Frozen Tracks (34 page)

Winter's mobile rang on the work surface, where it
was recharging. He could reach it without needing to
stand up.

'Hello?'

'Hi, Lars here.'

Bergenhem's voice sounded small, as if it were coming
from a tunnel.

'What's happened?'

'Carolin Johansson has taken an overdose,' said
Bergenhem. 'Micke's mother. Some kind of bloody
tablets, they don't know yet.'

'Is she alive?'

'Only just.'

'Is she alive or isn't she?'

'She's alive,' said Bergenhem.

'There were no drugs at her place,' said Winter. 'We
ought to have a record.'

'Sleeping tablets, they think. She had visitors at the
time,' said Bergenhem.

'I want to know exactly who was there,' said Winter.

'That's no so—'
'I want to know, Lars. Fix it.'

'OK.'

'Is she in Östra hospital?'

'Yes.'

'Do we have somebody there?'

'Sara.'

'OK. How's the father taking it? Where is he?'

'He's there as well.'

'Who's keeping an eye on his telephone?'

'Two new officers. I don't know their names.
Möllerström can ask—'

'Forget it for the time being. Have you spoken to
Bengt Johansson this morning?'

'No.'

Just as well, Winter thought. I'll call on him this
afternoon at his home. Assuming he's back from the
hospital by then.

Bertil had gathered what had happened, and stood up.

'Time for a day's work,' he said. 'Another day's work.
Christmas Eve or no Christmas Eve.' He looked at
Winter. 'They work on Christmas Eve in the USA.'

'How are you feeling, Bertil?'

'Excellent after a good night's wake.'

'Won't Birgitta be looking for you?'

'How the hell should I know?'

'You know where you are with me, Bertil,' said
Winter.

'I beg your pardon?'

'I believe you,' said Winter.

'How can you be so sure, Erik? Just because I'm
swaying around like a Christmas tree in a storm and
blinking like a lighthouse it doesn't necessarily mean
that I'm telling the truth.'

Winter couldn't help smiling.

'You're not swaying and you're not blinking.'

'Oh shit, that means I'm found out.'

'Never read newspapers,' said Winter.

'I didn't even show you the front page,' said Ringmar.

'I think I can imagine it,' said Winter.

'And it's not even a member of the gutter press
brigade,' said Ringmar.

He went into the hall.

'I'll be going now. Merry Christmas again.'

'See you shortly,' shouted Winter, but the door had
already closed.

He went to his desk and checked the telephone number
he had added to his computer notes. He dialled it.

'Hello?'

The voice could belong to anybody, could be young,
could be getting on. There was a noise in the background
that he couldn't identify.

'I'm looking for Mats Jerner.'

'Wh-wh-who's asking?'

'Are you Mats Jerner?'

'Yes . . .'

'My name's Erik Winter, I'm a detective chief inspector.
I'd like to meet you. Preferably today. This afternoon.'

'It's Ch-Ch-Christmas Eve,' said Jerner.

It's Christmas Eve for me as well, Winter thought.

'It will only take a couple of minutes,' he said.

'What's it about?'

'We're investigating a series of vicious attacks and,
well, one of the victims comes from your home district,
and we're trying to get in touch with everybody who's
had cont—'

'How do you know where I come from?' asked Jerner.

Winter noticed that he sounded calmer. That was
often the case. If you mentioned that you were a police
officer, and especially a DCI, most people's voices
sounded a bit unsteady at first.

'We've spoken to your foster father,' said Winter.

Jerner said nothing.

'Mr Jerner?'

'Yes?'

'I'd like to meet you today.'

Silence again. That noise again.

'Hello? Jerner?'

'I can come to see you this afternoon,' said Jerner.

'Do you mean come to police headquarters?'

'Isn't that where you work?'

'Yes . . .' said Winter, looking around his flat.

'When do you want me to come?'

Winter looked at his watch.

'Four,' he said.

'That suits me,' said Jerner. 'I pack up at twenty to.'

'Pack up?'

'Come to the end of my shift.'

'What's your work?'

'I'm a tram driver.'

'I see. It sounded a minute ago as if you wanted to
keep Christmas Eve . . . free.'

'It was just because of the ph-ph-phone call,' said
Jerner. 'Realising that you're at work on Christmas Eve.
Ringing people up and asking questions and telling them
to come in for more questioning and all that. Ordering
them, or whatever the right word is. That was what
surprised me.'

It's not an order, Winter thought.

'What do I do, then?' asked Jerner.

'I beg your pardon?'

'I need to know where in police headquarters I should
report to, don't I? Or do you expect me to find my own
way around the building?'

The city was still white as he drove south. Metheny and
Haden oozed calm from the CD,
The Moon Is a Harsh
Mistress
.

He was blinded for a second as he drove into the
tunnel. There was no light. On the way to the darkness
at the end of the tunnel, he thought. A horrific thought.

It occurred to him that he'd forgotten to look for the
Christmas presents from Angela and Elsa.

Snow lay like cold powder on the fields. Beyond them
the sea formed a concave mirror. It wasn't moving at
all.

The Bergorts' semi was bathing in one of the day's
first sunbeams as he got out of the car. There were
Advent candles in two of the windows.

He could smell newly made coffee as he stepped into
the hall.

Kristina Bergort offered him a coat-hanger.

'I apologise for disturbing your Christmas Eve,' said
Winter.

'But this is important,' she said. 'God, it's awful.'

He could see the open newspaper on the kitchen
table: What's happened to Micke? The police have no
leads.

He could smell the pungent scent of Christmas
hyacinths through the living-room door. That was
perhaps the dominant Christmas smell as far as he was
concerned, full of memories.

'I've just made coffee.'

'Thank you.'

Winter sat down. He could see the illuminated
Christmas tree through the door to the living room. Did
Elsa have a Christmas tree in Nueva Andalucía? Surely
his mother would have dreamed up something. Lights in
the palm trees in the garden? That made him think of
Bertil. Where was Bertil supposed to be going this morning?
Smedsberg. The other students.

'What's Maja doing?' he asked.

'She's watching the telly. Kids' programmes.'

'Where can we go?'

'Well, you didn't want to be in her room, so I thought
maybe we could use Magnus' room. It's a sort of little
office. And sometimes I sit there and do some sewing.'

'OK.'

'Shall I tell Maja?'

'Yes please.'

The routine, if that was the right word for it, was
the same as usual, and the same as at Simon Waggoner's
home: Winter squatting down on the floor and displaying
a genuine interest in the child. Being a nice man. Merry
Christmas, Maja. I have a little girl just one year younger
than you. She's called Elsa.

She looked down. She'd said her name very quietly
when they were introduced.

He led the way into the room.

'So, here we are,' he said.

She didn't want to follow him.

'Erik just wants to have a few words with you in
there,' said Kristina Bergort to her daughter.

The girl shook her head. She was bouncing a little
ball that went off course and disappeared into the room.
Winter was in there already.

'Aren't you going to fetch the ball, Maja?'

She shook her head again.

'That's Daddy's study,' said Kristina Bergort.

'Where's Daddy?' asked the girl.

'He has to be at work, darling. I told you that this
morning.'

On Christmas Eve, Winter thought. Is there anybody
else in Sweden who needs to work on Christmas Eve?

'Don't want to,' said Maja.

'We can be in the kitchen,' he said. 'Why don't you
bring along some paper and crayons, Maja?' He wanted
her undivided attention, but he wanted something else
as well.

He set up the camera next to the door.

She was perched on her chair like a bird. The smell of
coffee had dispersed, but the hyacinths were still there.

His questions had started to zoom in on her meeting
with the stranger.

He had started by asking Maja about her favourite
colours. They'd drawn something using them, and then
something with colours she didn't like as much. She
knew her colours, all of them.

'Have you lost your ball, Maja?'

She looked at the ball on the table between them.

'The other ball,' said Winter. 'The green ball.'

'That's gone,' she said. 'I've lost the green ball.'

'Where did you lose it?'

'In the car,' she said.

'In what car?'

'The mister's car.'

Winter nodded.

'Were you sitting in the mister's car?' he asked.

'Yes.'

'What colour was that car, Maja?'

'It was black,' she said, but she didn't look sure.

'Like this?' said Winter, and he drew a black line.

'No, not as black as that.'

He drew a blue line.

'No.'

A different blue.

'Yes!'

'So the mister's car was this colour?'

'Yes! Blue!'

Maybe they'd hit the jackpot. But there again, a
witness claiming to recognise a colour was among the
most unreliable pieces of evidence in existence, with the
possible exception of car makes. Somebody could swear
blind that it was a white Volvo V70 that had driven
away from the scene of crime, but shortly afterwards it
could be established that it was a red Chrysler Jeep.
Typical. It had become more difficult to distinguish
between makes of car since their cloning procedures had
become more sophisticated. They all had the same slick
design, the same nuances. He'd thought a lot about that.
He'd had to.

They'd tried showing the child various makes of car,
but it hadn't been possible to narrow it down.

He took a piece of paper, and drew a car using a
blue pencil. It could have been a Volvo, or a Chrysler.
In any case, it had a basic outline, and four wheels.

Maja laughed out loud.

'Was this the car?' he asked.

'No, don't be silly,' she said, but coquettishly.

'Why don't you draw it, then?'

'I can't,' she said.

Winter slid his drawing over to her.

'Let's help each other,' he said. 'Why don't you draw
yourself? Where were you sitting in the mister's car?'

'It wasn't that car,' said Maja.

'Let's pretend that this was the mister's car,' said
Winter.

He took a yellow pencil and drew a head in the front
seat. She took a black one, and drew an eye, a nose
and part of a mouth. A profile of a face.

'Where was the mister sitting?' Winter asked.

'We can't see him,' said Maja.

'What would he have looked like if we could see
him?' Winter asked.

She drew a head in black, and on top of it something
that could possibly be a cap.

'What's that?' asked Winter.

'That's the mister's hat.'

Before Winter had time to ask his next question, she
drew a green dot in front of her portrait of herself sitting
in the car.

Her ball, Winter thought. Perhaps it was on top of
the dashboard until he took it. Assuming that was really
where it vanished. If any of this really took place.

But he asked even so, pointing at the green dot.

'What's that, Maja?'

'That's the mister's birdie,' she said.

Aneta Djanali met Kalle Skarin for the second time. At
the first meeting she had suggested that something might
have been taken away from Kalle.

'The car,' Kalle had said.

They had gone through all the things he had at home,
and what was missing.

'He usually took it with him,' Berit Skarin had said.
'I couldn't find it, so maybe . . .'

Now Kalle was playing with a new car on the carpet.
Aneta Djanali was sitting beside him. Kalle had proved
to be a bit of an expert on cars, and might well have
identified the abductor's car as a Japanese make, possibly
a Mitsubishi. He had pointed at the Lancer as if he had
recognised the estate car model, but he had been less
sure of the colours.

He hadn't heard any rude words on the radio.

'Did the mister have any toys, Kalle?' asked Djanali.

'Kalle got sweeties,' said the boy, interrupting his
brrrruuumming with the car, which was a Chrysler Jeep.

'Did the mister have sweeties?' Djanali asked.

'Lots of sweeties,' said Kalle.

She asked about what sort of sweets, what they looked
like, what they tasted like. Really she ought to have
conducted this part of the interrogation in Gothenburg's
best sweet shop so that they could compare different
ones, but that might have been too distracting.

'Sweeties!' said Kalle, who wasn't much bothered
about details. Unfortunately.

'Was there a toy in the mister's car, Kalle?'

'Brrrrruuuuuum.'

He drove the car in circles, in figures of eight. She
saw his little head and thought of the injured Simon
Waggoner, and Micke Johansson who had disappeared.
Was there a connection? They didn't know yet, so what
could they do? They were doing their best at the
moment.

Kalle Skarin might have met the same person as
Micke Johansson. She thought about that again now.
His head bowed over the car and the grey carpet, which
was thin but soft.

It had been a very short meeting. Why? What did he
want from Kalle? Was Kalle part of a pattern? The other
children: Ellen, Maja, and then Simon. Was there a
pattern in the different meetings? Were they building up
towards something? Did
the man
change? Why did he
assault Simon? Was that a step on the way? Was he
preparing himself? For what? For Micke Johansson? She
didn't want to think about that, not now, not ever in
fact.

Erik had spoken to the forensic psychologist. There
were various possible scenarios, all of them frightening.

We have an aim, and that is to find Micke Johansson.
Please help me, Kalle.

'Brrrruuuuuuumm,' said Kalle, and looked up. 'Billy
Birdie.'

'What did you say, Kalle?'

'Billy Birdie.'

'Did the mister have a birdie?'

'Billy Birdie,' said Kalle, parking by the edge of the
carpet.

'Was the birdie called Billy?'

'Billy Birdie.'

'Billy,' she repeated.

'Said Kalle. Billy Birdie said Kalle!'

'I heard you say Billy Birdie,' said Djanali.

Berit Skarin had been sitting in an armchair during
the interview. Kalle had forgotten about her, as had
Djanali. But she heard the mother's voice now:

'I think he means that the birdie said his name. Said
Kalle to him.'

* * *

Winter had asked Maja Bergort about the mister's birdie.
She couldn't remember a name. Was it a parrot? Winter
had asked. The reply he got was not a hundred per cent
certain. We'll have to get pictures of all the birds that
exist, he thought. Starting with parrots. Where in
Gothenburg do they sell that kind of thing?

The parrot Maja Bergort spoke about was hanging
from the rear-view mirror, or so he understood after
asking the follow-up questions. If it really was a parrot.
What she called a parrot might have been one of those
tree-shaped things supposed to remove nasty smells from
your car. No, not this time, not this one.

Maja's arm gave a sudden twitch.

'Does your arm hurt, Maja?'

She shook her head.

Winter could hear Kristina Bergort moving around
the house. He had asked her not to stay in the kitchen
while he spoke to Maja. He heard her again, close by.
Perhaps she was listening. Maja didn't see her.

'Have you had a pain in your arm, Maja?'

The girl nodded solemnly.

'Was the mister nasty to you?' Winter asked.

She didn't answer.

'Did the mister hit you?' Winter asked.

She was drawing circles now with the black pencil,
circles, more and more circles.

'Did the mister hit you, Maja? The mister you sat in
the car with? The mister with the birdie?'

She nodded now, up and down, without looking at
Winter.

'Was that when you got those marks?' Winter asked.

He held his own arm, tapping at the inside of it.

She nodded without looking at him.

There was something wrong. She was drawing more
circles now, one on top of the other, like a black hole
on which the centre grew smaller and smaller every time.
The darkness at the end of the tunnel, Winter thought
again. The same horrific thought.

There was something wrong here.

'What did the mister say when he hit you?' Winter
asked.

'He said I was wicked,' said Maja.

'That was a silly thing to say,' said Winter.

She nodded solemnly.

He thought of the difference between the truth and
a lie. There was something evasive about Maja now. A
lie, even if he had led her into telling it. Had the man
hit her? Which man? There can be several reasons why
children won't say who's done it. And there can be
several reasons for why they tell lies. But in most cases
they feel threatened, he thought as Maja filled in her tunnel
and started on a new one. Children are scared, they want
to avoid being punished. They sometimes want to protect
somebody they are dependent on. They want to avoid
feeling guilt, embarrassment or shame. It can sometimes
happen that the traumatisation makes it impossible
for them to distinguish between reality, fantasy and
dream.

'Has the mister hit you many times?' asked Winter.
The man had become several now, or two.

She didn't answer. The pencil had stopped moving,
halfway through building a tunnel. Winter repeated his
question.

She held up her hand, slowly. Winter could see three
fingers pointing up at the ceiling.

'Has he hit you three times?' Winter asked.

She nodded, extremely solemnly now, and looked at
him. He heard a deep intake of breath behind him,
turned round and saw Kristina Bergort, who could no
longer manage to hide behind the half-open kitchen
door.

In the car on the way back he spoke to Bertil, who was
in police headquarters, going over all the interviews,
which were spreading in all directions now – or perhaps
some of them were heading in the same direction.

'It's very quiet here,' said Ringmar. 'You can hear
your own feet on the stairs.'

'Has Aneta come back yet?'

'No.'

'Is she fully aware that she has to wait until I get
back?'