Frozen Moment (38 page)

    'So
you think he would have been… sixteen or seventeen when he moved out?'

    'I
think he ended up in some kind of institution, when he made a complete mess of
things.'

    'You
mean Villa Björkudden?'

    Tell
underlined the name in the photocopied notes from social services.

    'That
might have been the name, yes. The whole thing was a bit odd, actually,' said
Jidsten thoughtfully. 'It was odd that he messed things up, I mean. Don't
misunderstand me, I've seen most things; foster-children are rarely little
angels.' He allowed himself a humourless laugh. 'Then again, angels probably
don't have to go through half the crap our foster-kids have been through before
they come to us. But I still remember I thought that what happened to Olof was
strange.'

    'Why
strange? I see from his notes that he tried to rob a petrol station. And there
was a stolen car as well.'

    Jidsten
exhaled. 'No, I just mean that Olof always gave the impression of being so…
cautious. He was a bit peculiar, really.
Slightly submissive,
almost scared.
Couldn't look people in the eye, as I
remember.
So it seemed strange that this boy, who seemed incapable of
action, should suddenly get the idea of shoving a gun in somebody's face and
demanding money. I remember I almost thought that it was some kind of perverted
progress. That he'd actually done something on his own initiative for once. I
know the police would see this as a strange way of reasoning, but I think you
understand what I mean.'

    'So
Villa Björkudden was some kind of sanction following this crime?'

    
'Exactly.
It was an educational facility or something like
that. He was only there for a year, but I'm sure that's in your notes. We
carried on being his contact family, so he came home at weekends for the first
six months.'

    'And
then?'

    'Social
services changed his support so that it no longer included a contact family.'

    'And
when he'd served his time?'

    'You
probably know that better than me. We lost contact with Olof.' He gave a rueful
chuckle. 'I presume things turned out badly for him, otherwise you wouldn't
have come looking for us. I'm impressed that you managed to track us down.'

    Tell
brought the conversation to an end, then stood up and rubbed the base of his
spine. It was hard to get used to the idea that his body no longer served him
without complaint. That age was beginning to take its toll. He realised he
ought to take some exercise.

    In
years gone by he had played regularly with an indoor ice hockey team on
Thursday evenings, ending up with a sauna and sometimes a beer in town. It had
been good fun. But those evenings had been conspicuous by their absence over
the last few years. He sat down at the computer again and sent an e-mail to
Kenth Stridh, who had been team captain at the time. Good habits should be
preserved.

    As
far as Tell was able to interpret from the notes, Olof Pilgren had moved to a
place of his own after Villa Björkudden. He couldn't find the address, other
than it was an apartment in Hjällbo. The name Thorbjorn Persson was written in
the margin, along with a telephone number. Naturally, when he tried calling,
the subscriber had not been available on that number for a long time. Instead
he called Birgitta Sundin, and she explained that Pilgren had been offered a
place in a block of apartments for young
people that was
overseen by a contact person.

    Tell
spent the next half-hour ringing up people called Thorbjorn Persson in the
Gothenburg area, asking if they had worked as a contact person in the 8os.
Finally he struck lucky. Fortunately Persson was still living in the city, at
an address in Hisingen, and had time to meet him.

    'I'll
be there,' said Tell, just as Gonzales appeared in the doorway with a phone to
his ear.

    'Bingo.
A girl at a petrol station in Hedvigsborg outside Borås apparently served a
customer filling up a Grand Cherokee. The time matches, and they're going to
give us the tape from the CCTV camera. And two car rental firms have come back
to us after the appeal we made the other day: one on Molndalsvagen, but
apparently their camera is broken, and one just outside Ulricehamn - they
haven't got any surveillance. But in both places they remember very clearly the
client who hired the Jeep.'

    'What
did you say?'

    'That
we're on our way.'

    'OK.'

    Tell
arranged a time with Thorbjorn Persson after lunch in two days' time. If his
back hadn't been so bloody painful, he would have leapt out of his chair with
joy.

    He
had planned to call Lise-Lott Edell's neighbours, Bertil and Dagny Molin, to
find out if they were familiar with the name Olof Pilgren-Bart, but he could do
that later.

    'Let's
go,' he said, punching Gonzales on the shoulder.

    Gonzales
walked into the petrol station as Tell took a stroll around outside. A woman in
a fur coat was filling up her vintage Mercedes. She reached into her pocket and
for a second Tell thought she was going to light a cigarette, but instead she
extracted a small make-up bag and applied her lipstick with a practised hand.

    The
door crashed open and a couple of lads came in. 'Forget it, I paid last time!'
They started grabbing cans of beer and packets of crisps, making plenty of
noise. Gonzales glanced at the headlines in the evening papers while he waited
to speak to the assistant; her name badge said ANN-CATHRINE HOLBERG. She didn't
ask the lad for ID when he came to pay, although she was no doubt under strict
instructions to do so. Maybe she just couldn't cope with the same old routine:
I've left my driving licence at home. Anyway I always shop here. There was no
problem last Friday -
and so on.

    The
woman in the fur coat came in and paid for her petrol. On the way out she
bumped into a scruffy man in his thirties. He picked up an evening paper, then
went over to the till and started fiddling with a packet of condoms.

    'Are
these any good?' he asked, exposing yellow teeth in a grin. Ann-Cathrine
Hogberg gave him a dirty look.

    'I
think you need two people to use that particular brand,' she said coldly,
rapidly keying in the cost of the newspaper. 'Will there be anything else?'

    The
man shook his head sulkily. Gonzales watched him cut across past the petrol
pumps, his head down between his shoulders, his footsteps unsteady. There were
no customers left in the shop.

    Gonzales
went over to the till and showed his ID. 'We spoke on the telephone.'

    The
girl laughed nervously and slammed the drawer of the till shut. 'Oops! I was
expecting someone in uniform.' She had gone bright red, possibly because she
had just sold alcohol to someone who might be under age.

    'I
only have a vague memory of the man with the Jeep.' She ran her fingertips
under her eyes to hide her embarrassment. 'I might not be much help.'

    Gonzales
shook his head and said that any information could potentially be important.
The girl relaxed and seemed to be thinking.

    'He
wasn't threatening in any way, I'm sure of that - if he'd behaved oddly I would
have remembered.'

    She
told him that when she heard that the police were looking for anyone who might
have seen a dark-coloured Grand Cherokee, she had phoned straight away, even if
the times didn't quite match. She had finished work at midnight, and she was
sure she had served the driver of the Cherokee at least a couple of hours
before the end of her shift. Yes, it
could
have been a similar car but a
different make; she wasn't all that brilliant at identifying cars. And she'd
only seen it from a distance. But she was reasonably sure it was a Grand
Cherokee. At any rate, the tapes from the CCT V camera would show the exact
time, and would also provide a more precise description of the man in question.

    'Kurt,
my boss, he's just sorting out the tape,' she said, nodding to Tell, who had
just come in.

    As
she mentioned her boss they heard an impatient voice from the depths of the
shop. They followed Ann-Cathrine into the staffroom. The voice turned out to
belong to a middle-aged man with a comb- over and yellow-tinted glasses. He was
in a room where a fridge, two hotplates and a sink gave a vague impression of a
kitchen, sharing the space with a two-seater sofa and a small television.

    Without
bothering to say hello the man pressed the remote. He pointed helplessly at the
black and white grainy mess on the screen, the CCTV recording from the day in
question. You could see the four pumps and the entrance to the shop, with
blurred figures moving between the two. However, it was impossible to make out
any details.

    'Look
at that,' he said eventually, sounding disappointed. 'This is no use to the
police. In fact it's no bloody use at all.' He gave his assistant an
encouraging look. 'I'm sure you can fill in the details, Anki?'

    
But
that was the problem. For the next half-hour Tell and Gonzales sat there in the
shabby little room asking the same questions over and over again.
What did
he look like - can you remember any details, anything at all?
Clothes, accent, voice, wallet, age.
How did he pay?
Cash, of course.
Did he buy anything apart from petrol? Did
he seem nervous? Hair colour, height?

    In
the end Ann-Cathrine Hogberg put her head in her hands. The more they asked,
the less she seemed to remember. Tell and Gonzales exchanged a crestfallen
glance; if they carried on behaving as if they would walk over burning coals
for even the smallest scrap of information, the girl would soon be making up a
description to satisfy them.

    They
backed off, dissatisfied in spite of the fact they had assured the owner that
the video technicians could often work wonders with the most unpromising
material.

    Ann-Cathrine
too seemed very disappointed at her inability to remember much. Back out in the
shop she leaned absent-mindedly against the snack display, causing a minor
avalanche of crisps, cheese puffs, chilli nuts and nachos. Kurt rolled his eyes
at Tell, who was putting the tape into his bag.

    'We'll
take care of this,' he said idiotically, as if he thought the police were going
to clear up the mess before they left.

    Ann-Cathrin
smiled bravely, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Gonzales placed his card in
front of her on the counter.

    'Get
in touch if you think of anything, if you remember anything else, I mean. You
might be called in to describe the man to one of our forensic artists. Thanks
for getting in touch.'

    She
nodded, her eyes fixed on the sweet display in front of her.

    They
were just on their way out when she called, 'He bought Lakerol.'

    They
stopped in the doorway and turned back.

    'He
bought a box of Lakerol sweets,' she said.
'And a sandwich.'

    She
was still staring at the throat sweets in front of her, as if they might
conjure up the picture of the man who had bought them.

    
She
closed her eyes and seemed to be visualising that evening.
Her striped
uniform shirt and that slightly tired smile.
Her hands on the
till.
And there he was: blonde hair and a baseball cap.

    'I
don't remember if the cap had any kind of logo on it, but I think it was black.
His eyes were quite deep-set, and he had dark shadows underneath, as if he
hadn't slept for a long time. His lips seemed too red, as if he was wearing
make-up. I think he was quite
short,
or maybe medium
height.
Some kind of padded jacket, or maybe a windcheater.
Although it was really cold that night.'

    Tell
and Gonzales drove along in silence, both thinking the same thing. There was
absolutely no guarantee that the man Ann-Cathrine had just described was the
murderer, but it was definitely the nearest thing they had to a clue.

    Although
it was rush hour, the main road between Borås and Ulrice- hamn wasn't
particularly busy. Tell was driving well over the speed limit, and it struck
Gonzales, as it had done so many times since he joined the force, that police
officers were the worst offenders when it came to traffic regulations.