Frozen Tracks (11 page)

'Why do you ask?'

'Did you see anybody carrying newspapers?'

'No.'

'OK. I'll tell you why I'm asking. You've heard I
suppose that another lad was, er, attacked, in the same
way? At Mossen?'

'Yes.'

He says he saw a newspaper boy shortly before it
happened, but there was no newspaper boy there that
morning. The usual person was ill.'

'So it must have been a replacement.'

'No. The usual one cried off at the last minute, and
they hadn't had time to find anybody else.'

'How does he know it was a newspaper boy he saw,
then?'

'There was somebody carrying newspapers up and
down staircases at four thirty in the morning.'

'Sounds like a newspaper boy,' said Kaite.

'Exactly,' said Winter.

'But isn't there something a bit fishy there? How
could he know the usual delivery person was ill?' he
asked. 'He could have risked bumping into her, surely?
How did he know?'

'That's what we are wondering as well,' said Winter,
studying the boy's face. It was as black as Aneta Djanali's,
but with different features, from another part of Africa.

'Very odd,' said Kaite.

'Where do you come from, Aryan?'

'Kenya.'

'Born there?'

'Yes.'

'Are there a lot of Kenyans living in Gothenburg?'

'Quite a few. Why?'

Winter shrugged.

'I hardly ever mix with them,' said Kaite.

'Who do you mix with, then?'

'Not many people.'

'Fellow students?'

'Some of them.'

'Who were you with that evening?'

'Eh?'

'When you were attacked. Who were you with then?'

'I said I was on my own.'

'Before you got to Kapellplatsen, I mean.'

'Nobody. I was just wandering around the streets.'

'You didn't meet anybody?'

'No.'

'Not at all? All evening?'

'No.'

'It was a long night as well.'

'Yes.'

'And you didn't meet anybody then, either?'

'No.'

'And you expect me to believe that?'

'Why wouldn't you?' He looked surprised. 'Is it all
that strange?'

'So you didn't know the person who clubbed you
down?'

'What kind of a question is that?'

'Do you want me to ask it again?'

'You don't need to. If I knew who it was, I'd say so,
of course.'

Winter said nothing.

'Why on earth wouldn't I?'

'What would you say if I said "bicycle"?' asked
Halders.

'Is this some kind of association game?' wondered
Jakob Stillman.

'What?' said Halders.

Stillman eyed the detective inspector with the shaved
head, worn-out polo-neck shirt and jeans and the heavy
shoes. Who was he? Had there been a mix-up during
the arrest of a gang of ageing skinheads?

He rolled carefully to one side, and his head followed
his body and hurt. He couldn't shake off this constant
headache. And this conversation was not making things
any better.

'Association game,' he said. 'You say something and
I associate it with something else.'

'If you'd said "bicycle", I might have said "beating
up",' said Halders.

'Yes, that's a natural association.'

Halders smiled.

'Do you understand what I'm getting at?' he asked.

'Do you always interrogate your interviewees like
this?' Stillman wondered.

'You're reading law, is that right?'

'Yes.'

'Haven't you got as far as the chapter on cognitive
interrogation methodology yet?'

Stillman shook his head, which was a mistake. It felt
as if something was loose inside it.

'Let's go on,' said Halders. 'Do you think it's possible
that whoever attacked you stole up on a bicycle?'

'What I saw was just a figure, as I told your colleague.
And it all happened damn quickly.'

'Maybe that's why,' said Halders. 'He was riding a bike.'

'Well, I suppose that's a possibility.'

'You can't exclude it for certain?'

'No. I suppose not.'

Halders checked his notes, which were detailed and
comprehensive. It seemed that after the blow to his head
he'd become more inclined to make notes. As if he didn't
really trust his own mind any more. Before that he'd
often managed with notes made on the inside of his
eyelids; but now he needed a notebook and a pencil.

'When Bert . . . DCI Ringmar asked you about the
noises you'd heard, it seemed obvious that you didn't
think they were human sounds. What might they have
been, then?'

'I really don't know.'

'What would you say if I said "bicycle"?' said
Halders.

'I don't know what to say,' said Jens Book.

'I asked you if you'd met anybody after you'd left
the party and before you were attacked, and you
answered yes and no.'

Book said nothing.

'It's an answer you really ought to elaborate on,' said
Ringmar.

'I did meet somebody,' said Book.

'Who did you meet?'

'It has nothing at all to do with this,' said Book.

'Why do you find it so hard to tell me?' Ringmar
asked.

'For Christ's sake, can I never be left in peace?'

Ringmar waited.

'It's as if I'd committed a crime,' said Book. 'I'm lying
here paralysed and smashed up and . . . and . . .' His
face contracted and he burst into tears.

Ease off now, Bertil, Ringmar thought.

'If you tell me who you met, that can help me to
find whoever it was who attacked you,' he said, and
had the feeling that he'd said precisely that before, many
times, to many victims.

'OK, what the hell,' said Book. 'I met a guy, OK?'

'That's completely OK,' said Ringmar.

'OK,' said Book again.

'Why was it so difficult to say that?'

The boy didn't respond. He was studying something
behind Ringmar's head but Ringmar knew that there
was nothing to look at, nothing but a blank wall covered
in paint that had never glistened. Hospital wards are
very much like Lutheran assembly halls, he thought, or
maybe chambers for ascetic sects: life is but a journey
to death, and this is an opportunity to get there a bit
quicker.

'Who was it?' he asked.

'A . . . just a guy.'

'A friend?'

Book nodded, carefully. It seemed like a solemn
moment, as if he were about to reveal his big secret.
Which was exactly what he did.

'A close friend?'

'Yes.'

'I'm not going to ask you how close,' said Ringmar.
'But I must ask you if you met him at his place.'

'Yes.'

'I need his address.'

'Why?'

Ringmar didn't answer that question. Instead he
asked:
'Did he go with you when you left?'

'Go with me?'

'When you left his home.'

'Yes. Just a short way.'

'What time was that?'

'I can't remember.'

'When was it? In relation to when you were attacked.'

'Er . . . half an hour before, maybe.'

'He lives near there, does he?'

Book didn't answer.

'Were you still together when you were attacked?'

'No.'

'Where did you part?'

'A bit . . . a bit higher up the street.'

'In Övre Husargatan?'

'Yes.'

'Where exactly?'

'Just past Sveaplan.'

'When?'

'Er, it was just before that bastard came and knocked
half my head off.'

'I want his name and address,' said Ringmar.

'Don't we all?'

'I mean your friend's,' said Ringmar.

* * *

It was more or less dark when they assembled again in
Winter's office. There wasn't enough light to fill the
corners.

'Can't you stub that bloody cigarillo out just for
once?' said Halders.

'I haven't even opened the packet yet,' said Winter,
with a look of surprise on his face.

'I was just getting my retaliation in first,' said Halders.

Ringmar cleared his throat and spread some of his
papers out on the desk that Winter had just tidied.

'It was hard for the lad to come out with it,' said
Ringmar. 'For Book, that is.'

'I hope you managed to convince him that in principle
we couldn't care less about his sexual orientation,'
said Winter.

'It's that "in principle" that could get in the way,'
said Ringmar.

'Was his friend at home?'

'No reply when I phoned him.'

'We'll have to pay him a call.' Winter looked at
Bergenhem. 'Will you have time this evening, Lars?'

'Yes. Just a formal check, I take it?'

'No,' said Halders. 'Bring him in here and give him
a good whipping.'

'Is that an attempt to be sarcastic?' said Bergenhem,
turning to face Halders.

'Attempt?' said Halders.

'The timing is absolutely crucial, Lars,' said Winter.
'But you know that as well as I do.'

'His bloody poofta friend didn't do it, for Christ's
sake,' said Halders.

'But he might have seen something,' said Ringmar.

'In which case he'd have come and told us about it
already,' said Halders.

'You don't understand what it's like,' said Bergenhem.

'What what's like?' asked Halders.

'Having to be secretive about it,' said Bergenhem.

'No – but you do, do you?' wondered Halders.

'It needs a lot of courage to come out, or whatever
they call it,' said Bergenhem, without seeming to have
heard what Halders had said.

'Really?' said Halders. 'Then how come you can't
open a newspaper nowadays without reading about how
some celebrity poofta has just come out of the closet?'

'It's different for celebrities.'

Ringmar cleared his throat again.

'Got a sore throat, have you, Bertil?' Halders turned
to look at Ringmar.

'Fredrik,' said Winter.

Halders turned to look at Winter.

'There's something these four lads have in common,
and it's not their sexuality,' said Winter. 'Can you repeat
what you told me earlier, Fredrik?'

'I did a bit of checking up,' said Halders. 'They've
all lived in halls at Olofshöjd.'

Bergenhem whistled.

'The same thing applies to about half of Gothenburg's
students, past or present,' said Halders.

'Even so,' said Bergenhem.

'Kaite and Stillman still live there now,' said Winter.

'Smedsberg moved to the Chalmers halls,' said Ringmar.

'Why?' Bergenhem wondered.

Nobody knew at this stage.

'And Book shares a flat in Skytteskogen,' said Halders.
'No doubt they'll have to make it suitable for the physically
challenged now.'

'What are we going to do about Olofshöjd?' asked
Winter. 'Any suggestions?'

'We don't have enough personnel,' said Ringmar.

'We can check their corridors, though,' said
Bergenhem. 'The ones where Kaite and Stillman live.'

'Their rooms are on different blocks,' said Halders.

'Kaite said something odd when I spoke to him,'
Winter said. He fumbled for the packet of cigarillos in
his breast pocket, and noticed Halders glaring at him.
'We were talking about Smedsberg having seen a newspaper
delivery boy, and Kaite was wide awake enough
to ask how the fake one could have known that he
wouldn't be disturbed by the genuine one.'

'Maybe he just took a chance and risked it,' said
Bergenhem. 'The fake one, that is.'

'That's not the point,' said Winter. 'The thing is that
Kaite said "her" when he was referring to the usual
delivery person. "He could have risked bumping into
her, surely?" he said. How could he have known that
it was a woman?'

'Maybe a slip of the tongue,' said Bergenhem.

'Don't you think that would be a very odd slip of
the tongue?' said Winter.

'It could be that in a bloke's world it's always women
who deliver newspapers,' said Halders. 'In his dreams.
He lies awake and hopes they are going to drop in on
him in the small hours.'

'How does this fit in with the gay theory?' wondered
Bergenhem.

'Don't ask me,' said Halders. 'That's yours and Erik's
theory, isn't it?'

Bergenhem walked across Sveaplan with a strong
following wind. A sheet of newspaper went flying past
the corner shop.

The buildings around the square looked black in the
dusk. A tram rattled past to his right, a cold yellow
light. Two magpies took off as he pressed the button
next to the nameplate. He heard a distant answer.

'I'm looking for Krister Peters. My name is Lars
Bergenhem, from the Gothenburg CID.'

No response, but a humming sound came from the
door and he pulled it open. There was no smell in the
stairwell, as if the wind had blown in and cleansed it.
The walls on each side were as dark as the building's
façade.

Bergenhem waited for a lift that never appeared.

He walked up the stairs and rang the bell next to
the door labelled Peters. The door opened a couple of
inches after the second ring. The man peering through
the crack could be the same age as Bergenhem. Five or
six years older than the students.

He stared at Bergenhem. His dark hair hung down
over his forehead in a way that looked intentional, fixed
with some kind of gel or spray. He didn't appear to
have shaved for three or four days. He was wearing a
white vest that stood out against his tanned and muscular
body. Of course, Bergenhem thought. No, you mustn't
be prejudiced. The guy is simply uncombed and unshaven
and trim.

'Can I see your ID?' said the man.

Bergenhem produced his card and asked, 'Krister
Peters?'

The man nodded and gestured towards Bergenhem's
right hand, holding the plastic pocket with his ID.

'That could be a fake.'

'Can I come in for a few minutes?'

'You could be anybody,' said Peters.

'Have you had bad experiences with people knocking
on your door?' asked Bergenhem.

Peters gave a little laugh, then opened the door fully,
turned his back on Bergenhem and went into his flat,
which opened out in all directions from the hall.
Bergenhem could see the buildings on the other side of
the square. The sky looked lighter from inside here, more
blue, as if the block of flats soared up above the clouds.

He followed Peters, who sat down on a dark grey,
expensive-looking sofa. A pile of magazines stood on a
low glass table. To the right of the magazines was a
glass and a bottle, and a misty little carafe with what
could have been water. Bergenhem sat down on an
armchair that matched the sofa.

Peters stood up.

'I'm forgetting my manners,' he said, left the room
and came back with another glass. He sat down again
and held up the bottle. 'A drop of whisky?'

'I don't know that I should,' said Bergenhem.

'It's gone twelve,' said Peters.

'It's always gone twelve somewhere or other,' said
Bergenhem.

'Hell, it's noon in Miami, as Hemingway said when
he started drinking at eleven o'clock.'

'I'll give it a miss this time,' said Bergenhem. 'I came
by car and I have to drive home when I leave here.'

Peters shrugged, poured a couple of fingers into his
glass and topped it up with water.

'You're missing a pretty decent Springbank,' he said.

'There might be other times,' said Bergenhem.

'Perhaps,' said Peters. He took a drink, put down his
glass and looked at Bergenhem. 'When are you going
to get to the point?'

'What time was it when Jens Book left you?'
Bergenhem asked.

'A nasty business,' said Peters. 'Will Jens ever be able
to walk again?'

'I don't know.'

'I can't believe it. Only a couple of blocks away from
here.' Peters took another drink, and Bergenhem could
smell the spirits. He could always leave the car here and
take a taxi home. Hell, it's noon in Torslanda.

'You were in the vicinity when it happened,' he said.

'Yes, it appears so.'

'Jens wasn't especially keen to tell us about that,' said
Bergenhem.

'Tell you about what?'

'That he'd been to see you.'

'Really.'

'That he was together with you shortly before the
attack.'

'Really.'

Bergenhem said nothing.

Peters held his glass in his hand but didn't drink from
it.

'I hope you don't think that I beat him up?' he said.
'That I crippled him and he knows I did but is protecting
me?' Peters took a drink. Bergenhem couldn't see any
sign of intoxication.

'Is that what you think?' Peters repeated.

'I don't think anything at all,' said Bergenhem. 'I'm
simply trying to find out what actually happened.'

'Facts,' said Peters. 'Always the facts.'

'According to Jens, you separated about half an hour
before he was clubbed down.'

'That could well be,' said Peters. 'I don't know exactly
when it happened, of course. When was he attacked?'

'Where was that?' asked Bergenhem. 'Where did you
separate?' He glanced down at his notebook, where it
said 'just past Sveaplan', as that was what Book had
told Ringmar.

'It was just outside here,' said Peters, gesturing
towards the window. 'A little way down the street from
Sveaplan.'

'Exactly where?'

'I can pinpoint it for you afterwards if it's important.'

'Good.'

Peters seemed to be racking his memory.

'What happened next?' asked Bergenhem.

'What happened next? You know what happened next.'

'What did you do immediately after Jens had left?'

'What did I do? I smoked a cigarette then came back
in and listened to a CD, and then I took a shower and
went to bed and fell asleep.'

'Why did you go out into the street with him?'

'I needed some air,' said Peters. 'And it was a pleasant
evening. It was only blowing half a gale at that point.'

'Did you see anybody else out there?' asked Bergenhem.

'No pedestrians,' said Peters. 'A few cars came past.
In both directions.'

'Were you watching Jens?'

'While I was smoking the cigarette, yes. He even
turned round at one point and waved. I waved back,
finished the cigarette and went inside.'

'And you didn't see anybody else in the street?'

'No.'

'Nobody else walking down the road?'

'No.'

Bergenhem could hear sounds from the street down
below, which was one of the busiest in Gothenburg.
Suddenly he heard an ambulance siren. The hospital
was not far away. Then he recognised the music Peters
was playing.

'The Only Ones,' he said.

Peters bowed in acknowledgement. 'Not bad. You
ought to be too young for The Only Ones.'

'Has Jens been here on more than one occasion?'
Bergenhem asked.

'Yes.'

'Have you been exposed to threats?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Has anybody ever threatened you?'

Peters said nothing. He took another drink, just a
sip. Bergenhem could smell the high-quality malt again.
The Only Ones continued their dark 1980s journey
through the world of drugs; a heavy mass of music
hovered over the room.

'Of course there have been threats,' said Peters. 'Once
people find out that you're gay, you're always exposed
to that risk.'

Bergenhem nodded.

'Do you understand what I'm talking about?' asked
Peters.

'I think so,' said Bergenhem.

'I'm not sure you do,' said Peters.

'Do you understand what I'm getting at?' asked
Bergenhem.

Peters thought it over. He held on to his glass but
didn't drink. The music had finished. Bergenhem saw a
black bird fly past the window, and then another. A
telephone rang somewhere in the flat, and again, and
again. Peters didn't move a muscle. The music started
again, something Bergenhem didn't recognise. The telephone
kept on ringing. Eventually the answering machine
took over. Bergenhem could hear Peters' voice, but no
message afterwards.

'Surely you don't mean that whoever hit Jens was
really after me?' said Peters in the end.

'I don't know.'

'Or that he was after Jens because of, well, for some
special reason?'

Bergenhem didn't reply.

'That it wasn't Jens as an individual who was being
targeted? That it was because he's gay?'

'I don't know,' said Bergenhem.

'Well, I suppose that could be the case.' Peters held
up his glass. It was empty now. 'Nothing of that sort
surprises me any more.'

'Tell me about when you've felt threatened,' said
Bergenhem.

'Where shall I start?'

'The latest occasion.'

Aneta Djanali parked by the kerb and they got out of
the car. Halders was massaging the back of his neck as
he watched Djanali lock the doors. She turned round.

'Does it hurt?' she asked.

'Yes.'

'I could give you a massage this evening.'

'I'd like that,' said Halders.

Djanali checked her notebook, and they walked to
the entrance of the student halls. There was a bicycle
in the stairwell. A noticeboard was plastered with layer
upon layer of messages, and a big poster at the top
advertised the autumn ball at the student union – which
had taken place ages ago.

There was a vague smell of food, an aroma that had
accumulated over decades of fast and intensive cookery
applied to cheap ingredients. Halders had lived on such
a corridor while he was at Police College in Stockholm.
He recognised the smell immediately.

'It smells just like the corridor where I lived as a
student,' he said.

'Snap!' said Djanali. 'Toasted sandwiches and bolognese
sauce.'

'Baked beans,' said Halders.

Aneta Djanali laughed out loud.

'Was it as funny as all that?' asked Halders.

'On my corridor we had a girl whose diet was made
up exclusively of baked beans, and she used to eat them
straight out of the tin, with a spoon, without heating
them up.'

'Yes, that is funny,' said Halders.

'It made me feel sick.'

'Don't baked beans always have that effect?'
wondered Halders.

Djanali breathed in the aroma again.

'Isn't it strange that we seem to have memory chips
that kick in as soon as we come across a particular
smell?' she said. 'That smell is familiar, and so all the
memories come flooding back.'

'I hope it doesn't make you feel too ill,' said Halders.
'We're out on business after all.'

'But do you know what I mean?'

'Only too well,' said Halders. 'There are things I
thought I'd forgotten all about, but now they come
tumbling out of memory's cupboards, just like you said.'

'I hope they don't influence you too much,' said
Djanali with a smile.

'Speaking of that girl's diet,' said Halders, 'you should
have seen what me and my mates used to eat.'

'I'm glad I didn't,' said Djanali, and rang the bell of
the corridor where Gustav Smedsberg had lived before
transferring to Chalmers. Jakob Stillman had a room in
the corridor directly above, when he wasn't in Sahlgren
Hospital. He'd soon be back here again.

Aryan Kaite lived in the block next door. That didn't
necessarily mean that the boys knew one another, or
even would recognise one another if they met in the
street. This is a pretty anonymous environment, Djanali
thought. Everybody minds their own business and studies
away and occasionally slips out into the communal
kitchen to prepare something to eat, then slips back into
their room with a plate, and the only time they look at
anybody else is when there's a party. Then again, there
can be a lot of parties. In my day it was Saturday every
day of the week, every week. Maybe it's still like that
today. If it's always Saturday, good luck to 'em. For me
nowadays it always seems to be Monday. Well, maybe
not any more.

Halders read the list of residents.

'Maybe one of these guys harbours a grudge against
his neighbour?' he said.

'Maybe.'

'Here comes one of them,' he said, as a girl appeared
on the other side of the glass door. Halders held up his
ID, and she opened the door.

'I remember Gustav,' she said.

They were sitting in the communal kitchen. Halders'
and Djanali's memories were all around them, a swarm
of baked beans. Everything was familiar; time had
stood still in there just as it had in all other student
corridors in every city in the land. It smelled like it
always had done. If I opened the fridge door, I'd be
back in my prime, Djanali thought. Or in my youth,
at least.

'So he was clubbed down, was he?' asked the girl.

'No,' said Halders. 'He was attacked, but he escaped
uninjured and hence he is a very important witness for
us.'

'But . . . why have you come here, then?'

'He lived here not long ago.'

'So what?'

It wasn't an impertinent question. She doesn't look
the impertinent type, Halders thought.

'This whole business is so serious that we're trying
to pin down everybody the victims might have come
into contact with,' said Djanali.

'But you said Gustav wasn't a victim?'

'He might easily have been,' said Djanali.

'Why did he move out of here?' asked Halders.

'I don't know,' said the girl, but he could see she
wasn't telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing
but the truth.

'He didn't exactly take a step up by moving to the
Chalmers halls,' said Halders.

She shrugged.

'Did he have a row with anybody here?' Halders
asked.

'A row? What kind of a row?'

'Anything from a minor difference of opinion to allout
war with air raids and anti-aircraft fire,' said Halders.
'A row. Some sort of row.'

'No.'

'I'm only asking because this is such a serious case,'
he said. 'Or series of cases.'

She nodded.

'Is there any special reason why Gustav moved out
of here?' Halders asked again.

'Have you asked him?'

'We're asking you. Now.'

'Surely he could tell you himself?'