Frozen Tracks

32

ANETA DJANALI HAD GOTTEN THOSE RESPONSIBLE TO FURNISH the interrogation room with armchairs children could creep onto, in warm colors. Everything that Ellen Sköld might regard as a toy had been taken away. The girl’s interest had to be concentrated on Djanali.

Aneta entered the room first. Now she was holding the remote control-Ellen had already familiarized herself with the camera.

Lena Sköld was waiting outside. Djanali wanted to try that first. We’ll see how long the girl can sit still.

Ellen was cheerful and inquisitive. Djanali watched her trying out various sitting and lying positions on the armchair.

This is not a traumatized child. I must try to bear that in mind when the questions are asked and the answers given. If they are.

They chatted for a while. Ellen played with her fingers as she answered Djanali’s questions. Or rather, commented on them, it seemed to the detective inspector.

“Your mom told me that it was your birthday a month ago, Ellen.”

The girl nodded, up and down, up and down, but said nothing.

“How old are you now?”

“Four,” said Ellen, holding up a bunch of fingers.

“Wow,” said Djanali.

Ellen nodded again, forcefully.

“Did you have a fun birthday party?” asked Djanali.

“Yes!”

“Tell me about it!”

Ellen looked as if she wanted to talk about it but couldn’t choose between all the fun things that had happened on her birthday.

“Dad came,” she said, when Djanali was on the point of asking a follow-up question. “Dad came and brought some presents.”

Djanali thought about the single mother on the chair in the corridor. Lena Sköld had sole custody, she knew that. Even so there was an absent father who came to his four-year-old daughter’s birthday party with presents. Not all children with a single parent were so lucky. The children are just as single as their parents, she thought.

“What presents did you get?”

“From Dad?” asked the girl.

“Yes,” said Djanali. This girl is bright, she thought.

“I got a doll called Victoria. And I got a car that the doll can ride in.” She gave Djanali a meaningful look. “ Victoria has a driver’s license. Really.” She looked at the door, next to the camera. “Mom doesn’t have a driver’s license.” She looked at Djanali. “Do you have a driver’s license?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have a driver’s license.”

“It’s mostly grown-ups who have a driver’s license,” said Djanali.

The girl nodded. Djanali could picture her in a front seat with a grown-up who had a driver’s license. Did the girl have Victoria with her in the car? Did they have any information about that? Victoria wasn’t with her now. But if Victoria had in fact been in the car as well, she might have seen something Ellen hadn’t seen. Victoria had a driver’s license, after all.

“Do you like riding in cars, Ellen?”

Ellen shook her head and her expression seemed to tense-barely noticeable, but even so. I must check the recording afterward, Djanali thought.

“Do you and your mom have a car, Ellen?”

“No. My mom doesn’t have a driver’s license. I said that.”

“Yes, you did say that. I forgot. So in your house it’s only Victoria who has a car and a driver’s license, is that right?”

The girl nodded, up and down, up and down.

“Where’s Victoria now?”

“She’s sick,” said Ellen.

“Oh, dear.”

“Mom and me are going to buy some medicine for her.”

“What’s the matter with her?”

“I think she has a cold,” said Ellen, looking worried for a moment.

“Has the doctor taken a look at her?”

She nodded.

“Was it a nice doctor?” asked Djanali.

“It was me!” shouted Ellen, and giggled.

Djanali looked at her and nodded. She looked at the eye of the camera that might be seeing everything. She wondered how long Lena Sköld would be able to wait outside. Victoria had to have her medicine. Christmas would be here soon. It was the day before the day now. She hadn’t bought all her presents, nothing yet for Hannes and Magda, although she had bought two CDs for Fredrik, Richard Buckner and Kasey Chambers, because that’s what Fredrik had wanted, among other things. She had written a wish list herself. She would have a Christmas meal on Christmas Eve, Swedish style, with the Halders family, or what was left of it; she might even try the super-Nordic tradition of “dipping in the pot” (she’d never tried dipping bread into the stock from the Christmas ham before) and hoped to avoid having to listen to jokes from Fredrik apologizing for not having camel meat and tapioca pudding, today of all days. She would open presents piled under the Christmas tree.

She looked at the girl, who had left the armchair now. It was almost a miracle that she had sat on it for so long.

Would Dad come back to the Sköld family, or what was left of it?

“You told Mom that you went for a ride with a mister,” said Djanali.

“Not ride,” said Ellen.

“You didn’t ride in the mister’s car?”

“Didn’t ride,” said Ellen. “Stood still.”

“The car stood still?”

She nodded.

“Where was the car?” asked Djanali.

“In the woods.”

“Was it a big forest?”

“No! At the playground!”

“So the woods were at the playground?”

“Yes.”

“Was Victoria with you when you sat in the car?”

Ellen nodded again.

“Did Victoria want to drive the car?”

“No, no.” Ellen burst out laughing. “The car was big!”

“Was the mister big as well?”

The girl nodded.

“Tell me how you met this mister!” said Djanali. Ellen was now standing next to the brightly colored armchair. A split had developed in the cloud cover that lay like paper over Gothenburg as it waited for Christmas to arrive, and the split let through a beam of sunshine that shone in through the window and onto the back of the armchair. Ellen shouted in delight and pointed at the sunlight that suddenly disappeared again as the clouds closed.

“Tell me about when you met the mister with the car,” said Djanali.

“He had candy,” said Ellen.

“Did he give you some candy?”

She nodded.

“Was it good?”

She nodded.

“What kind of candy was it?”

“Candy,” she said dismissively. Candy was candy.

“Did you eat all the candy?”

She nodded again. They had searched the place looking for candy wrappings, but had naturally realized before long that it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. This was a playground, a park, children, parents, candy…

“What did the mister say?”

Ellen had started to dance around the room, like a ballerina. She didn’t answer. It was a difficult question.

“What did the mister say when he gave you the candy?”

She looked up.

“ ‘You want a candy?’ ”

Djanali nodded, waited. Ellen performed a little pirouette.

“Did he ask you anything else?”

Ellen looked up again.

“Ca-ca-ca-ca,” she said.

Djanali waited.

“Swee-swee-swee-swee,” said Ellen.

Time for a break, Djanali thought. Past time, in fact. The girl is tired of all this. But Djanali had intended for Ellen to look at a few different men from around police headquarters-a twenty-year-old, a thirty-year-old, a forty-year-old, a fifty-year-old, and a sixty-year-old, and ask her to point out the one that looked most like the man in the car. If that was possible. This collection of Swedish manhood was so vain that the fifty-year-old wanted to be forty, and the forty-year-old would have looked devastated if she’d guessed his age correctly. Only the twenty-year-old and sixty-year-old were unconcerned. That must mean something. Perhaps for men most of all. Men were people too. She must try to remember that.

She’d also hoped that Ellen would be persuaded to draw something, including a car in some trees.

“Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa,” said Ellen now, and she danced around the room again.

“Do you mean your papa, your dad?”

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 seeking help.

“Why did you say that?” she asked.

The girl didn’t understand the question; or perhaps it was Djanali who didn’t understand if she’d understood.

“Co-co-co-co,” said Ellen.

Djanali said nothing. She tried to think.

“Had a radio,” said the girl now. She’d moved closer to Djanali.

“This man had a radio?”

Ellen nodded.

“Did he have a radio in the car?”

Ellen nodded again.

“Was the radio on?”

Ellen nodded again.

“Was the radio playing a song?”

Ellen didn’t answer.

“Was there somebody singing on the radio?” Djanali asked.

“The mister said bad words,” said Ellen. By now she was standing next to Djanali, who was sitting on the floor that was colder than it looked.

“Did the man in the car say bad words to you?”

Ellen shook her head. But her expression was serious.

“Who said bad words?” Djanali asked.

“The radio,” said Ellen.

“The radio said bad words?”

Ellen nodded, solemnly.

“Did a mister on the radio say bad words?”

Ellen nodded again. That’s not allowed.

A man on the radio says bad words, Djanali thought. It’s afternoon. Somebody is sitting in the studio and swearing. Does that happen every day? Can we trace the program? And what do children think is a bad word? Often the same ones as we do. But children are so much better at picking up on them. But I won’t ask her now what the words were.

“I held my hands over Victoria ’s ears,” said Ellen.

“So Victoria didn’t hear anything?” asked Djanali.

Ellen shook her head.

“Has she said anything about it to you?”

She shook her head again, more firmly this time.

Djanali nodded.

“

Bad words,” said Ellen.

“What did the mister in the car say about these bad words?” asked Djanali.

Ellen didn’t answer.

“Did he think they were bad words too?”

Ellen didn’t answer. There must be something in the question that’s too subtle, Djanali thought. Or in her failure to answer. She’s not answering because the man didn’t make any comment about the bad words. He didn’t hear them.

“Bi-bi-bi-bi-bi-bi,” said Ellen.

He made a cup of hot chocolate for the boy the old-fashioned way: First he mixed the cocoa with milk and sugar, then he added the hot milk and stirred it with a spoon. In fact, he had made an extra effort, and had mixed the cocoa and sugar with cream!

But the boy didn’t want it. Would you believe it? He must be both hungry and thirsty, but he drank nothing, ate nothing, he cried, and he shouted, and it had been necessary to tell him that he had to be quiet because the neighbors needed to sleep.

“Sl-sl-sl-sl,” he said. He tried again: “Sl-sl-sleep. You must sleep.”

He pointed at the chocolate, which was still quite hot.

“Cho-cho-cho-chocolate.”

He could hear his voice. It had to do with the excitement. He could feel a hot force gushing through his body.

The boy had been asleep when he carried him into the building, and then into the apartment. He had driven him around the main circular roads and through the tunnels until he was so fast asleep that nothing would wake him up.

The stroller was in the trunk. It was safe there, just as the boy is safe here, he thought, nodding at the chocolate once again. Now he felt calmer, as if he had found peace and knew what was going to happen, maybe not right now, but shortly.

He knew that the boy was called Micke.

“Micke Johansson,” the boy had said. His pronunciation was good.

“Drink now, Mick,” he said.

“My name’s Micke,” the boy said.

He nodded.

“Want to go home to Daddy.”

“Don’t you like it here?”

“Want to go home to

Daddy.”

“Your dad’s not at home.”

“I want to go home to

Daddy,” the boy said again.

“It’s not good, being at home with your daddy,” he said now. He wondered if the boy understood. “It’s not good at all.”

“Where’s Mommy?” asked Micke.

“Not good.”

“Mommy and Daddy,” said Micke.

“Not good,” he said again, because he knew what he was talking about.

The boy was asleep. He’d made up a bed for him on the sofa. He had a Christmas tree that he was decorating. It was made of plastic, which was good because it didn’t shed any needles. He was longing for the boy to wake up so that he could show him the pretty Christmas tree.

He had phoned work and told them he was ill. He couldn’t remember what he’d claimed was wrong with him, but the person who received his call simply said, “Get well soon,” as if it didn’t matter if he was at work or not.

He had shown the boy how you drive a streetcar, and drawn the tracks and the route he was most familiar with.

That was where he always went back to when he wanted to talk to children and look after them. He had seen the places from his driver’s window, and thought, this is where I want to come back to.

Just as he liked to go back to the Nordstan shopping center when there were a lot of people around, the brightly lit windows looking festive, the families, the moms and dads with children in strollers that they didn’t look after properly but just left in any old place, in any old place, as if the stroller and its contents were a sack of trash that didn’t matter. What would happen if he were not there? Like on this occasion? What would have happened to Micke?

It was hardly worth thinking about.

When most of the Christmas holiday was over he and Micke would go back there, like everybody else would be doing, Micke in his stroller and him pushing it.

He’d shown Micke his Billy Boy.

The press conference was as chaotic as usual, but worse than ever on this occasion: Winter could smell the stench of fear that would spread once the idio… the journalists assembled here had published their articles.

There were honest people here. But what could they do? The moment they had left this room their influence would be over. Come to that, it was over even before they entered it.

He saw Hans Bülow two rows back. So far Bülow had behaved honorably. It could be that his colleagues would consider him to be a traitor, but his willingness to compromise had made his articles better than the others, and more truthful, if such an expression still existed.

Winter was dazzled by three flashbulbs going off simultaneously.

He was on the stage once again. The show must go on.

Birgersson had backed out at the last moment. An important meeting with the chief of police. At the same time as the press conference. I wonder what that means.

“What traces have you found of the boy?” asked the woman who always asked the first questions at shows like this, and always wrote articles without an ounce, without a single gram of fact or credibility.

“At the moment we are working on information we have received from the general public,” said Winter. “A lot of people contacted us as a result of our appeal.”

Far too many, he thought. Thousands of Gothenburgers had seen men with small boys in strollers, in cars, on the way into and out of buildings, into and out of shops, department stores, cars, streetcars, buses, even more than usual because so many people were out doing last-minute Christmas shopping.

“Do you have a suspect?” asked the same woman, and somebody in the pack of journalists smirked in the same cynical way that Halders sometimes did.

“No,” said Winter.

“You must have a long list of pedophiles and others who go after children,” said the woman. “Who abduct children.”

“We don’t know if Micke has been abducted,” said Winter.

“Where is he, then?”

“We don’t know.”

“So are you saying he got out of the stroller and wandered off on his own?”

“We don’t know.”

“What do you know?”

“We know we are doing all we can to make sure this boy returns home,” said Winter.

“So that his mother can abandon him again?” asked a male journalist sitting next to Hans Bülow.

Winter said nothing.

“If she hadn’t left the boy, this would never have happened, would it?”

“No comment,” said Winter.

“Where is she now?”

“Any other questions?” said Winter without looking at the man.

“How are you ever going to be able to find this boy?” asked a woman who was young and wore her hair in pigtails. It’s a long time since I last saw an adult in pigtails, Winter thought. They make everybody look younger.

“Like I said, we are doing everything we can,” he said.

A man in the fourth row raised his hand. Here it comes, Winter thought. Until now this has been kept away from the public, but not anymore. I can see it in his face. He knows.

“What connection does this disappearance have with the other children who have had contact with a strange man this last month?” asked the man, and several heads turned to look at him.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” said Winter.

“Isn’t it a fact that several children have been approached by a man at playgrounds in various parts of Gothenburg?”

“There have be-”

“In one case a little girl was actually kidnapped and was eventually found with injuries,” said the man.

Boy, Winter thought. Not girl.

Winter said nothing.

“Why don’t you answer my question?”

“It sounded more like a statement to me,” said Winter.

“Then I’ll ask it again: Have children been picked up by a man at playgrounds? Or simply approached? Are the police aware of any such cases?”

“I can’t answer that question at this moment for reasons connected with the case,” said Winter.

“Well, that’s a pretty clear answer, isn’t it?” The male reporter looked at Winter. He was wearing a leather jacket and had long black hair and a black mustache, and his whole body language expressed an attitude that Winter often came across in journalists, a sort of rueful arrogance that suggested that the truth wouldn’t make anybody happier, just as lies wouldn’t make people all that much unhappier. Perhaps in fact it was better to take lies with you on a journey that wasn’t anything special, and life wasn’t anything special.

“So there is a link?” the reporter persisted.

“No comment,” said Winter.

“Have children been kidnapped from day nurseries here in Gothenburg?” asked another reporter, a woman Winter didn’t recognize as an individual but was familiar with as a type.

Winter shook his head.

“What kind of cover-up is this?!” shouted a young man who seemed to have wandered into the room from a film, and with exaggerated gestures he started making his way toward the stage where Winter had hitherto been the only entertainer: “What are you trying to conceal from the public?”

“We are not concealing anything,” said Winter.

“If you’d laid your cards on the table from the start, Micke Johansson might not have been kidnapped,” said the young reporter who was now only a meter away from Winter, and looked up at him. Winter could see that the man’s eyes were bloodshot, and it might not have been only from excitement.

“Cards on the table? This is not a game of cards,” said Winter.

He also thought about the man in the checked cap who had been filming the children as they crossed the soccer field. They had good enlargements now, but he had waited before making the pictures public. Had that been a mistake? He hadn’t thought so thus far. The flood of tips would be even more overwhelming and difficult to oversee, running off in all directions. Who would be able to absorb all this, sort it, filter it? He didn’t have the resources, the staff. Perhaps he could borrow this big group of people in front of him, a onetime thing. No, he didn’t have the time to coach them.

“I declare this press conference closed,” he said, and turned his back on the big flood of questions that always comes when the event is over.