Frozen Tracks

33

WINTER TRIED TO TALK TO BENGT JOHANSSON. THERE WAS A framed photograph of Micke on the desk, and also a PC.

Micke was climbing up a jungle gym with an expression on his face suggesting that he wanted to climb up, up, up. There was wind in his hair and in the trees behind him. He was wearing overalls, blue or possibly black. His tongue was visible between his narrow lips.

Johansson sat on his swivel chair swaying back and forth, back and forth as if he were merely a part of an intricate balancing system. Which is what he is, in a way, Winter thought. He’s swaying on that chair in order to keep his balance, whatever good that might do him.

Johansson had just come home from the hospital. It wasn’t easy to talk to him, but it was necessary. Now more was expected of him.

Johansson looked up.

“Is it true that this has happened before?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“That Micke isn’t the first.”

He’s forgotten, Winter thought. Repressed it.

“I told you at the hospital about another boy. Simon Waggoner. And about our suspicions regarding a man who makes contact with children.”

“Hmm.”

“I asked you if you’d seen or heard anything that you maybe didn’t think twice about at the time but which stayed in your mind. Anything suspicious.”

“Yes, yes.” He sounded very weary.

Now he has seen the newspapers. Winter saw a newspaper on the floor, folded up, or rather crunched up behind Johansson. The words of the press weigh more heavily than mine. It becomes clearer when it’s written down.

“And now I want to ask you again,” said Winter. “Has anything occurred to you?”

Open questions. He felt that to some extent he was in the same interview position as with a child. Bengt Johansson was traumatized, his own private hell had fallen in on him.

“What might that be?” asked Johansson.

“Well, for example, have you ever noticed a stranger talking to Micke? Or trying to talk to him?”

“You’ll have to ask the nursery-school staff about that.”

“We have.”

“And?”

“No. Nobody noticed anything.”

“I’m with Micke for nearly all the rest of the time,” said Johansson. “It’s him and me.” He looked up. “The one you should talk to is Car… Carolin. My ex-wife.” He looked again at the photograph. “Jesus Christ…” He buried his face in his hands. “If only I’d known, if only I’d realized. Oh, God!”

“If only you’d known what?” Winter asked.

“What she… what she intended to do.” He looked up again at Winter with his bloodshot eyes. “That she’d intended… that she wanted…” And he burst out crying. His shoulders started to shake, slightly at first, then more and more violently.

Winter stood up and walked over to him, kneeled down and embraced the man as best he could, and it was sufficient. He could feel the man’s movements echoing in his own body, his spasms, his noises close to his own face. He could feel the man’s tears on his own cheek. It’s part of the job. This is the work I’ve chosen to do. This is one of the better moments. It’s not much of a consolation, but it’s an emotion shared with a fellow human being.

Bengt Johansson gradually calmed down. Winter continued to embrace him, waist hold, half nelson, whatever-he didn’t need any macho excuse. The man snorted loudly.

Neither of them spoke. Winter could hear the sound of passing cars. There was an overhead streetlight outside, flashing at intervals through the open venetian blinds.

Johansson disentangled himself.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?” Winter asked, rising to his feet. “Would you like something to drink?”

Johansson nodded.

Winter went to the kitchen that was next to the bedroom they had been sitting in: Johansson’s king-size bed, the desk, the photograph of Micke.

Winter took a glass from the drain board, waited until the tap water turned cold, filled the glass, and took it in to Johansson, who drank deeply and said: “I don’t think I can cope with this.”

“I understand that you are going through hell,” said Winter.

“How can you understand? Nobody can understand.” Johansson shook his head. “How can you understand?”

Winter stroked the right side of his head with his right hand. His hair felt cool, like something that was a secure part of himself. He could see Angela’s face seconds after they had hacked their way into that horrific apartment where she’d been held captive. His thoughts when she had disappeared, his thoughts about her thoughts when she was held there. Not knowing what she had been feeling, what she had been thinking. That had been the worst part of all.

“I’ve been there,” he said.

It was Halders who took the call, via Möllerström.

“I take it you are looking for me.” It was Aryan Kaite’s voice at the other end of the line.

“That was a hell of a long piss break you took, kid,” said Halders. “Three days.”

Kaite mumbled something.

“Can you tell me where you are?” asked Halders. “Or are you still straining away somewhere?”

“I’m at Josefin’s place.” Halders heard a voice in the background. “Josefin Steinv-”

“Stay where you are,” said Halders. “I’m coming.”

“There’s some… something else as well,” said Kaite.

“Well?”

“I have a mark. A mark on my head. I thought it was just a scar but Josefin says it looks like something.”

“Stay where you are, or there’ll be hell to pay,” said Halders.

Aneta was trying to interrogate a child, Bergenhem was trying to interrogate a child, Winter was trying to interrogate a missing child’s father. Halders and Ringmar were in a police car. The heavens had closed again, or opened up if you preferred: Rain was pelting down, whipped up by a northerly wind.

“This is also what I’d call a hell of a long piss break,” said Halders, indicating the rain being swept off the windshield by the wipers.

“Break?” said Ringmar.

“Ha ha.”

Ringmar took a piece of paper out of his inside pocket. Halders saw something that looked like a crude drawing, which is what it was: Natanael Carlström’s sketch of his farm’s symbol.

“Do you think it will be possible to detect a similarity?”

Ringmar shrugged. Halders looked at him, at the streets flashing past them, then at Ringmar again.

“How are you, Bertil?”

“Eh?”

“How are you feeling?”

Ringmar didn’t answer. He seemed to be perusing his notes, but when Halders looked more closely at the piece of paper he couldn’t see any notes.

“You give the impression of being extremely worried about something,” said Halders.

“Drive straight through the roundabout, don’t turn right,” said Ringmar. “It’s quicker that way.”

Halders concentrated on driving. He continued south after the roundabout. They could see the apartment buildings on top of the hill. Josefin Stenvång lived in one of them.

“Perhaps he’s been there the whole time,” said Ringmar.

“No,” said Halders. “The girl has also been uncontactable. You know that.”

“That’s only because we haven’t felt up to looking for her,” said Ringmar.

“ ‘Felt up to looking for her’?” said Halders. “I have.”

“I haven’t,” said Ringmar.

“For Christ’s sake, Bertil. What’s the matter?”

Ringmar put the piece of paper back in his inside pocket.

“Birgitta’s taken off,” he said.

“Taken off? What do you mean, taken off?”

“I don’t know,” said Ringmar. Did Fredrik know about Martin? he wondered. What did it matter? “I’ll have to prepare the Christmas ham myself.”

Halders gave a laugh.

“Sorry, Bertil.”

“No, it’s OK. I think it’s funny too. And I haven’t even bought it yet.”

“So you can relax,” said Halders. “All the good ones have gone. You have to order six months in advance.”

They drove into the rectangular-shaped parking lot. Ringmar unfastened his seat belt.

“Good, that means I can relax,” he said.

Aryan Kaite’s face was shadowed with fear, if that is possible in a face like his, Halders thought. There were scars on the back of his head from his wound. But why not? There were always scars after wounds. This one could be a brand or an owner’s mark, but it could also be part of the natural healing process, as far as Halders could see. Pia Fröberg had better take a look at it. The weapon might have come from Carlström’s farm, but it might not. Still, Kaite has been out there in godforsaken land. Maybe the old coot didn’t like darkies, and so he flew to Gothenburg on a broomstick and dived down from the sky and branded those bastards with his seal. That sounded logical enough, didn’t it? Even if we drop the broomstick part.

There is a connection between these frisky students, Halders had thought in the car on the way there. And the same thought occurred to him again.

Josefin Stenvång was sitting next to Kaite and looked guilty, even more guilty.

“It’s a crime to fail to appear for questioning,” said Halders without bothering to sugar his words.

Kaite said nothing.

“Why?” asked Ringmar. He was standing beside Halders, who was sitting down.

“I’m here now,” said Kaite. He looked up. “I called you, didn’t I?”

“Why?” asked Halders.

“Why what?”

“Why did you call? Why did you get in touch with us?”

“It was these marks, Josefin said that they-”

“Don’t give me that crap about it being because of some marks on the back of your head or on your ass,” said Halders. “Maybe you’re aware that we are busy right now with a case concerning a missing child and we don’t have the time to sit here listening to you feed us a load of shit.” He stood up. Josefin flinched, so did Kaite. “I want to know here and now why you took off.”

Kaite said nothing.

“OK,” said Halders. “You’re coming home with us.”

“Ho… home with you?”

“To jail,” said Halders. “So put on your gloves and your wool hat.” He headed for the door. “You’d better take a piss first, to be on the safe side.” He turned around and looked at the girl, who looked at Kaite. “You too, Miss. You’re coming too.”

She was the one who replied to the big question why. “He was scared,” she said.

“Josefin!”

Kaite started to stand up. Ringmar took a step forward. Stenvång looked at Halders. Halders saw that she had made up her mind. She looked at Kaite again.

“Are you going to tell them, or should I?” she said.

“I don’t want to finger anybody,” he said.

“You’re just being stupid,” she said. “You’re only making things worse for yourself.”

“It’s private,” said Kaite. “It’s got nothing to do with that.”

“Will one of you kindly tell us what this is all about?” said Halders. “If not, we’re going to the station.”

Kaite looked up, at something halfway between Halders and Ringmar.

“I was out there,” he said. “At… At Gustav’s place.”

“We know,” said Ringmar.

“W… what? You know?”

He looked genuinely surprised.

“We’ve been there,” said Ringmar. “We’ve spoken to Gustav’s father.”

Kaite still looked just as surprised. Why does he look like that? Ringmar thought. What’s so surprising about our going to see old man Smedsberg? Or could it be that we have been talking to Smedsberg and still don’t know? What don’t we know?

“He said that you and Gustav had been on the farm. And helped with the potato picking.”

Kaite nodded. His face was different now.

“Is that where you were when you disappeared?” asked Ringmar.

Kaite looked up. Yet another expression: How the hell could you think that?

“What does this have to do with Gustav?” asked Ringmar.

Kaite didn’t answer.

“Is he the one who threatened you?”

Kaite nodded.

“Have you felt threatened by Gustav Smedsberg?”

Kaite nodded again.

“I want to hear an answer,” said Ringmar.

“Yes,” said Kaite.

Ringmar could see relief in the boy’s face now. It was a reaction he’d often seen before. But his face revealed not only relief. There was something else as well. He couldn’t quite make out what it was. He recognized it, but he would have to think more about what it stood for.

“Is that why you’ve been hiding?”

“What?”

“Why have you been in hiding?”

“He was scared,” said Stenvång. “He already told you.”

“I’m asking Aryan,” said Ringmar calmly. Halders glared the girl into silence. “Why did you disappear for three days even though you knew we were looking for you, Aryan?”

“I was scared,” he said.

“Were you scared of Gustav?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” asked Ringmar.

“Something… Something happened out there,” said Kaite.

“Out there? Do you mean at Gustav’s place? At the farm?” Talk about leading questions, Ringmar thought.

Kaite nodded.

“What happened out there?” asked Ringmar. Here it comes, he thought. Now we’ll solve this business, or parts of it.

“He hit him,” said Kaite. “He hit him.”

“What do you mean? Who hit who?”

“Gustav’s dad. He hit Gustav,” said Kaite. “I saw it.”

“You saw Gustav being beaten by his father?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“What do you mean?”

“What happened?”

“He just hit him. On the head. I saw it.” He looked up, at Halders and Ringmar, and then at the girl. “He saw that I’d seen.”

“Who saw?”

“Gustav.”

“Gustav?”

Kaite mumbled something they couldn’t hear.

“What did you say?” asked Ringmar.

“I don’t know if his father saw,” said Kaite.

“Why do you feel threatened by Gustav then, Aryan?”

“He didn’t want it to get out.”

“To get out? That he’d been beaten by his father?”

Kaite nodded.

“Why didn’t he want it to get out?”

“I don’t know,” said Kaite.

“And you expect us to believe this? That you feel so threatened by him that you disappear?”

“It’s the truth,” said Kaite.

“It’s not that Gustav has hit you, is it?” Ringmar asked.

“Eh?”

“You heard the question.”

“No,” said Kaite.

“No what?”

“Gustav hasn’t hit me.”

“He wasn’t the one who clubbed you down in Kapellplatsen?”

“No.” Kaite looked up. “I don’t know who it was.”

“You weren’t with Gustav at the time?”

“No, no.”

“Or with his father?”

“Eh?” That look of surprise again. And something else. What is it? Ringmar wondered.

“Has Gustav’s father hit you as well, Aryan?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Kaite.

“Let’s take it one step at a time,” said Ringmar. “When you saw Gustav being beaten at home on the farm-were you attacked as well?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been attacked by Gustav’s father?”

“No.”

“But Gustav doesn’t want you to tell anybody what happened?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You’d better ask him that.”

“We will,” said Ringmar. “We definitely will.” He looked at Halders. “Should we call?” He looked at Kaite again. “You don’t need to come to the station with us, but we’ll wait here until a car comes to pick you up and take you to our doctor so that she can take a look at that wound.”

Ringmar and Halders drove back to the city center. It had stopped raining, but it was still just as dark.

“He’s holding something back,” said Halders.

“Of course,” said Ringmar.

“You could have leaned on him a bit more.”

“I thought I did a pretty good job,” said Ringmar.

“Of course.”

“We’ll pick him up tomorrow,” said Ringmar. “He can think over what he’s said. What he’s set in motion.”

“You met old man Smedsberg in his element, up to his knees in dirt,” said Halders. “What do you think?”

“Nothing,” said Ringmar. “I don’t think anything.”

“There’s nothing to think,” said Halders.

“Was that a philosophical statement?” asked Ringmar.

“No,” said Halders. “I was referring to this case. Nobody knows what to think.”

Ringmar produced a piece of paper again, read something, then put it away.

“There was one thing you didn’t ask about,” said Halders.

“So you noticed?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“I was only joking, Fredrik.”

“Why did you hold back on that?”

“As I said, I think he should have a bit of time to think over what he’s already said.”

Halders thought about the other boys. If there was a connection, it would have been appropriate to ask Kaite about it now, when he seemed vulnerable. But Bertil had waited. He hadn’t asked about them. He hadn’t leaned on the girl, Josefin. He had chosen not to press ahead. There was one reason above all others:

“Our black friend tells lies like a cow shits,” said Halders.

Ringmar nodded. He was miles away, deep in thought.

“Do you think he feels relieved now?” Halders asked.

“Relieved!” shouted Ringmar, wide awake again.

Halders drove along Per Dubbsgatan. The hospital was glittering faintly, ten thousand windows with Advent candles in a blackish red wall.

“What?” said Halders. “What do you mean?”

“When I asked him if Gustav Smedsberg had threatened him and he eventually got around to saying that he had, he looked relieved!” said Ringmar.

“Maybe he had it inside him and needed to let it out,” said Halders. “Maybe it’s actually true. Or partly true. Or only partly a lie.”

“Maybe he wasn’t threatened by Gustav,” said Ringmar.

“You mean it was the old man who threatened the Aryan?”

“The kid seemed to be relieved, but there was something else there, too,” said Ringmar. “There was something else.”

“Maybe he had to take a piss,” said Halders, and Ringmar laughed out loud.

“Was it that funny?”

“I needed to laugh,” said Ringmar. He laughed again.

“You’d better make another trip to the flats,” said Halders.

“If one more is enough,” said Ringmar.

“We’re going to crack this one now,” said Halders. “We’ll sort it out rapido, and then we have other things to think about.”

“We always have other things to think about,” said Ringmar.

“I’m going to grab young Mr. Smedsberg right away,” said Halders. “Young Mr. Cowshit.”

They were approaching the intersection.

“Can you drive me home, please, Fredrik? I need to check something.”

“Er… Yes, of course.”

“Left here.”

They drove past Slottsskogsvallen. Dusk fell during the six minutes it took Halders to get to Ringmar’s house. The symphony of light in the neighbor’s garden was magnificent.

“Now I’ve seen everything,” said Halders.

“He’s mentally defective,” said Ringmar, getting out of the car.

“You don’t need to turn any lights on in your place, Bertil.” Halders looked sympathetic. “Look at it like that.”

But Ringmar had to switch the hall light on as it was shielded by the living room. But that didn’t help. No message on the answering machine on the hall table. No message in the mail he’d picked up from the box on the way in. He dropped the crap on the floor. Silence everywhere. No kitchen fan buzzing away at full speed. No voices. No Christmas ham boiling on the stove.