Åke Edwardson - Frozen Tracks

He looks as if I’d asked him a perfectly normal follow-up question, Winter thought. No “Who’s Gustav Smedsberg?” He recognizes the name, or he’s trying to look uninterested. It’s been a long day. For him, for me. This conversation is getting nowhere. He can go home, I can go home. He has nothing to do with this. Or maybe he did steal the irons, maybe even used them. No. Not him. The only odd thing is that he seems to be able to keep on sitting here without getting annoyed. He was annoyed before, irritated, on the telephone. But now. Now he’s shaking his head.

“Georg Smedsberg?” said Winter.

“No.”

“A neighbor.”

Jerner’s calm face moved slightly to one side, perhaps as a protest: Smedsberg isn’t a neighbor. Too far away.

“Gerd,” said Winter.

The man gave a start. He looked at Winter, raised his head slightly. His eyes still had that same transparency.

“When did you meet Gerd?” Winter asked.

“Wh-what Gerd?”

“The Gerd who was one of your neighbors.”

What does she have to do with this business? He doesn’t ask that. He doesn’t say: Who’s Gerd? His face is exactly like it was before. I’ll put a stop to this now. I have to devote my energies to Micke Johansson.

“I won’t take up any more of your time on Christmas Eve,” said Winter. “But I might be in touch again if I need some more details.”

Jerner stood up and nodded.

“When do you have to work again?” Winter asked.

Jerner opened his mouth and looked as if he were swallowing air, then he closed it again.

“When’s your next shift?” Winter asked.

“Tomo-mo-mo-morrow,” said Jerner.

He is nervous. Nervous about something.

“You’re working the whole holiday?”

Jerner nodded.

“Tough luck,” said Winter.

They went out into the corridor and took the elevator down. Jerner had his left hand in his jacket pocket. He was carrying his gloves in his right hand, and his briefcase was tucked under his left arm. He was staring straight at his own reflection in the elevator mirror. Winter could see himself standing beside Jerner, but Jerner didn’t seem to see him. As if I were a vampire that doesn’t have a reflection. But I’m not a vampire. I am there. I look tired. Jerner looks more alert.

“What route do you drive?” Winter asked at they walked toward the exit.

Jerner held up three fingers.

This is almost comical, Winter thought.

“Number three?” he said, interpreting the sign language, and Jerner nodded.

Ringmar came out of his office just as Winter was getting out of the elevator. He didn’t look quite the same as before.

“I’m off now,” said Ringmar.

“Where to?”

“Home.”

“Is there anybody there?”

“No. But I have to check that everything’s OK.”

“You can come to my place later if you want,” said Winter.

“Last night was enough. But thanks for the offer.”

“Just come if you change your mind.”

Ringmar nodded. He started walking off.

“Did you find out anything new?” Winter asked.

“It was Birgitta,” he said.

“And?”

“She wanted to talk to me, at least.”

“What about?”

“Don’t push your luck, Erik.”

“What about?” said Winter again.

“About Martin, what the hell do you think?”

Winter said nothing. They could hear footsteps in the distance, in the stairwell. The elevator clattered into action.

“There’s light at the end of the tunnel,” said Ringmar.

“Come home with me,” said Winter.

“I’ll be in touch,” said Ringmar, pulling on his overcoat as he walked away.

“Your car’s outside,” said Björck as he passed the front office.

Ringmar drove out to the highway in his official car, heading north. He drove in silence, no radio. He didn’t know if Smedsberg would be at home.

Winter turned off the lights and left. His footsteps echoed in the brick corridor. His mobile rang.

“I can’t accept that you’ll be alone tonight, Erik.”

His sister. She hadn’t accepted that he was alone. She’d called yesterday, and the day before that. And the day before that.

“I have to work, Lotta.”

“You mean that you have to be alone in order to think, is that it?”

“You understand how it is.”

“You should have food.”

“That’s true.”

“You should have company.”

“I might come by a bit later,” he said.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Come on, Lotta, I haven’t chosen this of my own free will.”

“You’re welcome to come whenever you want,” she said, and hung up.

There was a layer of ice on the car windows. He scraped and smoked. The smoke was like breath.

He was alone in the streets, the only person out and about at this hour. No buses, no streetcars, no taxis, no private cars, no police cars, no motorbikes, no pedestrians, nothing at all.

Vasaplatsen was white and silent. He stood in the entrance and breathed in the air that felt cold without being raw.

He poured himself a Springbank in the kitchen and took it into the living room, where he lay down on the sofa with the glass on his chest. He closed his eyes. The only sound to be heard was the faint hum from the freezer. He leaned his head forward and took a sip of the whiskey.

He sat up and ran his hand through his hair. He thought about playgrounds and day nurseries, parks, cars, squares such as Doktor Fries, Linnéplatsen, Kapellplatsen, Mossen, about Plikta, about-tracks. Tracks heading in all di-di-di-directions.

He thought about all that simultaneously. He couldn’t keep things apart, everything came at the same time, as if they were linked. But they weren’t linked.

He rubbed his face. A shower and something to eat, then I can think again. And I have Christmas presents to look for as well.

He took off his clothes as he walked to the bathroom. I’ll take a bath. The whiskey can keep me awake.

Nevertheless, he reached for the telephone in the hall and called England. It was one of several such calls that late autumn and winter.

Steve answered.

“Merry Christmas, Steve,” said Winter.

“Same to you, Erik. How are things?”

Winter told him how things stood.

“Have you checked all the parents thoroughly?” asked Macdonald. “All of the parents?”

Winter would remember that question when it was all over.

HE PUT ON HIS BATHROBE AND LEFT THE STEAMING BATHROOM. His drowsiness fell away as he walked around the apartment. He glanced at the whiskey bottle in the kitchen, but left it untouched. The centimeter he had drunk already would have to suffice for the time being. He might need to drive later tonight.

He read the instructions in the kitchen, and started his search. Elsa’s present was indeed like a fish under a rock-in a flat box taped underneath the double bed. Drawings: the sea, the sky, beaches. Snowmen. Angela’s present was hidden in among the drawings: another volume for the bookcase. Some newly discovered texts by Raymond Carver,

Call If You Need Me.

He sat in the bedroom and phoned Spain.

“Siv Winter.”

“Hello, Mom. Erik here.”

“Erik. We wondered when you would call.”

“That moment has come,” he said.

“It’s after nine. Elsa’s almost asleep.”

“Can I speak to her? Merry Christmas, by the way.”

“Are you at Lotta’s?”

“Not tonight,” said Winter.

“Are you spending Christmas Eve all alone, Erik?”

“That’s why I stayed behind here.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Siv Winter.