Åke Edwardson - Frozen Tracks

“No.”

“Why?”

“You’d better ask him that.”

“We will,” said Ringmar. “We definitely will.” He looked at Halders. “Should we call?” He looked at Kaite again. “You don’t need to come to the station with us, but we’ll wait here until a car comes to pick you up and take you to our doctor so that she can take a look at that wound.”

Ringmar and Halders drove back to the city center. It had stopped raining, but it was still just as dark.

“He’s holding something back,” said Halders.

“Of course,” said Ringmar.

“You could have leaned on him a bit more.”

“I thought I did a pretty good job,” said Ringmar.

“Of course.”

“We’ll pick him up tomorrow,” said Ringmar. “He can think over what he’s said. What he’s set in motion.”

“You met old man Smedsberg in his element, up to his knees in dirt,” said Halders. “What do you think?”

“Nothing,” said Ringmar. “I don’t think anything.”

“There’s nothing to think,” said Halders.

“Was that a philosophical statement?” asked Ringmar.

“No,” said Halders. “I was referring to this case. Nobody knows what to think.”

Ringmar produced a piece of paper again, read something, then put it away.

“There was one thing you didn’t ask about,” said Halders.

“So you noticed?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“I was only joking, Fredrik.”

“Why did you hold back on that?”

“As I said, I think he should have a bit of time to think over what he’s already said.”

Halders thought about the other boys. If there was a connection, it would have been appropriate to ask Kaite about it now, when he seemed vulnerable. But Bertil had waited. He hadn’t asked about them. He hadn’t leaned on the girl, Josefin. He had chosen not to press ahead. There was one reason above all others:

“Our black friend tells lies like a cow shits,” said Halders.

Ringmar nodded. He was miles away, deep in thought.

“Do you think he feels relieved now?” Halders asked.

“Relieved!” shouted Ringmar, wide awake again.

Halders drove along Per Dubbsgatan. The hospital was glittering faintly, ten thousand windows with Advent candles in a blackish red wall.

“What?” said Halders. “What do you mean?”

“When I asked him if Gustav Smedsberg had threatened him and he eventually got around to saying that he had, he looked relieved!” said Ringmar.

“Maybe he had it inside him and needed to let it out,” said Halders. “Maybe it’s actually true. Or partly true. Or only partly a lie.”

“Maybe he wasn’t threatened by Gustav,” said Ringmar.

“You mean it was the old man who threatened the Aryan?”

“The kid seemed to be relieved, but there was something else there, too,” said Ringmar. “There was something else.”

“Maybe he had to take a piss,” said Halders, and Ringmar laughed out loud.

“Was it that funny?”

“I needed to laugh,” said Ringmar. He laughed again.

“You’d better make another trip to the flats,” said Halders.

“If one more is enough,” said Ringmar.

“We’re going to crack this one now,” said Halders. “We’ll sort it out rapido, and then we have other things to think about.”

“We always have other things to think about,” said Ringmar.

“I’m going to grab young Mr. Smedsberg right away,” said Halders. “Young Mr. Cowshit.”

They were approaching the intersection.

“Can you drive me home, please, Fredrik? I need to check something.”

“Er… Yes, of course.”

“Left here.”

They drove past Slottsskogsvallen. Dusk fell during the six minutes it took Halders to get to Ringmar’s house. The symphony of light in the neighbor’s garden was magnificent.

“Now I’ve seen everything,” said Halders.

“He’s mentally defective,” said Ringmar, getting out of the car.

“You don’t need to turn any lights on in your place, Bertil.” Halders looked sympathetic. “Look at it like that.”

But Ringmar had to switch the hall light on as it was shielded by the living room. But that didn’t help. No message on the answering machine on the hall table. No message in the mail he’d picked up from the box on the way in. He dropped the crap on the floor. Silence everywhere. No kitchen fan buzzing away at full speed. No voices. No Christmas ham boiling on the stove.

PIA FRÖBERG HAD A FURROW BETWEEN HER EYEBROWS THAT seemed to grow deeper the longer she examined the injury on Kaite’s head. There was something there she was scrutinizing between her splayed hands.

Kaite appeared to be lost in thought, gazing out of the window, head to one side.

“Hmm,” said Fröberg.

“What?” asked Ringmar.

“Well, you can see something, but you can also see nothing.”

“Great. Thank you for that.”

“But Bertil, I can’t say here and now if this is a special mark, or just… just a mark. A scar. A wound in the process of healing.”

“OK, OK, I’m with you, Pia.”

“But it could be an imprint.”

“Which in that case would represent something?” said Ringmar.

“In that case, yes.”

“Could it be this?” said Ringmar, holding up a copy of Carlström’s drawing.

“It could be. It’s not possible to say here and now.”

“Let’s go,” said Halders.

They headed for the door.

“What am I supposed to do?” said Kaite, raising his head.

“I have no idea,” said Halders without turning around.

“Shouldn’t I go with you?”

“Do you want to?” asked Halders, turning around.

“N… No, no.”

“Go home and take it easy,” said Ringmar, who had also turned around. “We’ll be in touch.”

“What will happen to this thing, then?” said Kaite to Pia Fröberg, moving his head slightly. “Will it leave a permanent mark?”

“It could.”

“Oh my God.”

“It’s too early to tell,” said Fröberg, feeling sorry for the boy.

They drove toward the city center. There were more and more lights and lamps and glittering garlands hanging over the streets.

“Call young Smedsberg and see if he’s at home,” said Ringmar.

There was an answer after the third ring.

“This is Detective Inspector Fredrik Halders.”

Smedsberg was in Ringmar’s office in an hour. He won’t run away, Halders had said.

“Please sit down,” said Ringmar.

Smedsberg sat down on the modest visitor’s chair.

“Shouldn’t we go to another room?” said Halders.

“Oh yes, of course,” said Ringmar. “Please come this way, Gustav.”

“What’s this all about?” asked Gustav Smedsberg.

“What was that?” said Halders.

“I don’t underst-”

“Are you still sitting down?” said Halders.

“It’s only two floors down, “ said Ringmar.

Neither of the police officers spoke in the elevator. Smedsberg looked as if he were on the way to the electric chair. Either that or he’s the type who always looks worried, Halders thought.

It was not a cozy room. It was the opposite of the interview rooms set up to make a child feel secure. There was a nasty lamp on the desk and an even worse one hanging from the ceiling. There was a window, but the view of the ventilation duct was unlikely to raise anybody’s spirits. The room seemed to be fitted out for its purpose, but everything was accidental-a window in the wrong place, a ventilation duct in the wrong place.

“Please sit down,” said Ringmar.

Smedsberg sat down, but cautiously, as if he expected a different instruction from Halders, who he was looking at now. Halders gave him a friendly smile.