Åke Edwardson - Frozen Tracks

There was something familiar about the policeman. He’d thought about that as he’d hurried home. He’d been in a hurry when he left the policeman’s house.

The boy wasn’t moving, but he didn’t remove the cord. The boy hadn’t touched the food he’d left for him, but it struck him that maybe it wasn’t so easy to reach the dish. Perhaps it had been impossible.

Micke. When he’d removed the scarf placed so delicately and gently over the boy’s mouth, Micke had tried to scream again, and it was just like when that little boy had started screaming in English at him. As if the boy thought he wouldn’t understand! As if he was stupid!

It was the little boy who was stupid. Everybody was stupid. That little boy who spoke English had been nasty to him, just like all the others.

And now Micke was starting to be nasty to him as well.

When he tried to say something to the boy, he refused to answer. He either screamed or didn’t say anything. That was no way to behave.

He’d driven the car on the carpet next to where Micke was lying. Brrrrmmm! That was only one of the things he’d done. He had all the other toys that children liked, their favorite things. He’d borrowed them for Micke’s sake. Well, not exactly borrowed… He could give them to Micke and they’d become his best things as well. He’d done all that for him. He’d bounced the ball, but it hadn’t bounced very well on the carpet, and so he’d stood up and bounced it on the bare floorboards and that had been much better. Hiiigh! Micke had been given the little bird that gleamed like silver. Maybe it was silver. It was hanging from Micke’s shirt. He’d noticed that the shirt smelled unpleasant when he’d pinned the bird to it, so he’d done it quickly. The watch was on the table next to the bed. The English watch, as he’d said when he gave it to Micke. It might be an hour slow!

He carried the boy out into the living room now.

They watched films. Look, Micke: That’s you!

He told the boy how he knew he was called Micke. Easy. It was in your jacket! A little tag sewn in.

But he’d known that before. He’d heard both the boy’s father and mother say “Micke” to him. You could see that they were saying Micke on the video, and they were doing that just now. They were too far away for it to be heard, but you could read their lips. He’d zoomed in, and you could see.

“Look, Micke! You’re sitting in the stroller now!”

It was in the hall, the same stroller. He’d show it to the boy later if he doubted it.

He showed a few more recordings from a different nursery school. A little girl, then another. They were in several of the sequences. The first girl, and the other one. And a boy he’d filmed later.

Would you like a brother and sister, Micke? We’ve got room for them here.

He looked at the first girl in the film. He watched somebody come to collect her, a man, a back, an overcoat. They went into the building then came out again. It was a long way away and he’d used the zoom.

He recognized the man in the overcoat. Recognized him.

Now he didn’t feel calm anymore; he wanted to feel calm. He also wished that Micke wasn’t being so nasty to him.

Winter was standing with yet another cup of espresso, in the middle of the biggest room. He felt stiff, but his eyes were still open.

It was tonight. A magic night.

He turned up the volume on the CD that had been on repeat all evening, U2’s

All That You Can’t Leave Behind, louder, a pencil on a piece of paper on the coffee table started to tremble. He was standing in the midst of a deafeningly loud blast when he saw the red light on his mobile on the desk and switched off the music and heard the phone.

He went over to the mobile, his ears ringing, like an overpowering silence.

“Hello?”

“Str… klrk… prr…”

A buzzing, even louder than the one in his ears.

“Hello?” he said.

“… nt thing…”

It sounded like Bertil.

“Where the hell are you, Bertil? Where have you been?”

Ringmar’s voice came and went.

“I can’t hear you,” Winter yelled.

“Sme… hrrrlg… bo… bllrra… cal…”

“I can’t hear you, Bertil. Reception is bad.”

“I… ca… ho… the…”

“Can you hear me? Eh? Come to my place as soon as you can. I repeat, as soon as you can.”

He hung up, and immediately called Ringmar’s mobile number on both his own mobile and the desk phone, but couldn’t get through. He repeated what he had just said for the answering machine.

His mobile rang again, for the thousandth time. As long as the phone keeps ringing, there is still hope.

“I’ll put you through to an angry man from personnel,” said Peder, a colleague from Police Operations Center. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Hello? Hello? Hello, for fuck’s-” Winter heard.

“DCI Erik Winter here.”

“Hello? Who?”

“I’m the one who’s been trying to contact you,” said Winter. “We’re busy with a case and I need some information.”

“Now?!”

“You have a streetcar driver by the name of Mats Jerner. I want to know what route he drives, and what his working hours are.”

“What!?”

Winter repeated his question, calmly.

“What the hell… What is this?”

“We are busy with an extremely serious case, and I want your help,” said Winter, still calm but louder. “Can you be of assistance?”

“What was the name again?”

“Jerner. Mats Jerner.”

“I’m one of… I can’t keep track of all the names. Jerner? Wasn’t he the one in that accident?”

“Accident?”

“There was a crash. I think he was suspended. I can’t remember. Or maybe he’s on sick leave? He reported sick later, I think. I’m not sure.” Winter heard a scraping noise, then something fell and broke. “Shit!”

“How can I find out more about this?” asked Winter.

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“He’s not home.”

“He isn’t, eh.”

“He’s been working this afternoon and is due to work tomorrow,” said Winter.

“I know nothing about that,” said the official, whose name Winter still didn’t know.

“Who will know?”

Winter was given a telephone number, evidently a new one as the receiver at the other end was put down for quite a while and he could hear muffled curses in the background.

Before he had chance to call the number he’d been given, his desk phone rang.

“Janne Alinder here.”

“Hello.”

“I’m still at the station. Sorry about the delay. I had a-”

“Forget it. Have you found anything?”

“I saw your message on the intranet and a few memos. I’ve been away for a few days.”

“Did you find anything in your notes on the report from Lena Sköld?”

“No. But I found something else.”

“And?”

“I don’t know what it means. But I’ve found something.”

“Well? Out with it.”

“We had a crash at Järntorget on November 27. A streetcar and several cars. No fatalities or anything like that, but a drunk standing next to the driver’s cabin had fallen into the windshield and smashed his skull. It was a mess. And the driver was… odd.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’d run a red light, but it wasn’t really his fault. But, well, he was odd.

He was sober and all that. But with regard to what you asked about: He stuttered.” Alinder had the conversation on tape, and had just listened to it:

“We can help you.”

“H-h-h-h-h-h.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“

Ho-ho-ho-ho-how?”

“He was really stressed,” said Alinder. “Maybe not all that surprising, but he was extremely nervous. I don’t know. He was odd, as I said.”