lines. Follow the tracks,
Winter thought.

'He set off for the city and paid them a visit,' Ringmar
continued. 'And, well . . . we know the rest.'

'So he was the one who stole the iron from Carlström's
barn?' said Winter.

'Yes.'

'It's not the only link with our countryside idyll,' said
Winter.

'What do you mean?'

'Smedsberg was married to Gerd, who had previously
been a neighbour of Carlström's. Do you remember
that?'

'Of course. We checked up on the marriage.'

'I think that Carlström and Gerd Smedsberg had an
affair.'

'What makes you think that?'

'Go back and read the case notes, Bertil. Think about
how people have reacted. You'll realise then.'

'Is it relevant?' Ringmar asked.

'Carlström's foster son, Mats Jerner, wasn't unknown
to Smedsberg,' said Winter. 'I could see that from the
start. It was obvious.'

'And?'

'Smedsberg is just as guilty of what's happened. He
probably abused Mats Jerner. I'm almost convinced that
he ruined Jerner as well, when he was a boy. Or was
one of the people who did. Abused him sexually.
Smedsberg is just as guilty of what's happened.'

'Just as guilty of what, Erik?' asked Ringmar, who
seemed to have only just become aware of the fact that
they were heading for somewhere. He looked round as
they drove up on to the bridge. 'Where are we going?'

'To Mats Jerner's place,' said Winter.

They were on the bridge. Lights were burning everywhere,
as if on a dome rising out of the sea and the
land around them on all sides. It's as if the city were
alive, Winter thought. But it isn't.

They were alone on the apex of the bridge, then
started descending again. Winter could see the water
glittering from the reflection of the illuminated oil storage
tanks that were the most attractive objects in sight. They
passed a tram and a bus. Neither had any passengers.

'I've also got some news,' said Winter, and summed
up his Christmas Eve night in one minute flat. They
were approaching Backaplan. He turned right, then left.
He could feel the adrenalin pumping through his body,
creating a heat that cooled him down.

'It could be coincidence,' said Ringmar. 'He just
happens to stutter like others do, and has a mascot like
others do.'

'No, no, no, no.'

'Yes, yes, yes.'

'We need to take a look at his flat no matter what,'
said Winter, and parked. He could see the discreet blue
light on his colleagues' car illuminating the sky over the
residential area where Jerner lived in one of the threestorey
blocks of flats. It looked almost like a new day.

The Hisingen police were waiting outside the building.
They had switched off the blue light now. Their car was
covered in dirt, as if they'd had to cross a muddy field
in order to get there.

'We weren't sure if the flat was in A or B,' said one
of the inspectors, gesturing towards the entrance doors.

'Has anybody entered or left?' asked Winter.

'Not since we arrived, and that was ten minutes ago.'

Another car arrived and parked in the car park opposite
the blocks of flats. A man got out, carrying a small
case.

'The locksmith,' said Winter, gesturing in his direction.
'That was quick.'

The smith opened the front door for them. Jerner lived
on the second floor, the door on the right. Winter rang
the bell and heard the ringing inside the flat. He played
a drum roll with his fingers on the yellow tiled wall that
reminded him of the corridors at police headquarters.
The echo died down and he rang again. There was a
scraping noise behind the door opposite. The neighbour
was evidently watching them through the peep-hole.

'Open the door,' he said to the locksmith.

'Is there anybody in there?' asked the locksmith.

'I don't know,' said Winter.

The locksmith looked scared, but he had the door
open within twenty seconds. After the click he practically
leapt to one side. Winter opened the door with his
gloved hand. He crossed the threshold with Ringmar
close behind him. The two uniformed officers waited
on the landing. Winter had asked the locksmith to wait
as well.

The hall was lit up by street lights shining into a
room at the far end. Street lighting was slowly beginning
to mix with the faint light of dawn. Winter saw
an open door and the corner of a sofa.

'I'm going to switch on the light,' he said.

He could see Bertil blinking. The light seemed very
bright.

There were shoes scattered all over the floor, items
of clothing. There was something at his feet and he bent
down and saw that it was a length of cord, frayed at
one end.

He stepped over a man's boot. Ringmar went into
the room at the end of the hall, and switched on a light.
Winter joined him and stopped dead to stare up at the
ceiling that Ringmar was also staring at. There was no
other possible reaction.

'What the hell . . .' said Ringmar.

The ceiling was split into two. On the left it was
black with bright yellow stars some fifteen centimetres
in diameter. On the right was a blue sky.

The sofa was red and there were several video
cassettes on the table, which was low and wide. There
was a television set to the left, and a video player on
top of it.

Things were scattered over the wrinkled carpet.
Winter squatted down again. He could see a toy car, a
green ball, a watch.

He was prepared for this. Ringmar wasn't.

'Jesus,' said Ringmar. 'It's
him
. It
is
him.'

Winter stood up straight again. He was aching all
over; it felt as if he'd broken every bone in his body
during the last twenty-four hours.

They moved quickly through the flat. The bed was
a mess. There were newspapers on the floor. There were
remains of food on the table, butter, bread. On the
floor next to the sofa was a plastic cup with a spoon
in it. Inside the cup were remains of food, something
yellow.

There was a little sock half a metre from the cup.

Winter bent down over a cushion on the sofa and
thought he could see small, fine strands of hair.

An unpleasant smell pervaded the flat, a most
unpleasant smell.

'He's not here,' said Ringmar, emerging from the bathroom.

'The boy's not here.'

Good for you, thinking first and foremost about the
boy, Winter thought.

They examined all the wardrobes, every nook and
cranny, looked underneath everything, looked up as
well.

In the bedroom Winter found a thin cord tied to one
of the bedposts. There were red stains on the cord. He
leaned over the bed and saw a green parrot hanging
with its beak pointing towards the wall. It was no bigger
than the stars in the sky.

'Has he left without taking that with him?' asked
Ringmar, peering from behind Winter.

'He doesn't need it any more,' says Winter.

'What does that mean?'

'You'd rather not know, Bertil.' Winter took his
mobile from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. 'And
I'd rather not tell you.' He almost dropped it. Suddenly,
he was no longer in full control of his movements. 'Jerner
has a car. We'd better see if it's parked outside.'

He rang for all the reinforcements available.

They were still alone in the flat some minutes later.
Winter had phoned Bengt Johansson and then Hans
Bülow. They were now faced with a hunt.

There was water on the bathroom floor, and on the
draining board in the kitchen. Jerner wasn't on the other
side of the moon. Micke wasn't far away.

Winter had gone out and checked the car park, but
there was no point. Within the next half-hour everybody
in this building would be telling the police everything
they knew and had seen.