Frozen Tracks

27

THE “WANTED” MESSAGE SENT OUT IN CONNECTION WITH ARYAN Kaite attracted a big response, but none of the tips led them to him, nor him to them.

“Anything new from the African clubs?” asked Fredrik Halders as they drove up through the hilly eastern suburbs to his house.

“No,” said Aneta Djanali. “He’s not a member. They knew who he was, of course, but he’s not on the membership rolls.”

“Are you a member?”

“Am I a member of what, exactly?”

“The Ougadougou Club.”

“What if I were to take you to Ougadougou, Fredrik? I sometimes think you dream about Ougadougou. You’re always talking about the place.”

“Isn’t everybody?” asked Halders.

Aneta Djanali was born in Eastern General Hospital in Gothenburg to African parents, immigrants from Burkino Faso, who had left their homeland when it was still called Upper Volta. Her father had trained in Sweden as an engineer, and they’d returned home when Aneta was about to become an adult. She had chosen to stay in Sweden. Of course. Her father now lived alone in a little house in the capital, and his house was the same bleached color as the sand surrounding the city. Everything there was hot, biting air (or blue frozen air), and people always cherished the same dreams about water that never came. Aneta had been back, if that was the right expression. It was a foreign country as far as she was concerned. She had immediately felt at home, but that was it-as if the expression “Home is where the heart is” had lost its meaning. She knew that she would never be able to live there: But, nevertheless, it would always be home.

She parked outside Halders’s house, where Advent candles were illuminating one of the windows.

“I can pick up Hannes and Magda, if you like,” she said, as he got out of the car.

“I thought you had a lot to do.”

“That can wait.” She gave a laugh. “I was going to get some tapioca root and dried bananas, but I’ve got enough to last me.”

“But what if your club throws a party tonight?”

“And what if people start taking your racist jokes seriously, Fredrik?”

“I don’t even want to think about that,” he said.

“Would you like me to pick them up, then?”

“Yes, please. I can make dinner for you.” She turned around with the door half open. “I’ve got sand cakes.”

“Yes, OK,” said Djanali, and drove off.

Winter was in Birgersson’s office. His boss was smoking in the semidarkness.

The pillars holding up Ullevi Stadium were splayed out behind him, against a clear evening sky. Winter could see a star.

“What are you doing for Christmas, Erik?”

“ Spain. Costa del Sol. If I can get away.”

“I hope you can’t.”

“I know what you’re saying, but even so I don’t understand.”

Birgersson grunted and tapped the ash off his cigarette.

“When are you going to start interrogating the children?” he asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“It’s going to be hard.”

Winter didn’t answer. He leaned forward and lit a Corps with a match, which he let burn for a few seconds. Birgersson smiled.

“Thank you for the Christmas atmosphere,” he said.

“They speak pretty well,” said Winter, letting the smoke float up. “More or less like adults.”

Birgersson grunted again.

“We’ve got quite a lot to go on,” said Winter.

“In the old days, which were not so long ago, we’d have said that a child was burned out after one interrogation,” said Birgersson. “It wouldn’t be possible to extract any more information after that.” He studied the smoke from Winter’s cigarillo. “But now we let the memories ripen. The images.”

“Hmm.”

“Let’s assume for the moment that all this actually occurred,” said Birgersson. “That what the children say is true. That these incidents did happen as described.”

“Simon Waggoner hasn’t said anything,” said Winter.

“But in his case, we know,” said Birgersson. “There’s no doubt about it.”

Winter thought.

“He has something that entices them,” he said.

“Is it just one thing? The same thing every time?”

“Let’s assume that for the time being,” said Winter.

“Go on.”

“And they have something that he wants.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He’s out to get something from these children. A thing. A souvenir he can take with him.”

“He wants them for himself, is that it? He wants… the children.”

“Let’s leave that for the moment,” said Winter. He drew on his cigarillo again. He could still see the star, and another one. It was as if he could see more clearly when he thought as he was thinking now. “He takes something from them. He wants to take it home with him. Or to have it in his possession.”

“Why?” asked Birgersson.

“It’s got something to do with… with himself. With the person he once was.”

“The person he once was?”

“When he was like they are now. When he was a child.”

“We know what he’s taken,” said Birgersson. “A watch, a ball, and some kind of jewelery.”

“And perhaps also something from the Skarin boy. Probably.”

“Are they trophies, Erik?”

“I don’t know. No. Not in that way.”

“Are the things he’s taken similar to things he has himself?” said Birgersson, putting down the cigarette and rocking backward and forward in his swivel chair, which emitted a whining sound.

“That’s a very good question,” said Winter.

“That somebody could answer, if only we could find a somebody,” said Birgersson.

“There are the children.”

“True. But I was thinking of other grown-ups. Grown-up witnesses.” He contemplated Winter, Winter’s Corps, Winter’s shirt unbuttoned at the neck, and his tie that looked like a noose. “Are we dealing with a grown-up here, Erik?”

“That’s a very good question.”

“A child in a grown-up body,” said Birgersson.

“It’s not that simple,” said Winter.

“Who said it was simple? It’s damned complicated,” said Birgersson. He suddenly turned around, as if he could feel the beams on the back of his neck from the two stars that seemed to be nailed to poles towering up over Lunden behind Ullevi Stadium. He turned back again.

“This is an ugly mess,” he said. “You know I think such expressions are unprofessional and I don’t like them, but I’m going to use it in this case all the same.” He lit another cigarette and pointed it at Winter. “Nail the bastard before something even worse happens.”