Frozen Tracks

20

“FRÖLUNDA WANTS TO SPEAK TO YOU,” SAID MÖLLERSTRÖM AS Winter was passing. The registrar waved the telephone receiver at him.

“I’ll take it in my office,” Winter said.

He picked up the receiver in his office without taking off his overcoat.

“Winter.”

“Hi, this is Larissa Serimov from Frölunda police station.”

Somebody he’d never heard of before.

“Hi Larissa.”

“I read your appeal in the CID information circular.”

“And?”

“On the intranet as well, incidentally.”

“So what do you have to say?”

“I’ve had something similar here as well.”

“Tell me.”

“A woman called the station and I took the call, and she said that her daughter had been with a stranger.”

“How did she know?”

“The girl told her about it.”

“Told her about what?”

“As I just said. An encounter of some sort.”

“Any injuries?”

“No…”

“There’s hesitation in your voice.”

“It might be more complicated. I have my suspicions. About the possible injuries the girl has. But it might have nothing to do with the stranger business.”

“I see.”

“But then again…” Winter could hear the rustling of papers. “The girl also lost a ball, by the way. According to her mother. It could have happened at any time, of course, but the mother says she lost it the same day.”

“Where are you now?”

“At the station.”

Winter checked his watch.

“I’ll be there in half an hour. I’m leaving right away.”

The Frölunda police station was not small, but it was dwarfed by the furniture store next door. There were no vacant places in the store’s parking lot. A procession of cars drove away with sofas and armchairs strapped to the roof. Beds and headboards were balanced precariously on open trailers. Sticking out like crosses on which an unwary driver might well find himself suspended. It’s a good thing the rain has stopped, at least, Winter thought. A wet bed is not exactly uplifting.

Larissa Serimov was waiting for him at reception.

“I went with them to the hospital,” she said. “The mother was worried. The girl’s father was there as well.”

“So the name of the family is Bergort?”

“Yes. The girl’s name is Maja.”

“What did the doctor have to say?”

“He found no injuries in the lower part of the body, nothing of that kind. But he said something else.”

“Yes?”

“The girl, Maja, had a few bruises.”

“Had she been abused?”

“He couldn’t say.”

“What did they look like?”

“Swelling. Bruises. Not big.”

“But he had an opinion, no doubt?”

“The mother said that Maja had fallen off a swing and hit the frame. She thought that’s what had happened. Maja had been crying, she said. And the doctor said that was possible.”

“The alternative?”

She looked down at the computer printout. The order of events, Winter thought. That could be of crucial significance.

“What he said was more or less exactly this: ‘I just thought that it’s not totally unheard of for parents who beat their children to report it to the police as an accident. Or to invent stories that might fit the bill, some of them absolute fantasy.’ I assume he was referring to the situation with the stranger.”

“But he didn’t want to make an official report.”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“What about you, though?”

She looked at him, as if she’d been expecting that question at any moment.

“I haven’t been able to let go. I went to see them and met the mother and the girl again.”

Winter waited. They were still in reception. He still had his overcoat on. He’d thought briefly that Inspector Larissa Serimov’s blouse was the same color as the sky out there. In summer the blouse might have looked overwashed against the aggressive brightness of the clear sky, but now it was a part of the winter world, a sort of camouflage uniform the police were obliged to wear when outdoors in December without a jacket.

“There was something about the child. Something had happened again,” said Serimov.

“Are you sure?”

“No. But yes.”

“How did the mother react?”

“As if nothing had happened.”

“But she reported the incident with the stranger,” Winter said.

“And the obvious question is: Why?” said Serimov.

“Do you want to file a report?” Winter asked. “Against the parents?”

“I’m still not a hundred percent sure,” she said. “Everything seems to be so… normal. So… as it should be. The harmonious little family. A family just like every other.”

Like mine, Winter thought.

“Have you met the father aside from at the hospital?” he asked. “What was his name again?”

“Bergort. Magnus Bergort. But to answer your question: No-he wasn’t at home when I stopped by.”

Winter looked out through the door and noted that the light was faint but nevertheless brighter than it had been for several months.

“Let’s step outside for a couple of minutes.” He held up his cigarillo by way of explanation.

They were standing in front of the parked police cars. Larissa Serimov wasn’t shivering without her jacket. It was so mild. Her blouse was the same color as the sky. Camouflage. Winter smoked his cigarillo. It was only his fourth today. Daily consumption was going down, but there was a lower limit.

“What’s your impression of this situation?” he asked.

“It’s all based on what the child says, of course. The mother doesn’t know what to think. The most concrete evidence she has is that the ball has disappeared, and that Maja says that this mister, or whatever we should call him, took her favorite ball and said he would throw it to her through the car window, but didn’t.”

“And where was the car parked?” Winter asked.

“Outside one of the day nurseries in Marconigatan. There’s a little hill. They were playing on it.”

“So there’s somewhere to park there?”

“Yes. And it’s sort of hidden. I checked.”

“But the staff didn’t notice anything?”

“No, nothing.”

“Should they have?” Winter asked.

“I really don’t know.”

They drove to Marconigatan. The traffic had intensified along with the gathering darkness. The enormous parking lot behind Frölunda Square was starting to fill. Some people were going to the Arts Center, the library, and the swimming pools, but most to the shops. Streetcars clattered past in a constant stream. Windows in the high-rise buildings were lit up like broad smiles, row upon row of them. The moon was stronger than the sun now. There were stars up there, a reminder that the sky hadn’t shut down for good. Winter suddenly felt hungry, and thought about food for dinner. He looked at his watch. He would have time to get to the market later in the afternoon, but buying food wasn’t the most important of today’s jobs.

Some children were digging in the sand. Two women were standing among them. Two staff members for three children, Winter thought. I’m assuming that’s not a normal statistic.

The nursery-school manager was still there. She looked tired, like most people who were trying to hang on until the holidays finally arrived. There were jam stains on her apron. A little child was sitting on her knee, and smiled when Winter stuck his finger into his mouth, puffed up his cheeks, and made a little popping noise to amuse all present.

“Now I guess I’ll have to keep doing that in the future,” said the manager, putting down the little boy who had only just learned to walk.

She took off her apron and revealed a dress that looked like the apron. Her eyes were wide apart, and she gave the impression of being more than competent.

Winter had already introduced himself.

“Let’s go outside,” said the woman, whose name was Margareta Ingemarsson.

“We’ve met before,” she said to Serimov.

She’s ambitious, Winter thought, looking at his colleague. But she didn’t contact us. If she had I wouldn’t have had anything to say. Not then. We would’ve had a memo of the call, just like she had.

They stood diagonally behind the U-shaped nursery school. The traffic had fused to form a continuous beam of headlights. There was a fence, and beyond it a hill and some trees. A narrow paved road ran around the hill linking the parking lot in front of the nursery to the one belonging to the housing estate on the other side.

“Just a moment,” Winter said, and walked higher up the slope in order to look down at the narrow road, partly hidden by the trees. He went back to where the two women were standing.

“Well, I really don’t know what else I can say,” said the nursery manager.

“Did you speak to Maja’s mother?” Winter asked.

“Yes.” She glanced up at the top of the hill, then looked back at Winter. “We don’t know what to think here.”

“Could it have happened?”

“What exactly do you mean?”

“What the girl said. That she sat in a car with somebody for a little while. Somebody she didn’t know,” Winter said. “That it happened here.”

“It sounds incredible to me,” said Ingemarsson. “But what can I say? We didn’t notice anything. And I would maintain that we keep a close eye on our children here.”

“Do they come up here to play?” asked Winter, gesturing toward the slope and the trees.

“Sometimes. But never alone.”

“What’s the staffing situation?”

“In relation to the number of children? Catastrophic.”

That was one way of answering the question, Winter thought. Nothing new to me. I’m a detective chief inspector, but I’m also a father.

Police headquarters was warm and pleasantly welcoming as always. My second home. Winter walked down the corridor, which would shortly be decorated with a Christmas tree. He could hear the rhythmic tapping of a computer keyboard. The last report of the day was being written in the front office. He could see a hunched back. A few more lines, then home, home, home. He thought about a venison steak with sliced oven-baked potatoes. Or mashed root vegetables. Mushrooms, perhaps. I didn’t use to think like this. Does it have to do with turning forty? No. It has to do with the fact that I haven’t had any lunch.

He heard his telephone ringing before he reached his office. It stopped, then started again when he was inside.

“Erik? Hello. We have a problem here at the hospital. Car accident victims. Multiple ones. Could you pick Elsa up, please?”

Angela sounded stressed.

Another nursery school. Yes, of course.

“What time?”

“Half past five. It’s Thursday today.”

Winter looked at the clock hanging on the wall over the sink. Half past four. He might have time to fit in the market as well.

“What time will you be home?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I have no idea, and I have to go now.”

“OK, I’ll pick her up. There’ll be…”-but she had whispered a quick “love you” and hung up before he had time to inform her about dinner.

He turned on his computer. There were several messages in his in-box. He selected one of them and phoned the direct number.

“Police, Örgryte-Härlanda, Berg.”

“Hello, Winter here, CID. Can I speak to Bengt Josefsson, please?”

“He left an hour ago.”

“Do you have his home number?”

“How do I know you are who you say you are?”

“Look, I have to pick up my daughter from the nursery school in less than an hour and go to the market before then, and before that I need to talk to Josefsson about a message he left me, so be a good boy and give me his home number now.”

“I can see on the display here that you are one of us; or at least you are calling from police headquarters,” said Berg.

This Berg idiot is a piece of work, Winter thought. He got the number, and called it.

“Josefsson.”

“Hello, Erik Winter here.”

“Ah, yes.”

Winter heard him swallow, and what sounded like ice cubes in a glass of whiskey. Blended. Josefsson was enjoying his free time.

“It’s about that business with the young children,” said Josefsson.

“I’m all ears,” said Winter.

“I saw your appeal, and I’ve got something that might be relevant.” Winter heard another clink, fainter now as the ice cubes melted and grew smaller. “I made a note of a phone call I received,” said Josefsson. Winter heard his voice rather thicker and milder now, from the smoke in the spirits.

He found a parking space for the Mercedes by the canal. There were more customers in the market today than there had been the day before, but not as many as there would be the next day. Winter bought his venison steak and some langoustines for a possible appetizer, and some ripe goat’s cheese. The market was beginning to acquire the heavy aroma of fresh pork that was so central to the Swedish Christmas. Winter’s mind turned to shellfish tapas on a coast farther south. He’d soon be there.

But back in the car he wasn’t sure. He had a nagging worry. He recognized it as an old enemy that kept coming back.

Elsa already had her jacket on. He had arrived just on time.

When they were in the car, she asked about dinner.

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m really really hungry.”

“Did you have any lunch today?”

“No,” she said, nose in the air.

“Nothing at all?”

“No!”

“I can understand why you’re hungry, then.”

“Whatsfordinner?

He didn’t have the heart to tell her it was venison. Bambi. He just didn’t have the heart.

“A lovely little steak that won’t take long in the oven, and there’ll be sauce, and I can make you some mashed potato and some mushrooms.”

“Yes!”

“And before that you can help me to make a salad with some langoustines and whatever else we can find.”

“Find where?!”

“Inside your nose,” he said, turning around.

“Ha ha ha!” She was jumping up and down in her car seat. “Really really hungry.”

But that was when she could still talk. In the kitchen she very nearly fell asleep with her arm around a langoustine that looked as if it were her cuddly toy. He picked it up, prepared it, and added it to the others.

Elsa couldn’t wait. An unusually hard day at the office. She ate a claw and he quickly prepared a small portion of mashed potato and heated up what was left of yesterday’s salmon and cod au gratin. It smelled good, but Elsa’s interest had faded somewhat.

He read to her.

“Are you tired tonight, sweetie? What have you done today?”

She was asleep. He closed his eyes and thought about the Waggoner boy who didn’t want to talk and couldn’t raise one arm, but could still see.

He lifted her into her bed and left the door ajar. He went back to the kitchen, checked the steak, and peeled some more potatoes and took some more mushrooms out of the freezer. He happened to think about that clinking noise over the telephone, and poured himself a Rosebank with a small glass of water on the side.

The sky was clear. Winter stood in the balcony doorway and drank and enjoyed the fresh, dry taste of herbs, and the whiff of a lowland breeze. He rejected the idea of a Corps. He left the balcony door open for a while, went to his desk, switched on his laptop, and spent a quarter of an hour thinking while the big room filled up with music.

If he had described that scene to anyone, they would have understood it as peaceful. He didn’t feel at peace. He was trying to work out a pattern on the basis of what he’d heard that day, and there was no trace of peace in that pattern.

Angela came home while he was setting the table.

“Will you pour me a drop of wine?” she said, before coming anywhere near the kitchen. He had heard her briefcase thud on the floor from a great height. “Mmmm. It smells good.”

She went in to see Elsa as he was adding a lump of butter to the sauce. The final touch before they sat down to eat.

“Ah yes, of course” said Angela, when she came into the kitchen and saw the deep dishes with the shellfish salad. “It’s Thursday after all.”

“Elsa was tired out.”

“I’m more hungry than tired now,” she said. “And thirsty.” She held her wineglass up to the light and studied the contents. “I declare as the house doctor that wine is good for you after a hard day’s work.”

They sat down at the table. The music was Mingus, drifting in from the living room.

“I hope you didn’t tell Elsa what we’re eating for the main course?” she said.

He shook his head.

“It’s very good even so. Everything is good.”

“Better than Bistro 1965?”

“There are questions you can’t answer with a simple yes or no,” she said.

Such as, have you stopped beating your children? he thought.