Frozen Tracks

45

WINTER KNOCKED ON GUSTAV SMEDSBERG’S DOOR. THE BOY opened it after the second knock. He let go of the handle and went back in without greeting them or saying anything at all.

Why had he been left alone? Ringmar wondered. It wasn’t the intention that he should be on his own.

They followed Gustav into his room that looked out over Mossen. The high-rise buildings on the hill opposite towered up toward the heavens. The field in between was deserted and flecked here and there with black snow.

Gustav Smedsberg remained standing without speaking.

“Where’s Mats?” Winter asked.

Smedsberg gave a start.

“It’s urgent,” said Winter. “A little boy’s life is at stake.”

“How do you know about Mats?” asked Smedsberg.

“We’ll tell you,” said Winter. “But just now this is urgent.”

“What’s all this about-a boy?”

“Has Mats been here?” asked Ringmar.

Smedsberg nodded.

“When?”

“I don’t kn… This morning some time. Early.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes. What’s all this about a boy?”

“Haven’t you read the newspapers or watched television or listened to the radio?”

“No.”

Winter could see that his ignorance was genuine.

“Didn’t Mats say anything?”

“About what?”

Winter explained, briefly.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes. We’ve been in his apartment.”

“Oh, shit.”

“What did he say?”

“That he was going away. Far away.”

“On his own?”

“He didn’t mention anybody else. No boy, nobody at all.”

“Far away? Did you tell him about me?” Ringmar asked. “About what happened at your father’s place? And about Georg? Last night?”

“Yes.”

“He cried. He said he was pleased.”

“Where might he be, Gustav? Where could he have gone?”

“He could have gone there, I suppose.”

“He was there, but he isn’t now,” said Ringmar. “We just came from there.”

Smedsberg looked weary, or worse.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know where he is. You have to believe me. I don’t want anything to happen either.”

“Could something happen?” Winter asked. “What could happen? You’ve seen him recently. You know him.”

“I don’t know him,” said Smedsberg, “I don’t kn-” Then he looked at Winter and said: “He… He said something about flying.”

“Flying? Flying to where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where from?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Where might it be? You know him.”

“No, no.”

“You’ve met him more often than I have,” said Winter.

“He’s never said anything about this to me,” said Smedsberg, looking up. “Nothing at all. But…”

“Yes?”

“He has seemed, I don’t know, creepy. I don’t know how to put it. As if everything was coming back to him. I can’t explain it.”

You don’t need to explain, Winter thought.

“We have to leave now, but one of our officers will stay here and then somebody else will help you,” he said. “We can keep talking later.”

Gustav didn’t seem to hear. He was still standing there in his room when they left. The lights on the staircase went out as they were walking down it. From the outside Winter could see Gustav’s silhouette through the window.

“This is the country we have built, the New Jerusalem,” said Ringmar.

Winter made no comment.

“He told me about something in the car,” said Ringmar. “Gustav.”

“What?”

“That fake newspaper boy was Aryan Kaite. Aryan was following him.”

“Why?”

“He suspected it was Gustav who had attacked him.”

“He was wrong.”

“And he had confirmation of that,” said Ringmar. “He saw the old man trying to club down his own son.”

“Have you had time to check this with Kaite?”

“Yes.”

“Good God. Did Gustav know?”

“He didn’t see who it was. But Kaite did.”

“And Gustav saw Kaite?”

“Yes, but he didn’t recognize him.”

“So it was Kaite who told Gustav?”

“Yes.”

“And Gustav didn’t want to believe him,” said Winter.

“It’s complicated,” said Ringmar.

“This is the country we have built, the New Jerusalem,” said Winter.

They walked to the car.

“Let’s go to my place and have something to eat,” said Winter, thinking about Angela.

“Am I hungry?” said Ringmar.

“You can do the cooking.”

“Basque omelette?” Ringmar asked.

“Why not?”

Winter spoke to Bengt Johansson on the phone again. He could hear the busy traffic in the street below, a stark contrast with the previous day.

“I can check in on you for a while later this evening, if you like,” said Winter.

“I spoke to Carolin earlier,” said Johansson. “It felt good.”

Aneta Djanali had continued to interrogate Carolin Johansson, but she was unable to add any further details. They might have seen the video film by now. Aneta hadn’t called Winter yet.

They ate. Ringmar had cut the tomatoes for the omelette the opposite way this time.

“We need meat,” said Winter.

“We need a housekeeper,” said Ringmar. “We need women.”

Cooking isn’t our first priority right now, Winter thought.

“Are you tired, Bertil?”

“No. Are you?”

“No.”

“He might have driven to the seaside,” said Ringmar. “Could be on a beach somewhere.”

Winter had sent all the officers available to scour the coastline.

They tried to set up checks at Landvetter and other smaller airports. But Winter didn’t believe Jerner would be taking a flight to anywhere. He thought his own flight would be more likely.

“How many people do we have at Nordstan?” he asked.

“Now? Not many. It’s empty. None of the shops are open today. But they are supposed to have scoured the place pretty thoroughly.”

“That was where he grabbed Micke,” said Winter. “Is he intending to take him back there?”

“He’s not there, Erik. The place is empty.”

“He used to go there a lot. You’ve seen a few of the other films. He seemed to like going there.”

“He’s not there,” said Ringmar again.

“Maybe there’s something special that draws him there?” said Winter.

Ringmar made no comment.

“Something we don’t see,” said Winter. “Something he sees but we don’t?”

“I think I know what you mean,” said Ringmar.

“When do they open again?” Winter asked.

“Tomorrow at ten o’clock. The Boxing Day sales.”

“Is it Boxing Day tomorrow? The second day of Christmas?”

“Christmas will soon be over,” said Ringmar.

“And I haven’t bought you a Christmas present, Bertil.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t bought one for you either.”

Winter stood up.

“I didn’t call Moa either. I promised I would.”

“Don’t even think about it,” said Ringmar. “No doubt you would have only made things worse.”

“I agree,” said Winter. “Are you coming with me?”

“Where to?”

“To Nordstan.”

“It’s empty, Erik.”

“I know, I know. But it’s better than sitting here. Bengt Johansson lives on the other side of the station as well.”

There was snow in the air again, a light snow shower. Some people out in the streets had their umbrellas open. Winter drove slowly.

“People shouldn’t use umbrellas when it’s snowing,” said Ringmar. “It doesn’t seem appropriate.”

“It was old man Smedsberg who told us that Carlström had a foster son,” said Winter.

“Do you think that I haven’t thought of that?” said Ringmar.

“If he hadn’t said anything, we probably would have never spoken to Carlström.”

‘No.”

“And still wouldn’t have gotten Jerner’s identity.”

“No.”

“So the question is why?” said Winter, turning to look at Ringmar. “Why?”

“Yes.”

“Come on, give me an answer. You’ve spoken to old man Smedsberg.”

“Not about that.”

“But you must have an idea?”

“Everything will be revealed by forensic psychology,” said Ringmar.

“I think we’ve uncovered quite a lot already,” said Winter.

“That’s true.”

“The father did exactly the same thing as the son did,” said Winter. “He gave us clues.”

“Yes.”

“It all has to do with guilt,” said Winter.

“Gustav’s guilt? What guilt?”

“Don’t you think the son feels guilty?” Winter looked at Ringmar again. “Don’t you think he’s been feeling guilty for ages?”

“Yes.”

“Just like the other boys. Their silence is due to the fact that they were afraid their friend would be beaten again by his father, or even worse. Fear makes you keep quiet.” Winter changed gear. “And shame also makes you keep quiet. The boys were ashamed of having been attacked. Ashamed, and shocked. That’s the way it is with rape victims.”

“Yes,” said Ringmar again.

“Gustav led us to his father,” said Winter.

“And maybe the father intentionally put us onto Carlström and hoped we would change direction and understand who it was really all about. Who the guilty one really was.”

Winter nodded.

“Guilty of everything,” said Ringmar, thinking of Mats Jerner and Micke Johansson.

“Do you think Gustav knew?” Winter asked. “Did he know about Mats? Mats and the children?”

“No,” said Ringmar. “We’ll find out eventually, but I don’t think so. As far as Gustav was concerned, it was all about his father. The old man.”

“And for old man Smedsberg it was all about himself,” said Winter. “He turned himself in indirectly the moment he told us about Natanael Carlström and the foster son.”

His mobile rang.

“We’ve found Magnus Heydrich,” said Halders.

“Eh? Come again?”

“Bergort. We’ve got him.”

“Where is he?”

“Safe and sound, locked up in a cell.”

“Has he said anything?”

“No. But who cares? He’s guilty. There’s no doubt about that, is there?”

“No,” said Winter.

“Chicken shit,” said Halders.

“What did you say, Fredrik?”

“The bastard didn’t even have the guts to drive into a tree.”

The square in the center of the Nordstan shopping mall was illuminated by every kind of light you could think of. The area around the square was silent and glittering. The display windows of the shops and department stores cast shadows onto the stone floor.

Nordstan was a training area for all rookies joining the Gothenburg police force. Winter had patroled there. A fair number of those he’d kept an eye on in those days were still around, sometimes inside the mall, sometimes outside in Brunnsparken; they had also been rookies in their own way, alcoholics and junkies who had once been young just like him.

He stood in the middle of the square, with his back to the travel agency. From there the lights from KappAhl and Åhléns and H &M and the Academy Book Shop looked warm and inviting. He couldn’t see any security guards or police officers just now. He could have been the only person in the world. Ulf Silén’s sculptures from 1992 were hanging down above his head-the work of art known as

Two Dimensions comprised figures diving and jumping into the water, flying through the air, changing under the surface of the water from white to sea green, and turning into other shapes that became a part of the water. He had never really looked at the hanging sculptures in this way before, never given them a thought, just as none of the other passersby ever did, no doubt, thousands of them every day, going to and from the shops, to and from Central Station via the pedestrian subway. The work of art became a part of the square, and that was doubtless the intention.

He heard Ringmar’s voice behind him:

“Twenty officers have been through all the basement areas.”

“OK.”

“Have you finished here?” Ringmar asked.

“What time is it?”

“Past eleven.”

“I’ll stop in on Bengt Johansson,” said Winter.

“I’m going home,” said Ringmar.

Winter nodded. It was time for Ringmar to go home.

“But I might come by later tonight,” said Ringmar. “If I can’t sleep.”

“You mean you’ve thought of sleeping?”

Bengt Johansson was calmer than before.

“It helped to talk to Carolin,” he said. “I think it helped her too.” He was pacing up and down. “You’re not going to get me to watch those films.” He held up his hands in Winter’s direction. “Carolin said she had to because it was her fault, as she put it. But I’m not going to watch that shit. Never.”

“You don’t need to see Micke,” said Winter. “But the man doing the filming. You might see something that strikes a chord.”

But what would that be? The only help they could get from Bengt Johansson would be if he recognized Jerner from some particular place.

“I don’t want to,” said Johansson.

Winter noticed the photographs of Micke on the wall and on the desk. There were more now than there had been when he was here last.

“I’d like to tell you about Micke,” said Johansson. “About all the new words he’s learned recently. Would you like to hear?”

Winter was poring over a map of Gothenburg and maps showing the streetcar routes. It was past two when he got home from Bengt Johansson’s. His car was parked in the street outside, in a space reserved for the disabled because that’s how he felt.

In the morning they would cast the net farther afield, concentrating in the first place on the number 3 streetcar route. It was an enormous task. He fell asleep halfway through a stroke of the pen. He dreamed about a child’s voice shouting “Daddy,” and then again, “Daddy,” but farther away now, faint, and toneless. He woke up in the armchair, staggered into the bedroom, and collapsed into bed.

He was woken up by a noise. He sat up with a force that startled even himself. He checked the clock on the bedside table: nine-thirty. He’d slept for five hours.

Nobody had woken him up, nobody had called. He knew they were aware at headquarters that he was working around the clock, and maybe they were simply trying to prevent him from burning himself out. He almost smiled. But his mobile? Where was it? He looked for it in the bedroom. It felt as if he were still asleep. He looked for it in the other rooms, in the kitchen. He called the number from his landline telephone in the kitchen. No ringing. He eventually found the mobile on the washbasin in the bathroom, turned off. He had no recollection of taking it there, or of switching it off. Why had he turned it off? But if there had been any developments, he would have been called by Halders, who was back on duty now. So nothing had happened. He checked the answering machine. Then took a cold shower.

As he was drinking coffee he thought again about Nordstan. Jerner had kept visiting Nordstan. There were usually so many people there that they merged into one another. He looked at the clock. The shopping mall would be open now.

On the way there Aneta Djanali called.

“Ellen Sköld said a name.”

“Have you spoken to her again?”

“Yes, just now, this morning. She keeps saying the name Gerd. It must be Gerd she keeps saying.”

“Jerner’s mother,” said Winter.

“He’s told Ellen about her,” said Djanali.

There were plainclothesed police officers in all the arcades, Postgatan, Götgatan, in the department stores. All the entrances and exits were under observation.

People were thronging in there now. The Boxing Day sales had exploded in everybody’s face. Winter could barely move as he tried to make his way over the square. Yesterday he’d been the only person on earth, today there were thousands there.

The headlines outside the newsstand were screeching at top volume.

Ringmar was waiting outside H &M, as agreed.

“Did you get any sleep, Erik?”

“Yes, but it was not intentional.”

“I’ve spoken to Martin,” said Ringmar.

“About time.”

“He wants to meet me.”

“What does he have to say?”

“That he’s never gotten over the fact that I hit him once. Once. That was it. That was all it was. But it just grew and grew on him.”

“Did you?”

“Hit him? Not in that way.”

“What other way is there?”

“I didn’t hit him,” said Ringmar, and Winter could see that the relief in Bertil’s face was that of an innocent man. I haven’t even done that, was what he wanted to say.

“Where is he?” asked Winter, as he observed people moving slowly around in clumps.

“In New York.”

“In

New York?”

“Yes. He left that damned sect he was a member of.”

“Deprogrammed?”

“He sorted it out himself.” Ringmar looked at Winter. “This might only be the beginning, of course. Such things take time.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Working in a restaurant.”

“Is he coming home?”

“Next week.”

“When’s Birgitta coming home?” Winter asked, watching a man sitting on the ground with people stepping around him.

“She’s already home. So’s Moa.”

“Who’s checked out that guitar player?” said Winter, pointing in the direction of the plinth in the middle of the square.

“Eh? What guitar player?”

“Who’s the guitarist?!” said Winter. He stepped quickly forward, collided with a woman, apologized, and continued barging his way forward like a rugby player forcing his way through tackling backs, and he reached the guitar player who was sitting underneath the hanging and whirling bodies of Two Dimensions, strumming away at some tune or other, and Winter came up behind him, saw the checked cap and knew that it was possible, and that anybody could hide himself away like this for as long as they liked, it was a devilishly clever disguise, a disguise that would work in any public place, and Winter’s hand was shaking as he reached out for the man, who strummed a chord, and Winter pulled off his cap and found himself looking at a mop of black hair and an unknown, terrified face looking up at him.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Winter.

Nobody seemed to have noticed. Nobody had been listening to the busker. He stood up, grabbed his empty guitar case and his guitar, and hurried away.

The sculptures were hovering over Winter’s head. He took a step backward and looked up at the roof that extended from the north arcade to the square. Four enormous ventilation shafts were fixed under the roof, like pedestrian tunnels. He followed them with his gaze. They opened out just in front of the work of art. You could see the sky through a circular window. The highest of the figures were surrounded by mirrors that formed a circular prism reflecting the display windows of the shops around about. He could see the reflections of people moving. The white sculptures were of naked bodies, on the way down from heaven to earth. He’d looked closely at them for the first time the previous day. He was the only person looking up. Before long, several more people would wonder what was happening, and look up as well.

The bodies were attached to transparent lines that seemed to freeze their movements.

Some were jumping.

Some were diving.

Then he saw him.

There was a new body hanging up there.

He hadn’t seen that one yesterday,

White like the rest of them, as white as snow.

Jerner’s features had stiffened just like the rest of them. He was on his way down from heaven in a frozen movement.

His arms and legs were attached to wires that he must have carried with him through the ventilation shafts.

He’d tied the last of the wires around his neck.

Then he’d jumped.

Winter was able to work all that out in a flash.

Winter closed his eyes and looked again. Jerner was hanging there, frozen in his death leap. He was flying, just like he’d told his brother he would, flying in his own way. Winter looked around, and he could see that he was the only one who had seen. Bertil had disappeared in the sea of humanity. Winter looked up again, he couldn’t help it. Next to Jerner’s left shoulder he could see the reflection of H &M’s display window. The mirror was curved in a strange way that made it possible for him to see the bottom part of some clothes racks inside the shop. He saw a small, shiny wheel and something that could be a stay, or a stand of some sort. Winter turned around and forced his way through the crowd and ripped the clothes off the racks, and there was the stroller and Micke’s head was leaning to one side, and a little arm hung down and he could feel a faint pulse.

On the plane he kept his leather jacket on, and his sunglasses. Somebody started singing as they rose up through the black, friendly skies. Somebody laughed. He put on the earphones and turned on his portable CD player and closed his eyes. A cart arrived eventually and he asked for four of the ridiculously small bottles of whiskey. He put the earphones back on and drank and tried to think of nothing, but failed. The woman next to him looked away. He turned up the sound, and the trumpet of Miles Davis blew everything else out of his mind.