Frozen Tracks (19 page)

'Do you think I don't know?' she said.

'Hmm.'

'Do you really think so? Do you think I haven't spoken
to him?'

'What did he say?'

She didn't answer, stood up.

'When did you last speak to him?'

'Some time ago now.'

'What do you mean by that?'

She opened the door.

'When's the next time going to be?' Ringmar asked.
'For God's sake, Moa, this is madness.'

'Give it a bit of time, Dad.'

'A bit of time? What the hell am I supposed to give
a bit of time to?'

'Frölunda wants to speak to you,' said Möllerström as
Winter was passing. The registrar waved the telephone
receiver at him.

'I'll take it in my office,' Winter said.

He picked up the receiver in his office without having
taken off his overcoat.

'Winter.'

'Hi, this is Larissa Serimov from Frölunda police
station.'

Somebody he'd never heard of before.

'Hi, Larissa.'

'I read your appeal in the CID information circular.'

'And?'

'On the intranet as well, incidentally.'

'So what do you have to say?'

'I've had something similar here as well.'

'Tell me.'

'A mum phoned the station and I took the call and
she said that her daughter had been with a stranger.'

'How did she know?'

'The girl told her about it.'

'Told her about what?'

'As I just said. An encounter of some sort.'

'Any injuries?'

'No . . .'

'I can hear hesitation in your voice.'

'It's a bit complicated. Perhaps. I have my suspicions.
About the possible injuries the girl has. But it might
have nothing to do with the other business.'

'I see.'

'But there again . . .' Winter could hear the rustling
of papers. 'The girl has lost a ball, by the way. According
to her mother. These things happen all the time, of
course, but the mother says it was the same day.'

'Where are you now?'

'At the station.'

Winter checked his watch.

'I'll be with you in half an hour. I'm leaving right
away.'

The Frölunda police station was not small, but it was
dwarfed by the furniture store next door. There were
no vacant places in the store's car park. A procession
of cars drove away with sofas and armchairs strapped
to the roof. Beds and headboards were balanced precariously
on open trailers. Sticking out like crosses on
which an unwary driver might well find himself
suspended. It's a good job the rain has stopped, at least,
Winter thought. A wet bed is not exactly uplifting.
What people want for Christmas this year is a new
home. That should be possible if the market has fulfilled
expectations.

Larissa Serimov was waiting for him at reception.

'I went with them to the hospital,' she said. 'Mum
was worried. Dad was there as well.'

'So the name of the family is Bergort?'

'Yes. The girl's name is Maja.'

'What did the doctor have to say?'

'He found no injuries in the lower part of the body,
nor anything of that kind. But he said something else.'

'Yes?'

'The girl, Maja, had a few bruises.'

'Had she been abused?'

'He couldn't say.'

'What did they look like?'

'Swellings. Bruises. Not big.'

'But he had an opinion, no doubt?'

'The mother said that Maja had fallen off a swing
and crashed into the frame. She thought that's what had
happened. Maja had been crying, she said. And the
doctor said that
could
have been what happened.'

'The alternative?'

She looked down at the computer printout. The order
of events, Winter thought. That could be of crucial significance.

'What he said was more or less exactly this: "I just
thought that it's not totally unheard of for parents who
beat their children to report it to the police as accidents.
Or to invent stories that might fit the bill, some of them
absolute fantasy." I assume he was referring to the business
with the stranger.'

'But he didn't want to make an official report.'

'No. Nothing of that sort.'

'What about you?'

She looked at him as if she'd been expecting that
question at any moment.

'I haven't been able to let go. I went to see them and
met the mother and the girl again.'

Winter waited. They were still in reception. He still
had his overcoat on. He'd thought briefly that Inspector
Larissa Serimov's blouse was the same colour as the sky
out there. In summer the blouse might have looked overwashed
against the aggressive brightness of the clear
sky; but now it was a part of the winter world, a sort
of camouflage uniform the police were obliged to wear
when outdoors in December without a jacket.

'There was something about the child. Something had
happened again,' said Serimov.

'Are you sure?'

'No. But yes.'

'How did the mother react?'

'As if nothing had happened.'

'Yet she reported the incident with the stranger,'
Winter said.

'And the obvious question is: why?' said Serimov.

'Do you want to file a report?' Winter asked. 'Against
the parents?'

'I'm not a hundred per cent sure yet,' she said.
'Everything seems to be so . . . normal. So . . . as it
should be. The harmonious little family. A family just
like every other.'

Like mine, Winter thought.

'Have you met the father apart from at the hospital?'
he asked. 'What was his name again?'

'Bergort. Magnus Bergort. But to answer your question:
no – he wasn't at home when I called round.'

Winter looked out through the door and noted that
the light was faint but nevertheless brighter than it had
been for several months.

'Shall we step outside for a couple of minutes?' He
held up his ciga rillo by way of explanation.

They were standing in front of the parked police cars.
Larissa Serimov wasn't shivering without her jacket. It
was so mild. Her blouse
was
the same colour as the
sky. Winter smoked his cigarillo. It was only his fourth
today. His daily consumption was going down, but there
was a limit.

'What's your impression of this business?' he asked.

'It's all based on what the child says, of course. The
mother doesn't know what to think. The most concrete
evidence she has is that the ball has disappeared, and
that Maja says that this mister, or whatever we should
call him, took her favourite ball and said he would
throw it to her through the car window, but didn't.'

'And where was the car parked?' Winter asked.

'Outside one of the day nurseries in Marconigatan.
There's a little hill. They were playing on it.'

'So there's somewhere to park there?'

'Yes. And it's sort of hidden. I checked.'

'But the staff didn't notice anything?'

'No, nothing.'

'Should they have done?' Winter asked.

'I really don't know.'

They drove to Marconigatan. The traffic had intensified
in parallel with the gathering darkness. The enormous
car park behind Frölunda Torg was starting to fill up.
Some people were going to the Arts Centre, the library
and the swimming baths, but most were heading to the
shops. Trams clattered past in a constant stream.
Windows in the high-rise buildings were lit up like broad
smiles, row upon row of them. The moon was stronger
than the sun now. There were stars up there, a reminder
that the sky hadn't shut down for good. Winter suddenly
felt hungry, and thought about food for the evening
meal. He looked at his watch. He would have time to
get to the covered market later in the afternoon, but
buying food wasn't the most important of today's jobs.

Some children were digging in the sand. Two women
were standing among them. Two members of staff for
three children, Winter thought. I'm assuming that's not
the usual ratio.

The nursery manager was still there. She looked tired,
like most people who were trying to hang on until the
holidays finally arrived. There were jam stains on her
apron. A little child was sitting on her knee, and smiled
when Winter stuck his finger into his mouth, puffed up
his cheeks and made a little popping noise to amuse all
present.

'Now I suppose I'll have to keep doing that in future,'
said the manager, putting down the little boy, who had
only just learnt to walk.

She took off her apron and revealed a dress that
looked like the apron. Her eyes were set wide apart,
and she gave the impression of being more than
competent.

Winter had already introduced himself.

'Let's go outside,' said the woman, whose name was
Margareta Ingemarsson.

'We've met before,' she said to Serimov.

She's ambitious, Winter thought, looking at his
colleague. But she didn't phone us. If she had done I
wouldn't have been able to say anything. Not then. We'd
have had a memo of the call, just like she had.

They stood diagonally behind the U-shaped day
nursery. The traffic had fused to form a continuous
beam of headlights. There was a fence, and beyond it
a hill and some trees. A narrow road skirted the hill,
linking the car park in front of the day nursery to the
one belonging to the housing estate on the other side.

'Just a moment,' Winter said, and walked higher up
the slope in order to look down at the narrow road,
partly hidden by the trees. He went back to where the
two women were standing.

'Well, I really don't know what else I can say,' said
the nursery manager.

'Did you speak to Maja's mum?' Winter asked.

'Yes.' She glanced up at the top of the hill, then looked
back at Winter. 'We don't know what to think here.'

'Could it have happened?'

'What precisely do you mean?'

'What the girl said. That she had been sitting in a
car with somebody for a short while. Somebody she
didn't know,' Winter said. 'That it happened here.'

'It sounds incredible to me,' said Ingemarsson. 'But
what can I say? We didn't notice anything. And I would
maintain that we keep a close eye on our children here.'

'Do they go up here to play?' asked Winter, gesturing
towards the slope and the trees.

'Sometimes. But never on their own.'

'What's the staffing situation?'

'In relation to the number of children? Catastrophic.'

That was one way of answering the question, Winter
thought. Nothing new to me. I'm a detective chief
inspector, but I'm also a father.

Police headquarters was warm and pleasantly welcoming
as always. My second home. Winter walked down the
corridor, which would shortly be adorned with a
Christmas tree. He could hear the rhythmic tapping of a
computer keyboard. The last report of the day was being
written in the front office. He could see a hunched back.
A few more lines, then home, home, home. He thought
about a venison steak with sliced oven-baked potatoes.
Or mashed root vegetables. Mushrooms, perhaps. I didn't
use to think like this. Is it to do with turning forty? No.
It's to do with the fact that I haven't had any lunch.

He heard his telephone ringing before he reached his
office. It stopped, then started again when he was inside.

'Erik? Hello. We have a problem here at the hospital.
Road accident victims. Another lot, I should say. Could
you pick Elsa up, please?'

Angela sounded stressed.

Another day nursery. Yes, of course.

'What time?'

'Half past five. It's Thursday today.'

Winter looked at the clock hanging on the wall over
the washbasin. Why did I put it there? Half past four.
He might have time to fit in the covered market as well.

'What time will you get home?' he asked.

'I don't know. I have no idea, and I have to go now.'

'OK, I'll collect her. There'll be—' but she had whispered
a quick 'love you' and hung up before he had
time to inform her about dinner.

He activated his computer screen. There were several
messages in his inbox. He selected one of them and
phoned the direct number.

'Police, Örgryte-Härlanda, Berg.'

'Hello, Winter here, CID. Can I speak to Bengt
Josefsson, please?'

'He left an hour ago.'

'Have you got his home number?'

'How do I know you are who you say you are?'

'Look, I have to collect my daughter from the day
nursery in fifty minutes' time and go to market before
then, and before that I need to talk to Josefsson about
a message he sent me, so be a good boy and give me
his home number now.'

'I can see on the display here that you are one of us;
or at least you are phoning from police headquarters,'
said Berg.

This Berg idiot would be a scoop for the police
Christmas revue, if we had one, Winter thought. He got
the number, and rang it.

'Josefsson.'

'Hello, Erik Winter here.'

'Ah, yes.'

Winter could hear him swallow and a sound reminiscent
of ice cubes in a glass of whisky. Josefsson was
enjoying his free time.

'It's about that business with the young children,'
said Josefsson.

'I'm all ears,' said Winter.

'I saw your appeal and I've got something that might
be relevant.' Winter heard another clunk, fainter now
as the ice cubes melted and grew smaller. 'I made a note
of a phone call I received,' said Josefsson, and his voice
was rather thicker and milder now, from the smoke in
the spirits.

He found a parking space for the Mercedes by the canal.
There were more customers in the covered market than
there had been the day before, but not as many as there
would be the next day. Winter bought his venison steak
and some langoustines for a possible starter, and some
ripe goat's cheese in case they fancied afters. The market
was beginning to acquire the heavy aroma of fresh pork
that was so central to the Swedish Christmas. Winter's
mind turned to shellfish tapas on a coast further south.
He'd soon be there.

But he wasn't sure. He had a nagging worry. He
recognised it as an old enemy that kept coming back.

Elsa already had her jacket on. He had turned up on
time.

When they were in the car, she asked about dinner.

'Are you hungry?'

'I'm really really hungry.'

'Did you have any lunch today?'

'No,' she said, nose in the air.

'Nothing at all?'

'No!'

'I can understand why you're hungry, then.'