Frozen Tracks

41

HE PUT ON HIS BATHROBE AND LEFT THE STEAMING BATHROOM. His drowsiness fell away as he walked around the apartment. He glanced at the whiskey bottle in the kitchen, but left it untouched. The centimeter he had drunk already would have to suffice for the time being. He might need to drive later tonight.

He read the instructions in the kitchen, and started his search. Elsa’s present was indeed like a fish under a rock-in a flat box taped underneath the double bed. Drawings: the sea, the sky, beaches. Snowmen. Angela’s present was hidden in among the drawings: another volume for the bookcase. Some newly discovered texts by Raymond Carver,

Call If You Need Me.

He sat in the bedroom and phoned Spain.

“Siv Winter.”

“Hello, Mom. Erik here.”

“Erik. We wondered when you would call.”

“That moment has come,” he said.

“It’s after nine. Elsa’s almost asleep.”

“Can I speak to her? Merry Christmas, by the way.”

“Are you at Lotta’s?”

“Not tonight,” said Winter.

“Are you spending Christmas Eve all alone, Erik?”

“That’s why I stayed behind here.”

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

“Can I speak to Elsa now?”

He heard her voice, she was halfway into a dream. He recognized Angela in her. It was the same voice.

“Thank you for the doll,” she said. “It was lovely.”

“Thank you for the wonderful drawings.”

“You found them!”

“The snowman seemed to be having a good time on the beach.”

“He’s on vacation,” she said.

“Good for him.”

“When are you coming, Daddy?”

“Soon. When I get there we’ll have another Christmas Eve!” he said.

She giggled, but as if in slow motion.

“Are you tired, Elsa?”

“Nooo,” she said. “Grandma said I could stay up as long as I want.”

“Is that what she said?”

“As looong as I want,” said Elsa, sounding as if she might drop the receiver at any moment and lie down to sleep on the marble floor.

“Have a nice evening, sweetie,” said Winter. “Daddy loves you.”

“Love and kisses, Daddy.”

“Can you ask your mommy to come to the telephone, sweetie?”

He heard Mooommy in the half distance, and then Angela’s voice.

“Are you still at work?”

“No. I’m still working, but not at work.”

“You sound tired.”

“Drowsy, more like it, but I’m waking up again. I took a bath.”

“Good thinking.”

“I wasn’t thinking much at all at the time.”

“Any news since we last spoke?”

“I found the book and called right away.”

He heard a giggle, just like Elsa’s.

“I’ve got a question for you,” he said. “Do you know anybody at the nursery school who stutters? An adult. Staff or parents.”

“Stutters? As in st-st-stutters?”

“Yes.”

“No. I can’t say I do. Why do you ask?”

“Or Lena Sköld. When you spoke to her. Did she say anything about somebody stuttering then?”

“No, not as far as I recall. What are you getting at, Erik?”

“We think the person Ellen met stuttered. I think she is trying to tell us that. Or, has told us already.”

“What’s that got to do with the nursery school?”

“You know that we are checking up on everybody connected with the place.”

“I was thinking about all this earlier today,” said Angela. “What if the things the children have been saying were just figments of their imagination after all?”

“It wasn’t a figment of the imagination for Simon Waggoner.”

“No. But the others.”

“Three parents have reported the same thing,” said Winter.

“Have you spoken to them?” she asked. “About the stuttering?”

“No. We didn’t get this lead until late this afternoon. I’ll speak to them.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“It’s starting to get late,” she said.

“Everybody understands how serious this is,” he said. “Christmas Eve or no Christmas Eve.”

“Any new tips on the boy? Micke Johansson?”

“All the time. We have extra staff on the switchboard throughout the holiday period.”

“Are you sending out a search party?”

Winter thought of Natanael Carlström when she said “search party.” That had been one of the first things he’d said.

“There are a lot of people out looking,” he said. “As many as we can possibly muster. But Gothenburg is a big city.”

“What do your local stations have to say?”

“What do you mean?”

“The officers who took the phone calls in the first place. Do they have anything to say about a stutter, or any other details?”

“Am I talking to DCI Angela Winter?”

“What do they have to say?” she repeated. “And it’s DCI Angela Hoffman.”

“I don’t know yet. I’ve tried to contact the ones at Härlanda and Linnéstaden, but they’re off duty and not at home.”

He called the Bergorts, who were still a man short. When Magnus Bergort vanished Winter had called Larissa Serimov and asked her point-blank if she could go be with the mother and daughter. He had no right to do that, and she was under no obligation. She was off duty.

“I’m not doing anything special tonight anyway,” she’d said, and he thought he could hear her smiling.

“It’s a lonely family,” Winter had said. “Kristina Bergort has nobody who can be with her and the girl tonight.”

“What if he comes home?” she’d asked. “He might be violent.”

What could he say? Use your SigSauer?

“I could always shoot him,” she’d said.

“He won’t come home,” Winter had said. “Be careful, but he won’t come home.”

“Do you think he’s offed himself?”

“Yes.”

He’d been waiting for news that somebody had driven into a cliff or a tree on one of the roads heading east. Nothing yet. But he thought that Magnus Bergort was no longer of this world, or soon wouldn’t be.

Serimov answered:

“Bergort residence, Serimov speaking.”

“Erik Winter here.”

“Hello, and Merry Christmas,” said Serimov.

“Is Maja in bed?”

“She’s just gone to sleep.”

“Can I speak to her mother?”

Kristina Bergort sounded tired but calm. Maybe it’s a relief for her. Regardless of what happens next.

“Has anything happened to Magnus?” she asked.

“We still don’t know where he is,” said Winter.

“Maja is asking for him,” said Kristina Bergort.

Winter could see the girl in front of him, when she didn’t want to enter her father’s study.

“Has she said anything about the man she sat with in the car stuttering?” Winter asked.

“No, she’s never said anything about that.”

“OK.”

“Do you want to ask her about that?”

“I think so, yes.”

“When? Now?”

“Maybe tomorrow. If that’s all right?”

“Yes, that should be OK. Everything is so…” and he could hear that she was losing her grip on her voice, not much, but enough for him to be clear that the call must come to an end now.

His mobile rang. For a moment he wasn’t sure where it was. He found it in the inside pocket of his jacket, hanging in the hall.

“You didn’t call.”

“I haven’t had time, Bülow.”

“You never do.”

“I’m up to my neck in it at the moment,” said Winter.

“So am I. I’m staring at an empty computer screen.”

Winter had gone to his study. His laptop was gleaming vacantly on his desk.

“The situation is very sensitive at the moment,” said Winter.

“The night editor has sent reporters out to Önnered,” said Bülow.

“What the hell did you say?”

“To the Bergorts’. Since you put an APB on-”

Winter pressed as hard as he could on the red key. The problem with mobile phones was that there was no receiver to slam down. You would need to hurl the whole thing.

It rang again. Winter recognized the number.

“We ha-”

“It’s not my fault,” said Bülow. “I don’t like it either.” Winter could hear voices in the background, a snatch of music that could have been a Christmas carol or some such stuff being played for the lowlifes in the newsroom. “Are you always happy with your job, Winter?”

“If I’m allowed to do it,” he said.

“Carolin Johansson is interviewed in tomorrow’s edition,” said Bülow.

“Words fail me,” said Winter.

“You see? It only gets worse.”

“Who’s next? Simon?”

“Who’s that?” asked Bülow. “What’s happened to him?”

“That was only an example.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Are you sending out the reporters now?” asked Winter.

“I’m not the night editor,” said Bülow.

“How long are you working tonight?”

“I’m on until four in the morning. So much for my Christmas.”

“I’ll call.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“I’ll call,” said Winter again and pressed the red key for the second time, put his mobile down on the desk, and picked up the receiver of the main telephone.

A patrol car drove past in the street below, its siren wailing. That was the first sound he’d heard from outside. He could see the top of the Christmas tree in Vasaplatsen, a lone star.

The Bergorts’ phone was busy. He considered calling the Frölunda station, but what would they be able to do? He called Larissa Serimov’s mobile number, but didn’t get through.

He called Ringmar at home, but there was no answer. He tried Ringmar’s mobile. No contact.

He was beginning to feel manic, standing in the middle of the quiet, dark room with his fingers hovering nervously over the keys. He tried a number he’d looked up in his address book.

He waited. Three rings, four. The world was unavailable tonight. A fifth ring, a crackling, an intake of breath.

“Car-Carlström.”

Winter said who he was. Carlström sounded worn out when he mumbled something.

“Did I wake you up?” Winter asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. But I have a couple of questions about Mats.”

Winter heard a sound coming from somewhere close to Carlström. It could have been a stick of firewood crackling in the stove. Did Carlström have a telephone in the kitchen? Winter hadn’t thought about that when he was there.

“What about Mats?” asked Carlström.

“I met him today,” said Winter, checking the time. It wasn’t midnight yet.

“And?”

“Does he know Georg Smedsberg?” Winter asked.

“Smedsberg?”

“You know who he is.”

“I don’t think he knows him.”

“Could they have had any contact at all?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Smedsberg’s son is one of the young men who’ve been attacked,” said Winter.

“Who said that?” asked Carlström.

“Excuse me?”

“He said that himself, didn’t he?” said Carlström.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Winter.

“Maybe not enough,” said Carlström.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’m not saying any more,” said Carlström.

“Did Mats have any contact with Georg Smedsberg?” Winter asked again.

“I know nothing about that.”

“Any contact at all?” said Winter.

“What if he did?”

That depends on what happened, Winter thought.

“What kind of a life did Mats have with you?” Winter asked. I’ve asked that before. “How did he get along with other people?”

Carlström didn’t answer.

“Did he have a lot of friends?”

It sounded as though Carlström gave a laugh.

“I beg your pardon?”

“He didn’t have any friends,” said Carlström.

“None at all?”

“Them round here couldn’t stand th’ boy,” said Carlström, his accent getting broader. “Couldn’t stand the boy.”

“Was he mistreated at all?”

That same laugh again, cold and hollow.

“They made a mockery of him,” said Carlström. “He might have been able to stay, but-”

“He ran away?”

“He hated ’em and they hated ’im.”

“Why was he hated?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. Who knows the answer to a question like that?”

“Was Georg Smedsberg one of those who abused him?”

“He might have been,” said Carlström. “Who can keep track of that?”

“What did his wife think about it?”

“Who?”

“Gerd. His wife.”

“I don’t know.”

“What does that mean?” asked Winter.

“What I said.”

“How did you know Gerd?” Winter asked.

Carlström didn’t answer. Winter repeated the question. Carlström coughed. Winter could see that he wasn’t going to say anything else about Gerd, not at the moment.

“Would Mats have been up to attacking those boys?” he asked. “As some sort of revenge? An indirect revenge? In return for what the others had done to him?”

“That sounds crazy,” said Carlström,

“Has he ever said anything along those lines? That he wanted to get someone back?”

“He never said much at all,” said Carlström, and Winter detected a touch of tenderness in his voice. Unless it was tiredness. “He didn’t want to say much. Avoided anything hard. That’s the way he was when he first came here.”

“Have you spoken to him this Christmas?” Winter asked.

“No.”

Winter said good night. He checked his watch again. Almost midnight now. He could still hear Carlström’s voice echoing in his ears.

Carlström could have done it, Winter thought. He could have taken revenge on old man Smedsberg, for instance, and everything associated with him. For something Smedsberg had done to Mats. Or to himself.

There was something else Carlström had just said. Winter hadn’t thought about it at the time, but now, a minute later, he was going over the conversation again, in his head.

He didn’t want to say much, Carlström had said about his foster son. That’s the way he was when he first came here. There was something else.

Avoided anything hard. What did he mean by anything hard?

Winter dialed Carlström’s number again and listened to the ringing. This time nobody answered in the house in the flats.

Winter hung up and thought. He lifted it again and dialed Mats Jerner’s number. He listened to the ringing just as he’d listened to the ringing at Jerner’s foster father’s house.

He hung up, went to the kitchen, and made a cup of double espresso. He drank the drug while standing by the kitchen window. The courtyard down below was glistening from a thin layer of snow and frost. The outside thermometer showed minus four degrees. The light from the Christmas tree in the courtyard shone all the way up to Winter’s apartment. He was reminded of Bertil’s neighbor, the mad illuminator, and of Bertil. He took his cup back into the study and called Bertil again, but there was no answer from any of the numbers. He left a message on Bertil’s mobile. He called Police Operations Center but they had no information about Ringmar. Nor any other kind of information. No car accident, no boy, no abductor.

He could hear his stomach. Some Thai curry the day before, or whenever it was, and since then nothing but whiskey and coffee. He went back to the kitchen and made an omelette with chopped tomatoes, onion, and quick-roasted paprika. The telephone rang as he was eating. He could reach the kitchen telephone from the table, and answered with his mouth full.

“Is that Winter? Erik Winter?”

“Chllm… mmm… yes.”

Winter could hear the sound of an engine-the call seemed to be coming from a car.

“Ah. Good evening, er, good morning, er, Janne Alinder here. Linné-”

“Hello, Janne.”

“Er, we’ve just come back from the country. No mobile in the world gets through to our cottage. I saw you’d been trying to contact me.”

“Good that you called.”

“No problem. We had a some trouble with the electricity in the cottage, so we had to pack up and go home in the end. I’m not a hundred percent sober, but luckily the wife is.”

“Can you remember if Lena Sköld mentioned anything about her girl saying that the man whose car she sat in stuttered?” Winter asked.

“Stuttered? No, I can’t remember anything about that off the top of my head.”

“Or if she spoke about a parrot?”

“A what?”

“A parrot. We’ve just sent out a message to all the Gothenburg police stations about that. We think the abductor had an ornament or something hanging from his rearview mirror. A parrot. A bird in any case. Green, or green and red.”

“A parrot? No. Have the witnesses seen a parrot or something?”

“The children have,” said Winter.

“Hmm.”

“It feels reliable,” said Winter.

“You’re certainly doing overtime on this case,” said Alinder.

“You will be too,” said Winter. “Right now, and maybe more later. If you’re prepared to.”

“Overtime? Of course, for Christ’s sake-I know what’s involved.” Winter could hear a slight slurring, but Alinder wasn’t so drunk that he wasn’t thinking straight. “What do you want me to do?”

“Check your notes one more time.”

“Have you checked with any of the others?”

“I’ve tried to contact Josefsson at Härlanda, but I haven’t gotten ahold of him yet.”

“When do you want this done?”

“As soon as possible.”

“I can instruct my chauffeur to drive me to Tredje Långgatan. Even if I can’t find the station, she will.”

The silence after the phone call almost took him by surprise. He stood up and shoveled the remains of the Basque omelette that had been his Christmas dinner into the trash. It was past midnight now. He turned on one of Angela’s CDs that had now become his too. He opened the balcony door, breathed in the night air, and contemplated the Christmas tree and its star that seemed to be reflecting images of the city all around. The stars in the bright sky. Away in a manger, no crib for a bed. He thought about Carlström, his barn, and lit a cigarillo, the music from U2 behind him, delicate synthesizers, the words,

Heaven on Earth, we need it now.

The telephone rang.