Frozen Tracks

40

RINGMAR RECEIVED A TELEPHONE CALL THAT HE WANTED TO take in his own office. Winter could see how nervous he was when he left, and the shadows under his eyes. What was he going to hear now? What would he say?

“I’ll pay a visit to Ellen Sköld again,” said Aneta Djanali. “I know what I’m going to say, and how to say it.”

Winter looked at the clock. The traditional Donald Duck cartoon on TV would be over. The long night had fallen outside the window. It was too late to drive through the streets with Simon Waggoner to follow streetcar lines.

“Ellen has probably already told us what we need to know,” said Winter.

“I want to be certain.”

“Go home to your family,” said Winter. “Celebrate Christmas.”

“That will be at Fredrik’s,” she said.

Winter nodded and started gathering together some papers.

“Are you surprised?” asked Djanali.

“Why should I be surprised?”

“Well… Fredrik and I.”

“The odd couple?” he said with a smile. “Oh, come on, Aneta.”

She hesitated in the doorway.

“You’re welcome as well,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You can come by for a while if you like. We’ll be eating later on, so the Christmas buffet is still waiting.” She smiled and looked up at the heavens. “Fredrik made something based on polenta. He said it was the closest he could get to yam porridge.”

“Fredrik Halders, always looking to build bridges between cultures,” said Winter.

Aneta Djanali burst out laughing.

“Unfortunately, I’ll have to work,” said Winter.

“Where?”

“Here. And at home.”

“Erik, it’s Christmas Eve and you’re all alone. Some company won’t hurt you.”

“I’ll see,” he said.

“You can call us late this evening, in any case.”

“I’ll call,” he said. “Say hello to Fredrik. In any case.”

She smiled again, and left. He went over to the CD player and turned it on. He stood by the window, lit a Corps, and opened the window slightly. The smoke was whisked away by a wind he hadn’t noticed until now.

The room behind him was filled with Trane’s

Slo Blues, Earl May’s bass and Arthur Taylor’s drums, doom doom doom doom doom doom, then Coltrane’s tenor saxophone creating calm and restlessness at the same time, that difficult simplicity he still hadn’t found anywhere else in jazz, even if he had discovered different music that he liked and that he could make use of in his life.

Lush Life now, the beautiful introduction, like a soundtrack to the smoke wafting in a shiny silver cloud from his cigarillo and out into the evening glowing in gold from all the Christmas lights. It was music to dream to, but he wasn’t dreaming.

His mobile rang on the desk. He turned down the volume of the music and picked up the mobile with his free hand.

“Merry Christmas, Daddy!”

“Merry Christmas, sweetie!”

“What are you doing, Daddy?”

“I was standing here thinking it was time to call Elsa,” he said, letting a little column of ash fall into the tray.

“I was first!”

“You are always first, sweetie,” he said, and was glad that Angela couldn’t hear him saying that. What was he doing here when they were there? “Did you open your presents yet?”

“Santa Claus hasn’t come yet,” she said.

“He’ll show up any minute, I’m sure.”

“Did you find the Christmas present?!”

My God, he thought. The Christmas present.

“I’ll open it later tonight,” he said.

“When are you coming, Daddy?”

“Soon, sweetie.”

“You must come now,” she said, and he could hear other voices on the line. Perhaps they all had the same message tonight.

“I’ll be there before Christmas is over,” he said.

“I want Christmas to go on forever,” she said.

“Oh, I’ll be there long before that. We’ll be able to go swimming.”

“It’s cold,” she said. “It’s freezing cold.”

“What have you been doing?”

Open questions, he thought.

“Played with a pussy cat,” she said. “She’s called Miaow.”

“That’s a good name for a cat.”

“She’s black.”

Winter heard an echo and her voice disappeared, then came a different voice: “Hello?”

“Hello,” he said.

“It’s Angela. Where are you?”

“In my office,” he said.

“Lucky you,” she said.

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

“How’s it going?”

“Progressing, I think.”

“How are you?”

“It’s… a bit difficult. It’s a difficult case.”

“No news about the boy?”

“I don’t know. We might be getting closer. But we haven’t found him.”

“Be careful, Erik.”

“We’re close. I can feel it.”

“Be careful,” she said again. “I know you have to be careful with this case.”

“Hmm.”

“You must think about it all the time, Erik. Being careful.”

“I promise. I heard from Elsa that-”

His office phone rang on the desk.

“Excuse me a moment, Angela.”

He picked up the other phone.

“Hello Winter, it’s Björck in the front office. You have a visitor. A Mr. Jerner, Mats Jerner.”

Winter looked at his watch. Jerner was an hour late. He’d forgotten about him, forgotten about him altogether. Had anything like this ever happened before? Not as far as he could remember. All that flashed through his mind before he said: “I’ll be right down.”

He spoke into his mobile again: “I’ll call you back a little later, Angela. Say hello to Mother in the meantime.”

“I can hear that you’re working.”

“It’s not in vain,” he said. “I love you.”

The visitor was still standing in the waiting room. He could be around Winter’s age, possibly a bit older. I know roughly how old he is. Carlström told us.

Winter opened the glass door.

“Mats Jerner? Erik Winter.”

Jerner nodded and they shook hands in the doorway. His hair was blond and his eyes blue. He was wearing a brown Tenson jacket and blue jeans, and heavy shoes suitable for the current weather. He was carrying a briefcase under his left arm. His hand was cold. Winter saw that he was carrying his gloves in his left hand. Jerner’s eyes had a transparent intensity that almost made Winter want to turn around in order to see what the man was looking at straight through his head.

“We’ll take the elevator up,” said Winter.

Jerner stood beside him without speaking. He avoided looking in the mirror.

“Are there any passengers at all at this time on Christmas Eve?” Winter asked as they stepped out of the elevator.

Jerner nodded again, straight ahead.

“No problems with snow on the lines?” Winter asked.

“No.”

They entered Winter’s office.

“Would you like coffee or something?” asked Winter.

Jerner shook his head.

Winter walked to his desk chair and gestured toward the visitor’s chair opposite. He had recently had a sofa and armchairs installed in one corner, but this was better for the moment.

“Well,” said Winter, “we’re trying to solve a series of attacks on young men here in Gothenburg. As I explained on the telephone.”

Jerner nodded.

How can I put this? Winter thought. You haven’t by any chance stolen a branding iron from your foster father’s farm, have you? Or two?

“The fact is, weapons that could have been used in these assaults have been stolen from your foster father’s farm. Natanael Carlström.” Winter looked at Jerner. “He is your foster father, is that right?”

Jerner nodded, and said: “One of them.”

“Did you have several?” Winter asked.

Jerner nodded.

“Living in that area?”

Jerner shook his head.

He’s the silent type, Winter thought. But you’ve met your match.

He hasn’t said a word about arriving over an hour late for an interview at police headquarters. Doesn’t even seem to be aware of the fact. Some people are like that. Lucky them.

“Have you heard your foster father say anything about a robbery?”

“No.”

Jerner crossed his legs, then recrossed them in the other direction. He had put his gloves on the table in front of him. Something was bulging in the left-hand pocket of his jacket. Maybe a hat of some kind.

Maybe he gets a discount on Tenson jackets, Winter thought. The Tenson League has threatened its way to a deal.

The Tenson League was the popular name for the inspectors working on Gothenburg’s streetcars, sullen men and women who had a lot to put up with as they rode the streetcars looking for fare dodgers. Halders had once been caught, and spent the whole afternoon on the telephone trying to convince the man in charge of his innocence, pleading absentmindedness, police business-no, not that-taking the kids to nursery school, taking his car to Mölndal for repairs, or whatever. But he had failed. Halders had never set foot on a Gothenburg streetcar after that.

“Did you ever see one of those branding irons?” Winter asked.

Jerner shook his head.

“But you knew about them?”

Jerner nodded.

We’ll have to put a stop to this, Winter thought. He doesn’t want to speak.

“When were you last at home?”

Jerner looked confused.

“I mean at Carlström’s.”

“I d-don’t know,” said Jerner.

“What month?”

“No-november, I think.”

“What did he say about the theft?”

Jerner shrugged.

“He told me he mentioned it to you.”

“Possibly,” said Jerner. Nothing else.

Winter stood up and went to the ugly filing cabinet he tried to hide behind the door. He retrieved a folder, returned to his desk, and took out the photographs.

“Do you recognize this person?” he asked, holding out a photograph of Aryan Kaite.

Jerner shook his head.

“He’s one of the young men who was attacked.”

Jerner seemed uninterested, as if he were looking at a stranger.

“He’s also visited your home village,” said Winter. “He knows Gustav Smedsberg.” Winter looked at Jerner. “Do you know anybody called Smedsberg?”

The man seemed to be thinking that over. He brushed his thin blond hair to the side. It was long.

He looks as if I’d asked him a perfectly normal follow-up question, Winter thought. No “Who’s Gustav Smedsberg?” He recognizes the name, or he’s trying to look uninterested. It’s been a long day. For him, for me. This conversation is getting nowhere. He can go home, I can go home. He has nothing to do with this. Or maybe he did steal the irons, maybe even used them. No. Not him. The only odd thing is that he seems to be able to keep on sitting here without getting annoyed. He was annoyed before, irritated, on the telephone. But now. Now he’s shaking his head.

“Georg Smedsberg?” said Winter.

“No.”

“A neighbor.”

Jerner’s calm face moved slightly to one side, perhaps as a protest: Smedsberg isn’t a neighbor. Too far away.

“Gerd,” said Winter.

The man gave a start. He looked at Winter, raised his head slightly. His eyes still had that same transparency.

“When did you meet Gerd?” Winter asked.

“Wh-what Gerd?”

“The Gerd who was one of your neighbors.”

What does she have to do with this business? He doesn’t ask that. He doesn’t say: Who’s Gerd? His face is exactly like it was before. I’ll put a stop to this now. I have to devote my energies to Micke Johansson.

“I won’t take up any more of your time on Christmas Eve,” said Winter. “But I might be in touch again if I need some more details.”

Jerner stood up and nodded.

“When do you have to work again?” Winter asked.

Jerner opened his mouth and looked as if he were swallowing air, then he closed it again.

“When’s your next shift?” Winter asked.

“Tomo-mo-mo-morrow,” said Jerner.

He is nervous. Nervous about something.

“You’re working the whole holiday?”

Jerner nodded.

“Tough luck,” said Winter.

They went out into the corridor and took the elevator down. Jerner had his left hand in his jacket pocket. He was carrying his gloves in his right hand, and his briefcase was tucked under his left arm. He was staring straight at his own reflection in the elevator mirror. Winter could see himself standing beside Jerner, but Jerner didn’t seem to see him. As if I were a vampire that doesn’t have a reflection. But I’m not a vampire. I am there. I look tired. Jerner looks more alert.

“What route do you drive?” Winter asked at they walked toward the exit.

Jerner held up three fingers.

This is almost comical, Winter thought.

“Number three?” he said, interpreting the sign language, and Jerner nodded.

Ringmar came out of his office just as Winter was getting out of the elevator. He didn’t look quite the same as before.

“I’m off now,” said Ringmar.

“Where to?”

“Home.”

“Is there anybody there?”

“No. But I have to check that everything’s OK.”

“You can come to my place later if you want,” said Winter.

“Last night was enough. But thanks for the offer.”

“Just come if you change your mind.”

Ringmar nodded. He started walking off.

“Did you find out anything new?” Winter asked.

“It was Birgitta,” he said.

“And?”

“She wanted to talk to me, at least.”

“What about?”

“Don’t push your luck, Erik.”

“What about?” said Winter again.

“About Martin, what the hell do you think?”

Winter said nothing. They could hear footsteps in the distance, in the stairwell. The elevator clattered into action.

“There’s light at the end of the tunnel,” said Ringmar.

“Come home with me,” said Winter.

“I’ll be in touch,” said Ringmar, pulling on his overcoat as he walked away.

“Your car’s outside,” said Björck as he passed the front office.

Ringmar drove out to the highway in his official car, heading north. He drove in silence, no radio. He didn’t know if Smedsberg would be at home.

Winter turned off the lights and left. His footsteps echoed in the brick corridor. His mobile rang.

“I can’t accept that you’ll be alone tonight, Erik.”

His sister. She hadn’t accepted that he was alone. She’d called yesterday, and the day before that. And the day before that.

“I have to work, Lotta.”

“You mean that you have to be alone in order to think, is that it?”

“You understand how it is.”

“You should have food.”

“That’s true.”

“You should have company.”

“I might come by a bit later,” he said.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Come on, Lotta, I haven’t chosen this of my own free will.”

“You’re welcome to come whenever you want,” she said, and hung up.

There was a layer of ice on the car windows. He scraped and smoked. The smoke was like breath.

He was alone in the streets, the only person out and about at this hour. No buses, no streetcars, no taxis, no private cars, no police cars, no motorbikes, no pedestrians, nothing at all.

Vasaplatsen was white and silent. He stood in the entrance and breathed in the air that felt cold without being raw.

He poured himself a Springbank in the kitchen and took it into the living room, where he lay down on the sofa with the glass on his chest. He closed his eyes. The only sound to be heard was the faint hum from the freezer. He leaned his head forward and took a sip of the whiskey.

He sat up and ran his hand through his hair. He thought about playgrounds and day nurseries, parks, cars, squares such as Doktor Fries, Linnéplatsen, Kapellplatsen, Mossen, about Plikta, about-tracks. Tracks heading in all di-di-di-directions.

He thought about all that simultaneously. He couldn’t keep things apart, everything came at the same time, as if they were linked. But they weren’t linked.

He rubbed his face. A shower and something to eat, then I can think again. And I have Christmas presents to look for as well.

He took off his clothes as he walked to the bathroom. I’ll take a bath. The whiskey can keep me awake.

Nevertheless, he reached for the telephone in the hall and called England. It was one of several such calls that late autumn and winter.

Steve answered.

“Merry Christmas, Steve,” said Winter.

“Same to you, Erik. How are things?”

Winter told him how things stood.

“Have you checked all the parents thoroughly?” asked Macdonald. “All of the parents?”

Winter would remember that question when it was all over.