Åke Edwardson - Frozen Tracks

But at this moment he did want to know more about the older man opposite him, assuming Bertil wanted to tell him. Perhaps it was connected with Winter’s own life, his… his development. His maturity, perhaps. His journey from being a lonely young man with a lot of power to something different that also encompassed others.

They needed each other, needed their conversations. The banter that wasn’t always merely banter.

Ringmar’s face seemed thinner than usual. There was a shadow behind his eyes.

“Why does everybody insist on telling lies all the time?” he said.

“It’s part of the job,” Winter said.

“Telling lies?”

“Listening to lies.”

“Take these guys who’ve been attacked. It’s becoming a real mess.”

“Theirs first and foremost.”

“But ours as well,” said Ringmar.

“We can untangle their mess. That’s our job. They can’t do it themselves.”

Ringmar nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“Or else it’s the truth and nothing but the truth.”

Ringmar nodded again, but still didn’t say anything.

“But that’s not why you came to see me, Bertil. Is it?”

Ringmar said nothing.

“To be honest, you don’t look all that good,” Winter said.

Ringmar ran his hand over his forehead and his face, as if trying to wipe away the tiredness and the shadows. It looked as if he were moving his head in time with the jazz coming from the Panasonic without realizing it.

“Do you have a fever?” Winter asked.

“It’s not that,” said Ringmar.

Winter waited for what was coming next. The music stopped, the CD had finished. It was darker outside now. He could see the car headlights more clearly, and the sounds coming from outside were clearer as well. A few drops of rain tapped hesitantly at the windowpane. It could turn into snow, but that didn’t seem likely. Snow was a rare gift to Gothenburgers. A surprise to the snow-clearing teams every other winter when chaos descended. Winter had always enjoyed that type of chaos. He liked to walk home over Heden in the eye of the snowstorm, and drink a glass of winter punch while looking out of the window.

“It’s Martin, of course,” said Ringmar.

Winter waited.

“Ah well…,” said Ringmar.

“There’s something else you want to say,” said Winter.

“I don’t know how to put it,” said Ringmar.

“Just say it,” said Winter.

“It’s about… about fathers and sons,” said Ringmar.

“Fathers and sons,” said Winter.

“Yes. I’m trying to figure out what the hell he’s thinking,” said Ringmar. “How things could have gotten this bad. What could have caused it.” He ran his hand over his brow again. “What I’ve done. What he’s done. No, what I’ve done above all else.”

Winter waited. Took out his pack of Corps but didn’t touch the cigarillos. He raised his head and Ringmar looked him in the eye.

“That’s why I thought about you,” said Ringmar. “About how it was for you, with your father. How things got to the state they did. Why you two… why you… didn’t have any contact.”

Winter lit a cigarillo and inhaled deeply. The smoke drifted through the circle of light from the desk lamp.

“That’s a complicated question you’re asking, Bertil.”

“You saw how hard it was to ask.”

Winter smoked again. He could see himself standing on a slope overlooking the Mediterranean when his father was buried after a funeral in a church as white as snow. Sierra Blanca. No possibility of contact anymore.

“He took off, and took his money with him,” said Winter.

“I know,” said Ringmar.

“I didn’t approve.”

“That’s it?”

Winter didn’t answer, took another draw on his cigarillo, stood up and walked over to the window, opened it, and saw that it had stopped raining. He tapped the ash from his cigarillo after checking to make sure nobody was marching around on the lawn below. He turned around.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“How much did you actually know about… Bengt’s financial affairs?” asked Ringmar.

“Enough to disapprove.”

“You are a moral person.”

“He did something wrong,” said Winter. “He could have stayed in Sweden and, well, helped out. He could afford it. And he could have had his house in the sun.” Winter smiled. “If he’d paid his taxes we might have had an extra CID officer.”

He went back to his desk. He suddenly felt weary. All the things he’d just said to Bertil. What was the point? Everything could have been resolved if only they’d spoken to each other. The only thing that helps is communication with words. That’s the only thing that enables us to make progress. Silence begets more silence, and eventually causes a muteness that is like cement.

“By the end it became impossible to say anything,” he said. “It was as if we’d lost the ability to talk to each other.” He sat down. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think there must have been something else, further back in time. Something unconnected with-with that money business. Something different.”

Ringmar didn’t answer. The shadows behind his eyes had deepened.

“Jesus, Bertil, I shouldn’t be sitting here telling you this.”

“That’s why I came here.”

“I don’t think you’re a masochist. And you’re not like him.”

“We’re all different,” said Ringmar, “but even so, we all make the same damned mistakes.”

“What mistakes have you made?”

“I must have done something. I have a grown-up son who doesn’t want to meet me. He doesn’t even want to talk to me.”

“He’ll regret it. He’ll change his mind.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

Winter didn’t reply. Rain was pattering against the windowpane again, coming from a sky that had turned black. It’s not even five o’clock, but night is upon us.

“I’m sorry, Erik. It’s just that… Oh, damn…”

“I could try to talk to him,” said Winter.

“I don’t even know where he is.”

“But your daughter has some kind of contact with him, doesn’t she? Moa?”

“I don’t actually know exactly how much,” said Ringmar.

“Should I talk to her as well?”

“I don’t know, Erik. I’ve tried to talk to her, but she… respects her brother’s wishes.”

“What about Birgitta?”

“It’s even worse for her. He seems to have decided that since he doesn’t want to talk to me, that includes her as well.” Ringmar sat up straight and smiled, just as Winter had done a couple of minutes previously. “A sort of package deal, you might say.”

“Should I give him a good beating if I find him?”

“At last we’re getting down to the nitty-gritty. I thought you were never going to ask that.”

“Violence is the most extreme form of communication. When words are not enough, it’s time for a good thump.” Winter held his fist up in the mixture of light and smoke. “It’s not an uncommon way of communicating.” He took down his fist. “Not in the force, either.”

“Still, perhaps we ought to try verbal methods first,” said Ringmar.

There was a knock on Winter’s door and Winter shouted in response. Bergenhem came in and walked up to the desk that was lit up by a circle of light while the rest of the room was in darkness.

“Are you interrogating each other?” Bergenhem wondered.

“When you don’t have a suspect, you have to make do with what you do have,” said Winter.

“Count me out,” said Bergenhem.

“But you’re in,” said Winter. “You knocked on that door and came into this office.”

“I checked up on that marking iron or whatever it’s called. Smedsberg’s farm-union babble.”