Åke Edwardson - Frozen Tracks

“I don’t even want to think about that,” he said.

“Would you like me to pick them up, then?”

“Yes, please. I can make dinner for you.” She turned around with the door half open. “I’ve got sand cakes.”

“Yes, OK,” said Djanali, and drove off.

Winter was in Birgersson’s office. His boss was smoking in the semidarkness.

The pillars holding up Ullevi Stadium were splayed out behind him, against a clear evening sky. Winter could see a star.

“What are you doing for Christmas, Erik?”

“ Spain. Costa del Sol. If I can get away.”

“I hope you can’t.”

“I know what you’re saying, but even so I don’t understand.”

Birgersson grunted and tapped the ash off his cigarette.

“When are you going to start interrogating the children?” he asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“It’s going to be hard.”

Winter didn’t answer. He leaned forward and lit a Corps with a match, which he let burn for a few seconds. Birgersson smiled.

“Thank you for the Christmas atmosphere,” he said.

“They speak pretty well,” said Winter, letting the smoke float up. “More or less like adults.”

Birgersson grunted again.

“We’ve got quite a lot to go on,” said Winter.

“In the old days, which were not so long ago, we’d have said that a child was burned out after one interrogation,” said Birgersson. “It wouldn’t be possible to extract any more information after that.” He studied the smoke from Winter’s cigarillo. “But now we let the memories ripen. The images.”

“Hmm.”

“Let’s assume for the moment that all this actually occurred,” said Birgersson. “That what the children say is true. That these incidents did happen as described.”

“Simon Waggoner hasn’t said anything,” said Winter.

“But in his case, we know,” said Birgersson. “There’s no doubt about it.”

Winter thought.

“He has something that entices them,” he said.

“Is it just one thing? The same thing every time?”

“Let’s assume that for the time being,” said Winter.

“Go on.”

“And they have something that he wants.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He’s out to get something from these children. A thing. A souvenir he can take with him.”

“He wants them for himself, is that it? He wants… the children.”

“Let’s leave that for the moment,” said Winter. He drew on his cigarillo again. He could still see the star, and another one. It was as if he could see more clearly when he thought as he was thinking now. “He takes something from them. He wants to take it home with him. Or to have it in his possession.”

“Why?” asked Birgersson.

“It’s got something to do with… with himself. With the person he once was.”

“The person he once was?”

“When he was like they are now. When he was a child.”

“We know what he’s taken,” said Birgersson. “A watch, a ball, and some kind of jewelery.”

“And perhaps also something from the Skarin boy. Probably.”

“Are they trophies, Erik?”

“I don’t know. No. Not in that way.”

“Are the things he’s taken similar to things he has himself?” said Birgersson, putting down the cigarette and rocking backward and forward in his swivel chair, which emitted a whining sound.

“That’s a very good question,” said Winter.

“That somebody could answer, if only we could find a somebody,” said Birgersson.

“There are the children.”

“True. But I was thinking of other grown-ups. Grown-up witnesses.” He contemplated Winter, Winter’s Corps, Winter’s shirt unbuttoned at the neck, and his tie that looked like a noose. “Are we dealing with a grown-up here, Erik?”

“That’s a very good question.”

“A child in a grown-up body,” said Birgersson.

“It’s not that simple,” said Winter.

“Who said it was simple? It’s damned complicated,” said Birgersson. He suddenly turned around, as if he could feel the beams on the back of his neck from the two stars that seemed to be nailed to poles towering up over Lunden behind Ullevi Stadium. He turned back again.

“This is an ugly mess,” he said. “You know I think such expressions are unprofessional and I don’t like them, but I’m going to use it in this case all the same.” He lit another cigarette and pointed it at Winter. “Nail the bastard before something even worse happens.”

ANGELA CALLED AS WINTER WAS LEAVING BIRGERSSON’S OFFICE. He saw his own home number on the display.

“Yes?”

“Erik, the nursery-school manager just called. Our nursery school, that is.”

“Is Elsa at home?”

“Yes, yes, thank God.”

“What did she want?”

“They saw a strange person hanging around.”

“OK, do you have her phone number handy?”

He called immediately on his mobile, still only halfway to his office.

He was sitting in her office, which was decorated with children’s Christmas drawings. It wasn’t the first time he’d been in this room, but the first time on business like this. The only people in the nursery school were the cleaning staff. The silence was strange, almost unnatural for rooms that were normally echoing with children’s voices. He’d been here before in the evening, for parents’ meetings, but then the quietness had been different, a grown-up murmur.

“Somebody filming them,” Winter said.

“Yes. A delayed reaction, you might say. Lisbeth started to think about it when one of the fathers picking up his kid started taking video footage,” said the manager, Lena Meyer.

“Where exactly was it?”

“As they were crossing the soccer field.”

“Where was he standing?”

He heard a timid knock on the door behind him.

“This should be her now. Come in!”

Lisbeth Augustsson opened the door. She nodded to Winter-she’d spoken to him many times, but they’d only exchanged a few words. She was about twenty-two, possibly twenty-five, hair in thick brown plaits, red ribbons. She sat down on the chair beside Winter.

“Where exactly was he standing when he was filming?” Winter asked.

She tried to describe the spot.

“He followed us too,” she said.

“Still filming?”

“Yes, it looked like it.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Well, I can’t be certain, obviously. I didn’t see him for all that long either. And he had a camera in front of his face.” She smiled.

“Nobody you’d seen before?”

“No.”

“What made you report this to Lena?” Winter asked.

“Well, there was this business about the girl who said she’d, er, spoken to somebody. Ellen Sköld. That makes you a bit suspicious.” She looked at Lena Meyer. “We’re always careful, of course.”

She knew nothing about the other children. Not much about Simon Waggoner, not yet. Winter and his colleagues wouldn’t be able to keep that secret for much longer.

“Have you ever seen anyone filming you before?” Winter asked. “When you were out on an excursion somewhere? Or here at the nursery school?”

“No, I can’t say I have. It was just today.”

“Please tell me exactly what happened, as accurately as you can,” said Winter.

“There’s not a lot to say. I looked up once and saw him but didn’t really think about it. I mean, you often see people with video cameras nowadays, don’t you? But then I looked again, and he was still there, filming-apparently filming us.” She threw her hands up. “And when he seemed to notice that I’d seen him, that I was looking at his camera, he turned it away and pretended to be filming the buildings on the other side of the street, or whatever.”