Åke Edwardson: Frozen Tracks

“Bertil.”

Ringmar gave a start, as if waking up out of something else, from a different dimension. The word came into Winter’s head, “dimension.” We’re moving in different dimensions here, one, two, three. The heavens, the ocean, the earth, out and in, down and up. Dreams, lies.

He ran another red light-the system seemed to be stuck on the merry color of Christmas. He drove in a semicircle, past old Ullevi Stadium, the Göteborgs Posten offices, Central Station. It was early morning, but still black night. Dark taxicabs were parked alongside the railway lines. Follow the tracks, Winter thought.

“He set off for the city and paid them a visit,” Ringmar continued. “And, well… we know the rest.”

“So he was the one who stole the iron from Carlström’s barn?” said Winter.

“Yes.”

“That’s not the only connection we have out there,” said Winter.

“What do you mean?”

“Smedsberg was married to Gerd, who had previously been a neighbor of Carlström’s. Do you remember that?”

“Of course. We checked up on the marriage.”

“I think that Carlström and Gerd Smedsberg had an affair.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Go back and read the case notes, Bertil. Think about how people have reacted. You’ll realize then.”

“Is it relevant?” Ringmar asked.

“Carlström’s foster son, Mats Jerner, wasn’t unknown to Smedsberg,” said Winter. “I could see that from the start. It was obvious.”

“And?”

“Smedsberg is just as guilty for what’s happened. He probably abused Mats Jerner. I’m almost convinced that he ruined Jerner as well, when he was a boy. Or was one of the people who did. Abused him sexually. Smedsberg is just as guilty for what’s happened.”

“Just as guilty of what, Erik?” asked Ringmar, who seemed to have only just become aware of the fact that they were heading somewhere. He looked around as they drove up onto the bridge. “Where are we going?”

“To Mats Jerner’s place,” said Winter.

They were on the bridge. Lights were burning everywhere, as if on a dome rising out of the sea and the land around them on all sides. It’s as if the city were alive, Winter thought. But it isn’t.

They were alone on the apex of the bridge, then started descending again. Winter could see the water glittering from the reflection of the illuminated oil storage tanks that were the most attractive objects in sight. They passed a streetcar and a bus. Neither had any passengers.

“I’ve also got some news,” said Winter, and summed up his Christmas Eve night in one minute flat. They were approaching Backaplan. He turned right, then left. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his body, creating a heat that cooled him down.

“It could be coincidence,” said Ringmar. “He just happens to stutter like others do, and has a bird like others do.”

“No, no, no, no.”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“We need to take a look at where he lives no matter what,” said Winter and parked. He could see the discreet blue light on his colleagues’ car illuminating the sky over the residential area where Jerner lived in one of the three-story apartment blocks. It looked almost like a new day.

The Hisingen police were waiting outside the building. They had switched off the blue light now. Their squad car was covered in dirt, as if they’d had to cross a muddy field in order to get there.

“We weren’t sure if the flat was in A or B,” said one of the inspectors, gesturing toward the entrance doors.

“Has anybody entered or left?” asked Winter.

“Not since we arrived, ten minutes ago.”

Another car arrived and parked in the parking lot opposite the buildings. A man got out, carrying a small case.

“The locksmith,” said Winter, gesturing in his direction. “That was quick.”

The smith opened the front door for them. Jerner lived on the second floor, the door on the right. Winter rang the bell and heard the ringing inside the apartment. He drummed with his fingers on the yellow tiled wall that resembled the corridors at police headquarters. The echo died down and he rang again. There was a scraping noise behind the door opposite. The neighbor was evidently watching them through the peephole.

“Open the door,” he said to the locksmith.

“Is there anybody in there?” asked the locksmith.

“I don’t know,” said Winter.

The locksmith looked scared, but he had the door open within twenty seconds. After the click he practically leaped to one side. Winter opened the door with his gloved hand. He crossed the threshold with Ringmar close behind him. The two uniformed officers waited on the landing. Winter had asked the locksmith to wait as well.

The hall was lit up by streetlights shining into a room at the far end. Street lighting was slowly beginning to mix with the faint light of dawn. Winter saw an open door and the corner of a sofa.

“I’m going to switch on the light,” he said.

He could see Bertil blinking. The light seemed very bright.

There were shoes scattered all over the floor, items of clothing. There was something at his feet and he bent down and saw that it was a length of cord, frayed at one end.

He stepped over a man’s boot. Ringmar went into the room at the end of the hall, and switched on a light. Winter joined him and stopped dead to stare up at the ceiling that Ringmar was also staring at. There was no other possible reaction.

“What the hell…” said Ringmar.

The ceiling was split into two. On the left it was black with bright yellow stars some fifteen centimeters in diameter. On the right was a blue sky.

The sofa was red and there were several video cassettes on the table, which was low and wide. There was a television set to the left and a VCR on top of it.

Things were scattered over the wrinkled carpet. Winter squatted down again. He could see a toy car, a green ball, a watch.

He was prepared for this. Ringmar wasn’t.

“Jesus,” said Ringmar. “It’s him. It is him.”

Winter stood up straight again. He was aching all over; it felt as if he’d broken every bone in his body during the last twenty-four hours.

They moved quickly through the apartment. The bed was a mess. There were newspapers on the floor. There were remains of food on the table, butter, bread. On the floor next to the sofa was a plastic cup with a spoon in it. Inside the cup were remains of food, something yellow.

There was a little sock half a meter from the cup.

Winter bent down over a cushion on the sofa and thought he could see small, fine strands of hair.

An unpleasant smell pervaded the flat, a most unpleasant smell.

“He’s not here,” said Ringmar, emerging from the bathroom. “The boy’s not here.”

Good for you, thinking first and foremost about the boy, Winter thought.

They examined all the closets, every nook and cranny, looked underneath everything, looked up as well.

In the bedroom Winter found a thin cord tied to one of the bedposts. There were red stains on the cord. He leaned over the bed and saw a green parrot hanging with its beak pointing toward the wall. It was no bigger than the stars in the sky.

“Did he leave without taking that with him?” asked Ringmar, peering from behind Winter.

“He doesn’t need it anymore,” said Winter.

“What does that mean?”

“You’d rather not know, Bertil.” Winter took his mobile from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. “And I’d rather not tell you.” He almost dropped it. Suddenly, he was no longer in full control of his movements. “Jerner has a car. We’d better see if it’s parked outside.”

He rang for all the reinforcements available.