Frozen Tracks

8

RINGMAR WAS STANDING BY THE WINDOW, LOOKING OUT AT HIS November lawn that no longer needed mowing; he was grateful for that. It was large, and lit up by the lantern over the front door of his house and the streetlights on the other side of the hedge.

The rain falling onto the garden covered it like a shroud. Wind was whistling through the three maples whose crowns he had watched developing over the twenty years they had lived in the house. For twenty years he had been able to stand by this same window, watching the grass grow, or resting, as now. Luckily enough, he’d had other things to do. But still. He was thirty-four when they bought the place. Even younger than Winter. Ringmar took a swig of the beer glittering in its thin glass. Younger than Winter. For a while, quite a long while, before even Winter grew older, that had been an expression in the Gothenburg CID, even the whole force, in fact. Nobody was younger than Erik. A bit like the slogan “Cooler than Borg,” which he’d seen in one of the newspapers when he was a UN police officer in the buffer zone in Cyprus eons ago. That was before Moa’s time, even before Birgitta’s time. Before Martin’s time.

He took another drink, listened to the wind, and thought about his son. Strange how things could turn out. His twenty-five-year-old daughter lived at home with them, temporarily; but it could take some time for her to find a new apartment. His twenty-seven-year-old son hadn’t even sent them his current address. Martin could be in a buffer zone, for all he knew. Aboard a ship on the other side of the world. Drinking life away in a bar in Vasastan. Gothenburg was big enough for Martin to hide himself away in if he wanted to. If nobody looked for him. And Ringmar didn’t look for him. No active search for a son he’d heard nothing from for almost a year. No looking for somebody who didn’t want to be found. Moa knew that the little brat was alive but that’s all.

But he did search for him inwardly instead, tried to figure out why.

Surely he’d treated him well? Tried to be there when needed. Was it because of his damned job, when all was said done? His peculiar working hours? The traces of post-traumatic stress that were not always just traces?

The memory of a dead child’s body wasn’t something you could rinse off in the shower the same night. The little face, the gentle features that could no longer really be made out. Younger than anything else, and that’s the way it would always be. Finished, finished forever.

Ringmar emptied his glass. I’m rambling, he thought. But the children have been the worst.

Now I’m longing for a conversation with my only son.

The telephone on the wall by the kitchen door rang. At the same time a little flock of small birds took off from the lawn, as if frightened by the noise.

Ringmar walked over to the telephone, put his glass down on the counter, and lifted the receiver.

“Hello, Bertil speaking.”

“Hi, Erik here.”

“Good evening, Erik.”

“What are you doing?”

“Watching the lawn rest. Drinking a Bohemian pilsner.”

“Do you think you could have a word with Moa?” Winter asked.

“What are you talking about, Dad?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t really know.”

“This isn’t something you’ve thought up yourself.”

“Not in that way,” he said.

He was sitting in the armchair in her room that had been there as long as the room had been hers. Twenty years. She usually sat by the window, looking at the lawn, just like her father.

“Not in that way?” she said from her bed. “What does that mean?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t really know,” he said again, with a smile.

“But somebody has dreamed up the suspicion that Jakob Stillman is gay, is that it?”

“I don’t know that I’d use the word ‘suspicion.’ ”

“Call it whatever you like. I’m just wondering what all this is about.”

“It’s about this job I have, among other things,” said Ringmar, shifting his position in the puffy armchair that was starting to sag after all these years. A bit like me, he thought. “We’re testing various theories. Or hypotheses.”

“Well, this one is way off base,” she said.

“Really?” he said.

“Completely wrong.”

“But you said you didn’t know him,” Ringmar said.

“He has a girlfriend. Vanna. I sent her to see you, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“Well, then.”

“Sometimes it’s not that straightforward.”

She didn’t respond.

“Well?” he said.

“What would it mean, anyway?” she asked. “If he did turn out to be gay.”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t really know,” Ringmar said.

“What exactly do we know?” asked Sture Birgersson, who was just about to light a new John Silver from the stub of his old one. The head of CID was standing in his usual place, in front of the window, behind his desk.

“I thought you quit,” Winter said.

“My lungs feel better,” Birgersson said, inhaling. “I thought I’d better reconsider.”

“A healthy approach,” said Winter.

“Yes, glad you think so.” Birgersson held the cigarette in front of him, as if it were a little carrot. “But we have other questions to consider here, me-thinks.”

“You’ve read the notes,” said Winter.

“Do you need more people?”

“Yes.”

“There aren’t any more.”

“Thank you.”

“If things get any worse, I might be able to dig a few more out,” said Birgersson.

“How can things get any worse?”

“Another victim, for Christ’s sake. If someone dies.”

“We could easily have had four dead bodies,” said Winter.

“Hmm.” Birgersson lit his cigarette using the glowing butt. “Bad, but not bad enough.”

“Four murders,” said Winter. “That would be a record, for me at least.”

“And for me.” Birgersson walked around his desk. Winter could smell the tobacco. As if the old tobacco factory down by the river had come back to life. “But you’re right. It’s nasty. What we’re stuck with might be a serial killer who hasn’t actually killed.”

“Assuming it’s the same person.”

“Don’t you think it is?”

“Yes, I suppose I do,” said Winter.

Birgersson leaned backward and picked up three pieces of paper from his desk. Apart from them, it was empty, clear, shiny. There’s something compulsive about him, Winter thought, as he always did when he was standing there, or sitting, as he was at the moment.

Birgersson read the documents again, then looked up.

“I wonder if this gay theory is valid,” he said.

“It’s only you and me and Lars and Bertil who know about it,” said Winter.

“That’s probably just as well.”

“You’ve taught me to investigate through a bifocal lens,” said Winter.

“Have I really? That was pretty well put.” Birgersson stroked his chin. He looked Winter in the eye, possibly with just a trace of a smile. “Can you remind me what I meant by it?”

“Being able to look down and also forward at the same time. In this case, investigating several parallel motives.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s obvious, really,” said Winter.

“I didn’t hear that.”

“Like all great thoughts.”

“Hear, hear,” said Birgersson.

“The gay theory might give us a motive,” said Winter.

“Have you managed to interview any of the kids again? With this idea in mind?”

“No, we’ve only just thought of it,” said Winter.

Birgersson didn’t respond, which meant that the discussion was over for the time being. Winter picked up his pack of Corps and removed the cellophane from one of the slim cigarillos.

Birgersson held out his lighter.

“You quit too,” he said.

“It hurt too much,” said Winter. “Now I feel better again.”

Halders stood in the middle of Doktor Fries Square. Time stood still here, in this square that had been built during the era of the Social Democrats, when Sweden ’s welfare state was strong, when everybody was cared for from the cradle to the grave and looked into the future with confidence, anticipating the fulfillment of their dreams. In this square I’m a little boy again, Halders thought. Everything here is genuine; this is what it looked like then.

Flags, stone, concrete. But everything in the square was lovely then, dammit. Concrete soaring high over the ground. Not bad, not bad at all.

A few people were wandering around between the library, the community center, and the dentist’s office that Halders knew Winter used. There was a pizza parlor, of course. A closed-down bank, of course. A newstand, post office (but not for much longer). A self-service store-a name that fit the square’s appearance and age. For me this shop will always be a self-service store. That’s a 1960s term.

Halders sat down on one of the benches outside Forum and drew a map in his notebook.

Stillman had passed by here, after climbing up the steps that lead down to the city center. He’d walked through the bushes, which must have been pitch black. There were other routes he could have taken. This had been the most awkward one. Perhaps the boy was a bit of an adventurer. Halders drew a line that Stillman must have walked, from where he was sitting to the point where the attacker had clubbed him down.

Almost the dead center of the square. He looked in that direction. Somebody might have been standing in the covered passageway in front of the self-service store. Or by the tobacconist’s. Or the delicatessen on the other side. Crept forward with his club. A seven iron. Or a different iron. Or swished up on a bicycle. Or run like the devil on silent soles, and the young man who was tired and tipsy hadn’t heard a thing. Too bad the victim didn’t have a Walk-man with Motorhead filling his brain at full volume. That would have explained a lot.

Perhaps they weren’t alone. Halders kept thinking that when he made this follow-up visit to the various locations. Maybe they were with somebody but didn’t want to say who, even though whoever it was had tried to kill them. Could that be the case? Were they protecting their own attacker? Huh. Halders had learned a lot in this job. It was a mistake to believe that people will behave rationally. The human psyche was an interesting piece of reality in that respect. Or frightening, rather. You had to take things as they came.

Not alone. Shielding somebody. Or ashamed of something? He looked down at his sketch again. Drew a dotted line to the bus and streetcar stop. Stillman had been on his way there, he’d said.

From where? He still hadn’t been able to explain what he’d been doing here. Halders didn’t buy all that stuff about just strolling around, going nowhere in particular. It was a long way from here to Olofshöjd and his dorm room. It’s true that it’s possible to go there from Slottskogen via Änggården and Guldheden, just as it’s theoretically possible to stroll east from Gothenburg to Shanghai.

Had he been visiting somebody around here? In which case, why the hell didn’t he say so? Did they go for a moonlit walk? We’ll have to have another chat with him. And with the other students, a student from Uppsala-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la-la. Halders hummed the tune as he got up from the bench and made his way to the delicatessen to buy lunch.

Winter lingered on the grounds after dropping off Elsa at the nursery school and waving to her through the window. She had turned away immediately and vanished, and it dawned on him that he and Angela were no longer the only ones in her life.

A lot of children were running around the grounds. Two supervisors, as far as he could see. There was a lot of traffic passing by-the second stage of the morning rush hour. I’ll be joining the rush shortly.

A little boy was making his way through the bushes. Maybe the same one as last time, hoping to escape to freedom outside the fence.

Winter watched him disappear into the undergrowth. He’d soon be out again. Maybe he had a secret den among the bushes that he went to every day.

Winter walked down to the gate and looked to the right, expecting to see the boy on the other side of the bushes and inside the fence. But there was nobody in sight. He walked toward the bushes but still could see nothing, hear nothing. He approached closer still, noticed a loose bit of the thick steel wire, pulled at it, and felt the whole length open like a swinging door.

He turned around, but there was no little boy in brown overalls and a blue cap standing in the bushes, waving.

What the hell…

The opening was too small for him to clamber through. He jogged quickly to the gate and out into the street, but he still couldn’t see the boy anywhere.

He walked the ten or so meters to the intersection, which was partially hidden from view by the evergreen bushes surrounding the day nursery, turned right, and saw the boy some twenty meters ahead of him, marching purposefully away.

By the time Winter got back to the nursery school with the boy, they had already called the register.

“We were going to have a snack,” said the deputy manager, who was standing at the gate, looking worried.

“There’s a hole in the fence,” said Winter, putting down the boy who had allowed himself to be carried back without protesting.

“Good Lord,” she said, squatting down in front of the boy. “Have you been out for a walk, August?”

The boy nodded.

“But you mustn’t go outside the fence,” she said.

The boy nodded again.

She looked up at Winter.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before.” She looked in the direction of the juniper bushes. “How on earth can the fence have broken?”

“I don’t know,” said Winter. “I didn’t have time to examine it. But you’d better have it fixed right away.”

“I’ll call this very minute,” she said, standing up. “We’ll keep the children indoors in the meantime.”

Winter went back to the fence and secured the loose strand of wire. Another length came loose when a few rusty staples gave way. He was stronger than August, but nonetheless, the boy had managed to open up the gap, even if it was rusty to start with. Not encouraging. Winter thought of Elsa. Had she ever been to this hole in the fence with August before? Never go with strange men.

The whole group was playing some kind of hide-and-seek, the children were laughing and looked delightful. He’d have loved to run forward and stand against the wall and count to a hundred, then shout “Ready or not, here I come!” and then start looking and see somebody emerge from their hiding place and make a dash for it, but he would be faster and touch base first, and then they’d do it all over again with the same result, and everybody would say that he was the fastest and the best and then, when it was his turn to hide, nobody would find him, and he would dash out and touch base and win again. He would win every time.

He was crying now.

It was raining; he could see drops on the windshield.

The same voice on the radio again, always the same voice when he was out driving, when he felt as he felt now. When he wanted to be where the children were. Talk to the children, that’s what he wanted to do. That was all.

The same voice, the same time, the same program, the same light in the sky. The same feeling. Would any of the children want to go with him, a bit farther? Go home with him? How would he be able to turn them down? Even if he wanted to?

The voices out there sounded like a swishing noise, just like the rain. He liked both sounds, the way in which they blended so softly and gently that made him want to sit there forever and ever and listen to them.

Then came that feeling that was a new feeling, and he knew that it made him feel frightened, and he tried to shake his head so that it would sink back down inside him like it had done before, but it didn’t. It made him stretch and open the car door and step out onto the ground that was covered in rotting leaves that smelled more strongly than they had the previous time, and now he was standing at the side of the car and the feeling was getting even stronger, and it was like a band of steel across his chest. He could hear his own breathing, and it was so loud that he thought everybody else must be able to hear it as well. But nobody heard. Everybody ran. Everybody laughed. Everybody was happy and he didn’t want to think about when he was that little and maybe had run and laughed just like they were doing. With Mom. Mom had always held his hand and the ground had been covered in leaves of many colors.

There was a little girl, running.

A good hiding place.

He followed her.

Here’s a better one.

Yes. I’m playing with them as well. Now they’re looking this way! What if they see you!

Here, here.

This is a better hiding place.

In here.

He’d seen this path before, a sort of corridor between the boulders and the trees where he’d left the car. Behind the hill. He was almost surprised by how easy it was to drive there from the parking lot.

This is the best place, over here. Nobody will find you here.

He felt the rain on his tongue when he realized it had been sticking out.

He’d thought the police would want to talk to him again, but why should they? He hadn’t done anything. It was the other one. Everybody had understood that. They’d understood that at work. Have a rest for a few weeks, and we’ll take a good look into what happened.

I don’t need a few weeks. I need my work. That’s what he’d told them. He’d answered their questions about what had happened, he’d told them everything.

Have you never had anybody like that in your streetcar? Somebody like that! Gothenburg is full of them, in the streetcars, in the buses. It was dangerous for the public, and dangerous for the drivers. Just look at this mess! Isn’t this proof of what can happen? What caused the accident?

Yes, this is my car. Who’ll be able to find you in here? This is the best place.