Frozen Tracks

36

THE WALL CLOCK IN THE KITCHEN SHOWED IT WAS PAST MIDNIGHT; it was Christmas Eve now. The shepherds would be watching their flocks.

“Merry Christmas, Erik.”

“Merry Christmas, Bertil.”

Ringmar raised his glass to the skies. Winter had put Paul Simon on the CD player in the kitchen:

She’s so light, she’s so free, I’m tight, well that’s me. Ringmar’s head swayed from side to side in time with the palliative music.

“Do you really want to hear about it?” he asked.

“With you celebrating Christmas on your own, without your family? Don’t insult me, Bertil.”

“You’re alone, too.”

“That was by choice, or necessity. I’m off as soon as we’ve cracked the case.”

“When will that be?”

“Soon,” said Winter.

“Martin got it into his head that I, well, did something,” said Ringmar.

Paul sang:

It’s cold, sometimes you can’t catch your breath, it’s cold.

Winter finished off his beer and waited.

“Did you hear what I said?” Ringmar asked.

“What do you mean, Bertil? Did something?”

“The reason why he’s gone into hiding.”

“What does he say you did?”

“I can’t tell you,” said Ringmar. “I can’t bring myself to say it.”

“When did you discover whatever it is that you can’t bring yourself to say?”

Was he being brutal? No. Bertil was too close a friend.

“Yesterday. Birgitta called. Finally.”

“And what did she say?”

Bertil was asleep, or at least he was in bed in the spare room. An hour earlier he had been crying his eyes out over Winter’s kitchen table. Winter was standing in the balcony doorway, smoking. There was snow down below. Tomorrow morning he wouldn’t be trying to build a snowman with Elsa.

Silence reigned. It was as if everybody was sleeping the sleep of the pious before being nice to everybody on Christmas Eve morning, as tradition demanded.

Winter closed the balcony door and returned to his desk and the laptop. Paul Simon had accompanied him into the living room.

We think it’s easy, sometimes it’s easy, but it’s not easy. He stared at his notes that flowed in straight lines, like heartbeats that had ceased to beat: They were straight, devoid of life.

They had spoken. Then Bertil had immersed himself in the case again. The cases. Do you really want to? He’d seen from Bertil’s intensity that it was necessary.

“It could be the foster son,” Ringmar had said. “He’s been the victim of something that has to do with one of these students. Smedsberg. Or it could be the old man. Georg, is that his name?”

“Yes,” said Winter.

“Yes to what?” Ringmar wondered.

“His name is Georg.”

“The foster son, Mats. He might have stolen the branding iron from Carlström and used it. We know that he was there.”

“Carlström might have done it himself,” Winter had said. “He’s not a cripple.”

“But why?”

“The big question.”

“We always come up against the Big Question,” said Ringmar. “We’ll have to have a word with him tomorrow.”

“Carlström?”

“Jerner. The foster son.”

“Assuming he’s at home,” Winter said.

He’d looked up the name and address in the telephone directory and called the moment they’d gotten back home, but there was no reply. As they’d driven home from the flats they’d talked about calling HQ and asking them to send out a car to take a look, but it was too soon. And what was the point? If they really were onto something, doing that could cause problems for the investigation. Better to pace themselves.

“The woman,” Ringmar said. “Gerd. Smedsberg’s wife. What happened to her?”

“How deep should we dig out there in the flats, Bertil?”

“We might have to dig as deep down as it goes,” said Ringmar.

“It might be a bottomless pit,” said Winter. “Should we call it a day, Bertil? It will be a long day tomorrow.”

“We haven’t talked about the most important thing,” said Ringmar. “We haven’t gone through it again.”

“I’ll talk to Maja Bergort tomorrow morning,” Winter said. “And the Waggoner boy.”

“I’ll listen to the tapes as soon as possible.”

“I want to go through them again too.”

“They are still around,” Ringmar said.

“Aneta will try again with the Skarin boy. And the Sköld girl. Ellen.”

“The absent father,” said Ringmar.

“There are lots of them to choose from,” said Winter.

“What do you mean by that?”

“There are lots of them we can interview, suspect, investigate.”

“That wasn’t the only thing you were thinking about, Erik.”

“No. I was thinking of myself as well.”

“You were thinking about me.”

“I was thinking about me, and about you too.”

He was staring at the screen, which was the only source of light in the room, apart from the standing lamp by the leather armchair next to the balcony door. He checked his watch. Two o’clock.

Paul Simon was singing something that he didn’t catch, but it was beautiful.

He reached for the telephone and dialed the number.

His mother sounded like a jazz singer after two in the morning when she eventually answered.

“Hel… hello?”

“Hello, Mother. It’s Erik.”

“Er… Erik. Did something happen?”

“No. But I’d like to speak to Angela.”

“She’s asleep. Upstairs. And Els-” He heard a voice in the background, then his mother’s voice again. “Well, you’ve woken her up, so here she is.”

“What’s the matter, Erik?” Angela asked.

“Nothing. I just wanted to call.”

“Where are you?”

“At home, of course.”

“What’s that noise I can hear?”

“It could be the computer, or it could be the Paul Simon CD you bought me.”

“I can hear it now. Hmmm.”

She sounded half asleep, a little hoarse, delightful. Her voice was on low frequency, as if partly in a dream.

“How’s it going down there?”

“Splendid. The sun’s shining, the stars are glittering.”

“What’s Elsa doing?”

“She tried to go swimming in the sea but thought it was too cold.”

“What else?”

“Playing on the lawn. And pointing at the snow on top of the mountain.”

“The White Mountain,” said Winter.

“She can say that in Spanish. If we stayed here for six months, she’d be bilingual.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” said Winter.

“And what would you be doing meanwhile?”

“I’d be there,” he said.

Six months in Spain. Or a full year. He could afford it.

Once this case was over. Who knows?

“It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. Elsa doesn’t talk about anything else.

Feliz Navidad.”

“Today.”

“Hmm. Did you call to remind me of that?”

“No.”

“Do you still plan on coming on Boxing Day?”

“Yes.”

“Siv couldn’t believe it. That you didn’t come with us, I mean.”

“She’ll have to make up for that.”

“She? She doesn’t need to make up for anything.”

“No.”

“You sound absolutely worn out, Erik.”

“Yes.”

“Will you be able to make progress tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Steer clear of the whiskey tonight.”

“We hid the bottle the moment we came through the door.”

“Ha ha.” Then he heard her take a deep breath. “We?”

“Bertil. He’s spending the night here.”

“Why?”

“He needs to.”

“What does Birgitta have to say about that?”

“She doesn’t know about it,” said Winter.

“What’s going on, Erik?”

He tried to explain what was going on. That was why he’d called, one of the two main reasons. He felt he simply had to talk to someone else about the situation.

“Good God,” she said. “Bertil?”

“You don’t have to believe it,” said Winter.

“Is that what Bertil says?”

“Of course he says he’s innocent.”

“Good God,” she said again.

“Birgitta rang from-from wherever she is. She didn’t want to say where. And Martin was there too. And Moa. She’s the daught-”

“I know who she is,” said Angela. “What are they up to? Figuring out how to trample all over Bertil?”

“I think they’re trying to work out what Bertil’s son’s problem is.”

“Is this the first time he’s said anything? Martin, I mean.”

“Evidently.”

“So what did he say?”

“Well, Birgitta was a bit, er, vague about that. Something about… abuse. I don’t know what. When he was a little boy.”

“For God’s sake. Bertil. It doesn’t make sense.”

“No,” said Winter.

“So why did he say that? Martin?”

“I’m not a psychologist,” said Winter. “But my guess is that it has something to do with the company the kid keeps. All that brooding. He’s evidently gotten mixed up with some damn sect or other since he ran off.”

“But there must be some reason he ran away in the first place?” said Angela.

“Presumably. But it might only exist in his own head.”

“How’s Bertil taking this?”

“Hmm. What can I say? He’s trying to fulfill his work commitment. As best he can.”

“Will it come to… an official complaint to the police?”

“I don’t know,” said Winter. “But if it does I want to be a thousand miles away from here.”

“Five hundred will do,” she said. “On the Costa del Sol.”

“I don’t want to be there for a reason like that.”

“Do you want to be there at all?”

“Come on, Angela. You know why I’m still here in Gothenburg. I’ll come down there as soon as I can, obviously. If not sooner.”

“OK. Sorry, Erik. What are you going to do now?”

“Try to get an hour or two’s sleep. I’ve stopped thinking. Switched off.”

“Have you found your Christmas presents yet?”

“I’ll start looking tomorrow morning.”

He was flying over the plain on the back of a bird that kept repeating his name, and then a four-word sentence: Klara want a cookie, Klara want a cookie, Klara want a c-Hush, I can’t hear what the children are thinking, what the children are thinking down below. Four young men were wandering over the plain, one of them smiled. His face was black. A tractor was crossing the field, Winter could see the dust rising up into the sky. Ringmar was chasing one of the boys. Lies! Ringmar yelled. Lies! Lies! Winter was in town. Christmas everywhere, packages, shops, a square. It was indoors. A man passed by with a stroller. The man was wearing a checked cap. He turned around toward Winter. You are not listening! You are not looking! You have stopped but you don’t see. Don’t see. Now he was playing the guitar. Winter followed him. The stroller had gone, flown up into the air. There was a sun in the sky, and stars. He was standing up there on the earth, looking down at heaven. It was night and day. Up was down. The cap came past again with the stroller. There were feet in the stroller that didn’t move. Small feet, motionless. The cap rang a bell, shook it upward, downward, riiiiiiiiiiiiiiing, riiiiiing.

He woke up in darkness. The alarm clock was screeching seven.

Ringmar was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in front of him. The darkness outside was lighter because of the thin covering of snow everywhere. Ringmar was reading the newspaper.

“You’re already up,” said Winter.

“I never went to sleep.”

There was coffee in the pot. Winter prepared a cheese sandwich. He was shivering in his bathrobe.

“Professor Christianson, a research genius in the psychology department here in Gothenburg has concluded that the police should rethink the way they conduct interrogations,” said Ringmar, staring hard at the newspaper.

“Sounds interesting,” said Winter, and took a bite of his sandwich.

“He maintains that we’ve always thought that somebody who’s telling lies is shifty-eyed, seems nervous, and gesticulates a lot.” Ringmar gave a laugh, loud, brief, and sarcastic. “This white knight who has come to rescue us in our distress has concluded that liars don’t act like that!” Ringmar looked up at Winter and quoted: “ ‘Liars often look you straight in the eye and tell their lies calmly.’ ”

“Just think, if we’d only known that,” said Winter. “Now our interviewing methodology will be revolutionized.”

“All those mistakes we’ve made,” said Ringmar.

“Thank God for academic research,” said Winter.

Ringmar continued reading the article, then gave another laugh:

“I’ll quote you some more: ‘Research also shows that it is easier to expose a lie when the interrogation is recorded on video than when using the standard method.’ ”

Winter laughed, just as briefly and sarcastically. “And we’ve only been using the video technique for five years now.”

“Without knowing why,” said Ringmar.

“Get this on our intranet, pronto,” said Winter.

“To be on the safe side he states that the judicial authorities are badly informed about modern forensic psychology but have promised to read up on it,” said Ringmar. “Hallelujah.”

“But first he will have to write the books for them,” said Winter.

“I wonder what Professor Christianson thinks about this,” said Ringmar.

“I don’t think he needs any sympathy,” said Winter.

“Gesticulates a lot,” said Ringmar, “shifty-eyed.”

“Sounds like a film by Fritz Lang.

Doctor Mabuse, M.”

“Maybe Göteborgs Posten found this research report in an old archive?” Ringmar suggested.

“Researcher,” said Winter. “They found the researcher there.”

Ringmar looked for further wisdom in the article.

“This might be interesting despite everything. Our researcher has noticed that parents are better than others at detecting lies. They can also detect when other people’s children are not telling the truth. Adults without children are significantly worse at it.” Ringmar looked up. “We’re OK on that score, Erik.” Then his face fell, and despite his purported lack of knowledge about human behavior, Winter knew immediately what Ringmar was thinking.

Winter’s mobile rang on the countertop, where it was recharging. He could reach it without standing up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Lars here.”

Bergenhem’s voice sounded small, as if it were coming from a tunnel.

“What’s up?”

“Carolin Johansson overdosed,” said Bergenhem. “Micke’s mother. Some kind of pills, they don’t know yet.”

“Is she alive?”

“Barely.”

“Is she alive or isn’t she?”

“She’s alive,” said Bergenhem.

“There were no drugs at her place,” said Winter. “We should have a record.”

“Sleeping pills, they think. She had visitors at the time,” said Bergenhem.

“I want to know exactly who was there,” said Winter.

“That’s not so-”

“I want to know, Lars. See to it.”

“OK.”

“Is she in Östra Hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Do we have somebody there?”

“Sara.”

“OK. How’s the father taking it? Where is he?”

“He’s there as well.”

“Who’s keeping an eye on his telephone?”

“Two new officers. I don’t know their names. Möllerström can ask-”

“Forget it for the time being. Have you spoken to Bengt Johansson this morning?”

“No.”

Just as well, Winter thought. I’ll stop in on him this afternoon at his home. Assuming he’s back there by then.

Bertil had gathered what had happened, and stood up.

“Time for a day’s work,” he said. “Another day’s work. Christmas Eve or no Christmas Eve.” He looked at Winter. “They work on Christmas Eve in the USA.”

“How are you feeling, Bertil?”

“Excellent after a good night’s wake.”

“Won’t Birgitta be looking for you?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“You know where you stand with me, Bertil,” said Winter.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I believe you,” said Winter.

“How can you be so sure, Erik? Just because I’m swaying around like a Christmas tree in a storm and blinking like a lighthouse it doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m telling the truth.”

Winter couldn’t help smiling.

“You’re not swaying and you’re not blinking.”

“Oh shit, then I’m really screwed.”

“Never read newspapers,” said Winter.

“I didn’t even show you the front page,” said Ringmar.

“I can imagine,” said Winter.

“And it’s not even a tabloid,” said Ringmar.

He went into the hall.

“I’ll be going now. Merry Christmas again.”

“See you shortly,” shouted Winter, but the door had already closed.

He went to his desk and checked the telephone number he had added to his computer notes. He dialed it.

“Hello?”

The voice could belong to anybody, could be young, could be old. There was a noise in the background that he couldn’t identify.

“I’m looking for Mats Jerner.”

“Wh-wh-who’s asking?”

“Are you Mats Jerner?”

“Yes…”

“My name’s Erik Winter, I’m a detective chief inspector. I’d like to meet you. Preferably today. This afternoon.”

“It’s Ch-Ch-Christmas Eve,” said Jerner.

It’s Christmas Eve for me too, Winter thought.

“It will only take a couple of minutes,” said Winter.

“What’s it about?”

“We’re investigating a series of vicious attacks and, well, one of the victims comes from your home district, and we’re trying to get in touch with everybody who’s had cont-”

“How do you know where I come from?” asked Jerner.

Winter noticed that he sounded calmer. That was often the case. If you mentioned that you were a police officer, and especially a DCI, most people’s voices sounded a bit unsteady at first.

“We’ve spoken to your foster father,” said Winter.

Jerner said nothing.

“Mr. Jerner?”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to meet you today.”

Silence again. That noise again.

“Hello? Jerner?”

“I can come to see you this afternoon,” said Jerner.

“Do you mean come to police headquarters?”

“Isn’t that where you work?”

“Yes…” said Winter, looking around his apartment.

“When do you want me to come?”

Winter looked at his watch.

“Four,” he said.

“That’s fine,” said Jerner. “I finish up at twenty to.”

“Finish up?”

“Finish my shift.”

“What’s your work?”

“I’m a streetcar driver.”

“I see. It sounded a minute ago as if you wanted to keep Christmas Eve… free.”

“It was just because of the ph-ph-phone call,” said Jerner. “Realizing that you’re at work on Christmas Eve. Calling people up and asking questions and telling them to come in for more questioning and all that. Ordering them, or whatever the right word is. That was what surprised me.”

It’s not an order, Winter thought.

“What do I do, then?” asked Jerner.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I need to know where in police headquarters I should report to, don’t I? Or do you expect me to find my own way around the building?”