Åke Edwardson - Frozen Tracks

“Of course,” said Winter, untruthfully.

“Books?”

“Yes. For Elsa so far.”

At least that was true.

“Hmm,” Ringmar grunted.

“Then there’ll no doubt be some last-minute shopping, as usual,” said Winter.

“When’s your flight to the sunshine coast?”

“The day before the day.” Winter rolled a cigarillo between his fingers without lighting it. It smelled good even so. “But I don’t think I’ll make it.”

“Really?”

“Well, do you?”

Ringmar turned around.

“You mean you think we’ll still be looking for him?”

Winter didn’t reply.

“Maybe we’ll have cracked it by then, so that we can enjoy some peace and quiet like everybody else,” said Ringmar, turning back to look out of the window.

“Did you send out the CID appeal?”

“Half an hour ago.”

They’d also sent messages to all their police colleagues, but who got around to reading all those e-mails that flooded in every day? The CID information sheet was a better bet. Were there any more like Alinder? And Lena Sköld? Worth a try.

They got no information at CID headquarters. If something came to them specifically, they would hear. But otherwise, they didn’t have a clue as to what was going on. Nobody coordinated information coming into individual stations and departments anymore.

“Nobody coordinates stuff anymore,” Ringmar had said to young Bergenhem. “Nobody calls CID direct nowadays. In the old days, before the reorganization, everything was sent to the head of CID, who read it all and kept duplicates-about pedophiles, for instance. Suspicions, or even unusual things people noticed.” Ringmar had nodded at his own words. “A lot of people think they see child molesters everywhere all the time, but it’s important not to ignore their reports. Don’t you think? We should collect all the documentation so that we can sift through it when we are looking for a really nasty specimen.”

Winter was still on the chair, rolling his cigarillo.

“It seems like the boy has lost the ability to speak,” said Ringmar. “I was there an hour ago.”

“Nothing new?”

“No.”

“We’ll have to see what we’ve got so far,” said Winter.

“The Sköld girl? Could be imagination. The nursery-school staff didn’t notice anything.”

“We’ll have to see,” Winter said again.

The neighbor had set up his Christmas lights when Ringmar got back home. Every sleeping aspen and maple in the garden on the other side of the skeletal hedge was laden with hundreds of little glittering lights that were reflected in the dull paint of his unwashed Audi.

Each of the next-door windows was lit up by a set of electric Advent candles. That’s the home of somebody who’s not short on cash, Ringmar thought. A private illuminations warehouse. A plethora of light.

The disgust was still visible in his face when he entered the hall.

“What’s eating you?” asked Moa, who was on her way out.

“Where are you going?”

“What kind of tone is that?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m going to buy a Christmas present, if I can find what I’m looking for,” she said. “Which reminds me, I haven’t seen a wish list from you yet.”

“A wish list? I haven’t written one of those for years.”

“But now I’m living at home, temporarily, and so you need to write a wish list,” said his daughter, pulling the other boot over her heel.

“You should know already what’s at the top of my list,” he said.

She looked up from the stool under the light that illuminated her hair and made her look like one of the handmaidens in a queen of light procession. Or even Lucia herself.

“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?”

“It’s a while 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 crazy.”

“Give it some time, Dad.”

“Some time? What the hell am I supposed to give some 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 taking 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 woman called 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…”

“There’s hesitation in your voice.”

“It might be more complicated. I have my suspicions. About the possible injuries the girl has. But it might have nothing to do with the stranger business.”

“I see.”

“But then again…” Winter could hear the rustling of papers. “The girl also lost a ball, by the way. According to her mother. It could have happened at any time, of course, but the mother says she lost it the same day.”

“Where are you now?”

“At the station.”

Winter checked his watch.

“I’ll be there 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 parking lot. 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 thing the rain has stopped, at least, Winter thought. A wet bed is not exactly uplifting.

Larissa Serimov was waiting for him at reception.

“I went with them to the hospital,” she said. “The mother was worried. The girl’s father 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, nothing 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?”

“Swelling. Bruises. Not big.”

“But he had an opinion, no doubt?”

“The mother said that Maja had fallen off a swing and hit the frame. She thought that’s what had happened. Maja had been crying, she said. And the doctor said that was possible.”

“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 an accident. Or to invent stories that might fit the bill, some of them absolute fantasy.’ I assume he was referring to the situation with the stranger.”

“But he didn’t want to make an official report.”