Frozen Tracks (23 page)

'What do you mean by "a few years"?' asked Ringmar.

'A foster son. He had a foster son living with him.
I never seed him misself, but Gerd said summat about
him once or twice.'

'Was she sure?' asked Ringmar.

'That's what she said.'

No children, Winter thought. Carlström had said no
when asked if he had any children, but maybe he didn't
count a foster child.

'She said he were fed up with the lad,' said Smedsberg.
They'd arrived. Smedsberg's house was in darkness. 'The
old man were fed up with the lad and then he grew up
and I reckon he never came back again.'

'Fed up?' said Winter. 'Do you mean Carlström
treated him badly?'

'Yes.'

'What was his name?' asked Ringmar. 'The boy?'

'She never said. I don't think she knew.'

They drove home on roads wider than the ones they'd
made their way along earlier in the day.

'Interesting,' Ringmar said.

'It's a different world,' said Winter.

They continued for a while in silence. It was almost
a sensation to see lit-up houses and villages and towns
passing by, to see other cars, articulated lorries. Another
world.

'The old bloke was lying,' said Ringmar.

'You mean Carlström?'

'I mean Natanael Carlström.'

'That's the understatement of the day,' said Winter.

'Lied through his teeth.'

'That's a little bit closer to the truth,' said Winter,
and Ringmar laughed.

'But it's not funny,' said Ringmar.

'I had bad vibes out there,' said Winter.

'We've stumbled upon a secret here,' said Ringmar.
'Maybe several.'

'We'd better check up on burglaries in the area.'

'Is it worth the effort?' Ringmar asked. They were
approaching Gothenburg now. The sky was a fiery
yellow and transparent, lit up from underneath.

'Yes,' said Winter. He couldn't forget the feeling he'd
had when he was about to hammer on the old man's
front door. There was a secret. He'd sensed it. He had
sensed the darkness that was deeper than the heavens
that fell down over the earth around the big farmhouse.

They were inside the city boundary now. Winter could still
detect the rotten smell of the countryside in the car. With
a bit of luck it would accompany him up to Angela and
Elsa. Or bad luck. Angela would say something about the
house in the country. Or good luck. She might be right.

Coltrane was playing away on a CD. A pickup truck
passed by, driven by a man wearing a Father Christmas
hat. Coltrane's solo vibrated through the Mercedes and
Winter's head. Another person wearing a Father Christmas
hat drove past.

'What the hell's going on?' said Ringmar.

'Parade of the Father Christmases,' said Winter.

'Don't you have any carols?' Ringmar asked, nodding
towards the CD player.

'Why not sing along?' said Winter. 'Make up your
own words.'

'While coppers watched their crooks by night too
thinly on the ground, a villain slipped past with his swag
and didn't make a sound.'

He fell silent.

'Encore,' said Winter.

'Fear not, said Winter, we shall make your life a living
hell. We'll track you down and sort you out and lock
you in a cell.'

'The best carol I've heard in years,' said Winter.

'And it isn't even Christmas yet,' said Ringmar.

Winter stopped at a red light. The Opera House was
glittering like its own solar system. The river behind it
was red in the self-confident glow. Well-dressed people
crossing the road in front of him were on their way to
see some opera or other he didn't even know the name
of. Not his music.

'It's not going to be much fun this Christmas,' said
Ringmar softly as they set off again.

Winter glanced at him. Ringmar was staring ahead,
as if hoping to see more Father Christmases who might
put him in a better mood.

'Is it Martin you're thinking about?'

'What else?' Ringmar was gazing out over the water,
which had lost the glitter from the Opera House by
now, and instead was reflecting the motionless cranes
in the docks on the other side, rising skywards like the
skeletons they were. 'I'm only human.'

'I'll have a word with Moa,' said Winter. 'I've said
that before, but I really will this time.'

'Don't bother,' said Ringmar.

'I mean that I shall speak indirectly to Martin. First
Moa and then perhaps Martin.'

'It's between him and me, Erik.'

'From him to you, more like,' said Winter.

Ringmar made a noise that could have been a quick
intake of breath.

'I sometimes lie awake at night and try to work out
what particular incident caused all this,' he said. 'When
did it happen? What started it? What did I do?'

Winter waited for him to continue. He left the
motorway in order to take Ringmar home. Mariatorg
was the same small-town square it always was. Young
people were loitering around the hot-dog stand. Trams
came and went. There was the chemist's, as in all little
towns, the photography shop, the bookshop where he
sometimes called in to buy the occasional book for Lotta
and the girls on his way to Långedrag.

It had been Winter's own local square when he had
been growing up in Haga, in the same house as his sister
and her children now lived in.

'I can't find it,' said Ringmar. 'That incident.'

'That's because it doesn't exist,' said Winter. 'Never
has existed.'

'I think you're wrong. There's always something. A
child doesn't forget. Nor does a teenager. Adults can
forget, or regard whatever happened as something quite
different from what it really was. In the child's eyes, at
least.'

Winter thought about his own child. All the years in
store for them both. All the individual incidents.

He drove up to Ringmar's house. It was illuminated
by the neighbour's Christmas lights in the same way
that the river had seemed to be ablaze with reflections
from the Opera House.

Ringmar looked at Winter, whose face looked as if
it had been caught in searchlight beams.

'Pretty, isn't it?' said Ringmar with a thin smile.

'Very. And now I understand the real reason why you
can't sleep at night.'

Ringmar laughed.

'Do you know him well?' Winter asked.

'Not sufficiently well to march into his garden with
my SigSauer and shoot out all the lights and be confident
he would understand.'

'Shall I do it for you?'

'You're already going to do quite enough for me,'
said Ringmar, getting out of the car. 'See you tomorrow.'
He waved goodbye and walked up the path, which was
lit up by the luminous forest outside the neighbour's
house. You can get all the light therapy you need here,
Winter thought. Light therapy. Ten more days or
however many were left, and they would be lounging
back in the Spanish garden with the three palm trees,
overlooked by the White Mountain, and listening to the
rhythmical music created by his dear mother as she
mixed the second Tanqueray & Tonic of the afternoon
in the kitchen bar. Some tapas on the table,
gambas a
la plancha
, and
jamón serrano
, a dish of
boquerones
fritos
, perhaps
un fino
for Angela and maybe one for
him as well. A little cloud in the corner of his eye, but
nothing to worry about.

In the best of worlds, he thought as he drove past
Slottsskogsvallen on the way home. I'm not at all sure
that's the world I'm living in just now. I want to be
sitting back in the plane before I believe anything at all.

He drove back on to the motorway. This morning
he'd been driving in the opposite direction. Good Lord,
was it only this morning? He and Halders had been
sitting in silence.

'How are things, Fredrik?'

'Better than last Christmas. That wasn't much fun.'

Winter had noticed that Bertil had used the same
expression as Fredrik: not much fun. Well, they had a
point perhaps. When things were good it was fun.

Last Christmas Fredrik Halders had been alone with
his two children, Hannes and Magda, six months after
Margareta had been killed in a hit-and-run accident.

Aneta Djanali had spent a few hours with Halders
that Christmas Eve. Winter had never discussed that
with Fredrik, but Aneta had called in at Winter's home
one autumn day similar to today, but about a month
earlier. She hadn't come to ask for Winter's blessing,
but she wanted to talk even so.

They had talked for a long time. He was glad to have
her in his team. The one he always wanted to have close
at hand. He was glad that he had Fredrik Halders, and
he thought that Fredrik and Aneta were glad that they
had each other, even if he didn't know exactly what the
relationship was.

'Are you staying at home this year?' Winter had just
negotiated the new roundabout east of Frölunda Torg.
There was not much traffic.

'Eh?'

'Will you be celebrating Christmas at home?'

Halders hadn't answered. Perhaps he hadn't heard,
or preferred not to.

They drove along the coast road, where seaside vegetation
had stiffened in yellow and brown, belts of reeds
like a forest of spikes. Birds circled overhead, searching
for food. There had been very few people in the fields
or in the streets. They hadn't seen many cars.

Later the same day Winter would compare this countryside
with the more remote solitude away from
Gothenburg, where everything was so flat.

'Have you bought a Christmas tree?' Halders asked
out of the blue.

'No.'

'Nor have I. It feels like a major operation, a little
job like that.' He looked up from out of his thoughts.
'But the kids want a tree.'

'So does Elsa,' said Winter.

'What about you? And Angela?'

'If it's a little one,' said Winter.

'All the dropped needles are a bloody nuisance,' said
Halders. 'I always manage to get a tree that drops its
needles before you can say Merry Christmas. By Boxing
Day the whole living room has turned into a green
field. All you need is twenty-two men and a referee's
whistle.'

'Did you see the Lazio match yesterday?' Winter
asked as they turned right by the jetty. The houses
seemed to have been carved out of the cliff. It was a
long time since he'd last driven along here.

'No, but I saw Roma.'

Winter smiled.

'Lazio's an old fascist gang with a neo-fascist salute,'
said Halders. 'They can go to hell as far as I'm concerned.'

'Here we are,' said Winter. The house was the last
but one in a cul-de-sac. There was a Christmas tree on
the front lawn, but the lights were not on.

'The house on the right,' Winter said.

'Looks very nice. Is Daddy at home now, do you
think?'

'Keep calm when we get inside, Fredrik.'

'What do you mean? I'll be the good cop and you
can be the bad one.'

Magnus Bergort shook hands, firmly and warmly. There
was a look of confidence and curiosity in his eyes, as
if he had been looking forward to this visit. His eyes
were blue, the transparent variety. Mentally unbalanced
was Halders' reaction. Before long he'll make a chainsaw
out of food-processor parts and mete out justice to his
family.

Bergort was wearing a black suit, dark blue silk tie,
and shoes that shone more brilliantly than the stainless
steel. His hair was straight and blond, with a perfectly
straight parting. Führer style, thought Halders, and said:

'Thank you for finding the time to meet us briefly.'

'No problem,' said Bergort. 'As long as I can get to
the office by half past ten.'

The kitchen had been cleaned recently and smelled
of perfumed detergent. A seagull could be seen circling
round through the open window. Pans and knives and
other kitchen utensils were hanging from hooks on the
walls. Stainless steel.

The girl was at her day nursery. Winter had said that
would be the best time to come.

'What's your work, Mr Bergort?' Halders asked.

'I'm an economist. Analyst.'

'Where?'

'Er, in a bank. SEB.' He ran his hand through his
hair, without a strand falling out of place. 'Please, call
me Magnus.'

'So you advise people on what to do with their money,
is that right, Magnus?' asked Halders.

'Not directly. My work is more – how shall I put it
– working out a long-term financial strategy for the bank.'

'So you advise your firm on what to do with its
money?' Halders asked. Winter looked at him.

'Well . . . ha ha! I suppose you could say that, yes.'

'Is there any other strategy for a bank apart from
the financial one?' asked Halders.

'Er . . . ha ha! Good question. Obviously it's mostly
to do with money.'

'That's a problem I recognise, I have a similar problem
myself,' said Halders. 'Money. Before you have a chance
to sit down in peace and quiet and analyse your finances,
they've disappeared.
Putz weg. Verschwunden
.'

'Yes . . .'

'Do you have any standard tips, Magnus? How the
hell a man can hang on to his cash before it's all gone?
Verschwunden
.'

'Er, I'm sure I can—'

'Perhaps we should wait a bit with that,' said Winter.
'Magnus has to get back to work soon, and so do we.'
Winter thought he could detect a look of relief on
Bergort's face. Just wait, my lad. 'What we're mainly
interested in is what might have happened to Maja.'

'Yes, it's a very strange story,' said Bergort without
hesitation.

'What do you think happened?' Winter asked.

Is Magnus Führer aware of what we're really talking
about? Halders asked himself.

The man glanced at his wife. Kristina Bergort looked
as if she were going to explain everything now, for the
first time. Explain what?

'Kristina told me and we, er, well, I spoke to Maja
and she says that she sat in a car with a mister.'

'What do you think about that yourself?'

'I really don't know what to think.'

'Does the girl have a lively imagination?' asked
Halders.

'Yes,' said Bergort. 'All children do.'

'Has she said anything like this before?'

Bergort looked at his wife.

'No,' said Kristina Bergort. 'Nothing quite like this.'

'Anything similar?' Winter asked.

'What do you mean by that?' asked Bergort.

'Has she mentioned meeting a strange man in different
circumstances?' said Halders.

'No,' said Kristina Bergort. 'She tells us about everything
that happens, and she'd have mentioned it.'

Everything, Halders thought. She tells them about
everything.

'She lost a ball, is that right?' Winter asked.

'Yes,' said her mother. 'Her favourite ball that she's
had God only knows how long.'

'When did it vanish?'

'The same day as she . . . talked about that other business.'

'How did it happen?'

'How did what happen?'

'Losing the ball.'

'She said that this mister was going to throw it to
her through the car window, but he didn't. He said he
was going to throw it.'

'What did he do, in fact?'

'He drove away with it, if I understand it rightly.'

'What does she say now? Does she still talk about
the ball?' Winter asked.

'Yes. Nearly every day. It wasn't all that long ago,
after all.'

Halders sat down on a chair and seemed to be looking
out of a window, but then he turned to face her.

'You decided very quickly to take her to Frölunda
hospital.'

'Yes, what do you mean?'

'What made you reach that decision?'

He noticed Kristina glance at her husband, Magnus
Heydrich, who seemed to be standing to attention in
the doorway. He hadn't sat down at all during the
interview, but had checked his watch several times.

'We thought it the best thing to do,' he said.

'Did she seem to be injured?'

'Not as far as we could see.'

'Did she say that somebody had hit her?'