Åke Edwardson - Frozen Tracks

Simon hadn’t pointed anything out, hadn’t spoken about anything. But was there something? That was what Winter was trying to find out now.

He had tried to transport the boy back to that horrendous journey again. So far Simon hadn’t said anything about it.

“Did you see anything from the window in the car?” Winter asked.

Simon hadn’t answered. Winter suggested they should park the police car in the garage under one of the chairs.

“You’re a good driver,” said Winter.

“Can I drive again?” asked Simon.

“Yes, soon,” said Winter.

Simon was sitting on the carpet, moving his feet as if practicing swimming strokes.

“When you went with that man,” said Winter. He could see that Simon was listening. “Did you go for a long ride?”

Simon nodded now. Nodded!

“Where did you go?”

“Everywhere,” said Simon.

“Did you go out into the countryside?”

Simon shook his head.

“Did you go close to home?”

Simon shook his head again.

“Do you think you could show me? If we went together in my car?”

Simon didn’t shake his head, nor did he nod.

“Your mom and dad could go with us, Simon.”

“Followed,” Simon said suddenly, as if he hadn’t heard Winter.

“What did you say, Simon?”

“He said follow,” said Simon.

“Did he say follow?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand,” said Winter.

Simon looked at the car again, then at Winter.

“We followed,” said Simon now.

Winter waited for the rest of the sentence that never came.

“What did you follow, Simon?”

“Follow the tracks,” said Simon.

“The tracks?” asked Winter. “What tracks do you mean?”

He was sitting in front of a boy who was translating into English what somebody had said to him in Swedish. Assuming they had been speaking Swedish. Or had they spoken English? He couldn’t ask that right now.

“What tracks do you mean, Simon?” Winter asked.

“Follow the tracks,” said Simon again, and Winter could see that the boy was growing more agitated, the trauma was coming back.

Simon burst into tears.

Winter knew full well that he shouldn’t sit a weeping child on his knee, shouldn’t hold him, or touch him during the interview. That would be unprofessional. But he ignored that and lifted Simon onto his knee. Just as he’d tried to console Bengt Johansson the previous day, and now he did the same to Simon Waggoner.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep going, not for too much longer. He would need consoling himself. He saw himself on the flight to Málaga, a picture of the future for a fraction of a second. What state would he be in by then?

Simon’s parents made no complaint when he left, but he felt very guilty. What had he done to the boy?

“We’re just as anxious as you,” said Barbara Waggoner. “It’ll be all right.”

Simon raised one hand when Winter left, holding the car in the other one. An elderly man, Paul Waggoner’s father, eyed Winter up and down from beneath bushy eyebrows, and mumbled his name in a thick accent as he held out his hand. Tweed, port wine nose, slippers, unlit smelly pipe. The works. Winter folded his Zegna overcoat over his arm, fastened a button in his suit jacket, collected his belongings, and went out to the car. He had taken his video equipment into the house with him but hadn’t used it.

His mobile rang before he’d got as far as Linnéplatsen.

“Any news?” asked Hans Bülow. “You said we were going to help each other. In a meaningful way.”

“Will there be any newspapers published tomorrow?” Winter asked.

“

GT runs every day,” said Bülow. “Every day all year round.”

“Shouldn’t there be a law to prevent that?”

“How’s it going, Erik? You sound a bit tired.”

“I need to think about it,” Winter said. “About what to publish. I’ll call you this afternoon.”

“Will you really?”

“I said I would, didn’t I? You have my top-secret professional mobile number, don’t you? You can get through to me at any time, can’t you?”

“Yes, yes, calm down. Bye for now.”

Shortly afterward the phone rang again. Winter thought he recognized the breathing even before the caller spoke.

“Any more news?” asked Bengt Johansson.

“Where are you calling from, Bengt?”

“Ho… From home. I’ve just gotten back.” He could hear the breathing again. “Nobody’s called me.” More breathing. “Has anything happened? Anything new?”

“We’re getting tips all the time,” said Winter.

“Are there no witnesses?” asked Johansson. “The place was flooded with people. Has nobody contacted you?”

“Lots of people have been in touch,” said Winter.

“And?”

“We’re going through all the tips.”

“There might be something there,” said Johansson. “You can’t just put them to the side.”

“We’re not putting anything to the side,” said Winter.

“There might be something there,” said Johansson again.

“How’s Carolin?” Winter asked.

“She’s alive,” said Johansson. “She’ll live.”

“Have you spoken to her?”

“She doesn’t want to talk. I don’t know if she can.”

Winter could hear the pause. It sounded as if Johansson was smoking. Winter hadn’t smoked at all so far today. I haven’t had a smoke today. The craving had vanished without a trace.

“Could she ha… have done something?” asked Johansson. “Could it have been her?”

“I don’t think so, Bengt.”

No. Carolin wasn’t involved, he thought. They had started off by including that as a possibility. Everything horrendous was a possibility. But they hadn’t found anything to suggest that there was any substance to the thought, not as far as she was concerned, not under the circumstances. She was overcome by guilt, but of a different kind.

He drove along the Allé. There were remains of snow in the trees. Traffic was heavy, the shops were still open. Service was good. There were more pedestrians in the Allé than on a normal weekday, carrying more packages. Of course. We are slowly becoming a population of consumers rather than citizens, but you don’t need to moan about that today, Erik.

He stopped at a red light. A child wearing a Santa Claus hat passed by accompanied by a woman, and the child waved at him. Winter looked at his watch. Two hours to go before the traditional Christmas Donald Duck program on TV. Would this boy make it home in time? Was it as important now as it used to be? Winter wouldn’t be home in time. Elsa would be able to watch last year’s Donald on her grandma’s VCR. He’d made sure the cassette was in their luggage.

Still red. A streetcar rattled past, festive flags flying. Lots of passengers. He watched it forging ahead. Another streetcar approached from the opposite direction, a number 4. A bit of snow between the lines. The tracks for streetcars heading in both directions were side by side here. In the middle of the road. It was possible for a car driver to follow them.

The tracks.

Was it the streetcar lines Simon Waggoner had been talking about? That might have been a question Winter would have asked if they had continued their conversation, but the boy had started crying and Winter had brought the interview to a close and not continued with his line of thought.

He’d be able to call shortly: “Please ask Simon if…”

Had they been following the streetcar lines, Simon and his abductor? A specific route, perhaps? Was it a game? Was it of significance? Or were “the tracks” something completely different? Tracks on a CD? Railway tracks? Some other kind of tracks? Fantasy tracks in a mad abductor’s imagination? Simon’s own tracks. He cou-