Frozen Tracks

39

“NOW LISTEN, MICKE. I HAVE TO GO OUT FOR A BIT. CAN YOU BE a good boy and behave yourself till I get back?”

The boy’s eyes opened then closed again, but he didn’t know if the boy 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. 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 boy must have been hurt even before he’d decided to look after him. Seeing as nobody else was. His mother, or whoever she was, hadn’t been taking care of him.

“It’s the best I can do.”

“Hurts,” the boy had said.

“It’ll pass.”

“Want to go home.”

What should he say to that?

“Want to go home,” the boy had said again.

“And I want you not to shout.”

The boy 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 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, he’d been running around too much. He needed some rest, as simple as that.

Micke was being well taken care of 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 forget?”

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 daddy?” 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 part I was thinking of,” she said, nodding toward 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 bad 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 bad words. But he’d had the radio on.

Maja Bergort had also heard bad 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. “I’m just thinking out loud.”

“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 bad 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 program 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 anymore.”

“It’s not her own face when she says her 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 called for Thai delivery in attractive cardboard cartons. Winter could taste coriander and coconut with prawns in red chili paste. It was spicy, and he could feel the beads of sweat on his forehead.

“Anyway, Merry Christmas,” said Aneta Djanali, waving her chopstick in the air.

“It’s not head cheese and red cabbage, I’m afraid,” said Ringmar.

“Thank God for that,” said Djanali.

“Do you eat any of the traditional Swedish Christmas meals?” 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 idea into our heads. The Thais 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.

“Do you have any forks in your office?” Ringmar asked.

“In Thailand they never stick the fork in their mouths,” said Winter in an exaggeratedly pompous tone of voice. “It’s just as bad as when we put a knife into our mouths.”

“No wonder they’re all so small and thin,” said Ringmar.

“You’ve got it all wrong, 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 turned 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 chili 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 do any telephone interviews. That might only confuse the boy, spoil the possibilities.

He took a drag at his cigarillo. He had a taste of roasted onion in his mouth that disappeared, thanks to the smoke. Many thanks. Peeling an onion, he thought. This job is like peeling an onion, layer after layer. What will be in the center? 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 keep on peeling.

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

They’d talked about it.

“Chasing after a streetcar?” Ringmar had said.

“Follow the tracks,” Djanali had repeated. “Why streetcar lines, or streetcar tracks, Erik?”

“It was the first thing I thought of,” he’d said. “I was standing in the Allé and I could see the streetcars and the streetcar lines and I just associated them with what Simon had said.”

That was where they had gotten to now. He turned around.

“Be careful,” said Ringmar.

“I know,” said Winter. “But we don’t have much time. If an idea pops up, you go with it.”

“But what if we think of other tracks?” said Djanali.

“We should,” said Ringmar.

“His own tracks,” said Djanali. “He was driving around 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 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 kilometers in diameter.”

“Near one or more of them,” said Djanali.

“We’ve already followed up that possibility,” said Ringmar. “We’re checking up on all the various housing estates.”

“But he might not live there at all,” said Winter. “The point could be that he lives for 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 streetcar 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 streetcar ride away from Linnéplatsen. But the same from lots of other places as well, I assume.”

“The streetcar,” Winter said.

“Wasn’t the idea that we should forget the streetcar 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. Then again, there can’t be that many different ways of getting from A to B.”

“Assuming that he took the direct route from A to B,” said Djanali.

“I didn’t say he did,” said Winter,

“He could have circled around again and again,” 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 program,” 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 that 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 doesn’t need to be. He might have followed Carolin and Micke from the nursery school. 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. Just as likely that he stood day after day outside a playground or a nursery school is the possibility 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 countryside,” said Ringmar, looking at Winter. “As far away as possible from Nordstan, which is the image mentally deficient people have of a big city.”

“The countryside’s a big place,” said Winter.

“How many people do we have on the case?” said Djanali.

“Not nearly enough,” said Ringmar. “The Christmas holiday presents problems with overtime, not to mention law and order and neighborhood policing.”

“But for Christ’s sake, this is more important than Christmas dinner!” said Djanali. “A boy is missing, kidnapped, but no kidnapper has announced himself. We could be looking at a matter of hours.”

Kidnapping, Winter thought. A kid napping. A little snooze. Fast asleep when Santa Claus arrived with his presents. If only.