sorts. Peder gave an irritated sigh. It really had been a very bad idea to recruit civilians into the police.
‘The force needs an injection of top skills,’ was the explanation from certain individuals high up in the organization.
Fredrika had mentioned on several occasions what subject she had read at university, but to be honest, Peder couldn’t have cared less. She used too many words, with too many letters. She complicated things. She thought too much and felt too little. She simply wasn’t made of the right stuff for police work.
Peder could only admire the police union’s persistent opposition to the position and status that civilians had been given in the force. Without any relevant work experience whatsoever. Without the unique set of skills that can only be gained by learning police work from the bottom up. By spending at least a few years in the patrol car. Manhandling drunks. Talking to men who hit their wives. Giving pissed teenagers a lift home and facing their parents. Breaking into flats where lonely souls have died and just lain there, rotting.
Peder shook his head. He had more pressing things to think about than incompetent colleagues. He thought over the information he had garnered from talking to the train crew so far. Henry Lindgren, the conductor, talked too much, but he had a good eye for detail and there was certainly nothing wrong with his memory. The train left Gothenburg at 10.50. It reached Stockholm eight minutes after the time it was due, at 14.07.
‘I wasn’t the one in charge of the delay in Flemingsberg,’ Henry pointed out. ‘That was Arvid. And Nellie.’
He looked sadly at the train, still standing at the platform. All the doors were open, gaping like great dark holes along the side of the train. More than anything else on earth, Henry wished that the little girl would suddenly come stumbling out of one of those holes. That she had somehow lost her way on the train, gone back to sleep, and then woken up. But with all the certainty that only grown-up human beings can muster, Henry knew it wasn’t going to happen. The only people getting on and off the train were policemen and technicians. The whole platform had been cordoned off, and a fingertip search of the damp surface for traces of the missing child was in progress. Henry felt a lump in his throat that proved impossible to swallow.
Peder went on with the interview.
‘You say you were keeping an eye on the child; then what happened?’
Peder could see Henry literally shrink, as if he was ageing as he stood there on the platform, faced with explaining what had made him leave the girl.
‘It was hard, trying to be in lots of places at the same time,’ he said dejectedly. ‘Like I told you, there’d been trouble in several of the coaches, and I had to leave the girl and get to coach three, smartish. But I called Arvid on the two-way radio. I called him really loud, and I tried several times, but he never replied. I don’t think he can have heard. I didn’t seem to be getting through at all.’
Peder decided not to make any comment on Arvid’s behaviour.
‘So you left the child, and didn’t ask any of the passengers to keep an eye on her?’ he asked instead.
Henry threw out his arms in dramatic appeal.
‘I was only in the next carriage!’ he cried. ‘And I thought, yes I thought, I’ll be straight back. Which I was.’
His voice almost gave way.
‘I left the girl for less than three minutes, I was back the minute the train stopped and people started getting off. But she’d already gone. And nobody could remember seeing her get up and go.’
Henry’s voice was choked as he went on:
‘How’s that possible? How can nobody have seen a thing?’
Peder knew all too well how. Get ten people to witness the same crime and they will come up with ten different versions of what happened, the order it happened in, and what the perpetrators were wearing.
What was strange, on the other hand, was the way Arvid
‘The force needs an injection of top skills,’ was the explanation from certain individuals high up in the organization.
Fredrika had mentioned on several occasions what subject she had read at university, but to be honest, Peder couldn’t have cared less. She used too many words, with too many letters. She complicated things. She thought too much and felt too little. She simply wasn’t made of the right stuff for police work.
Peder could only admire the police union’s persistent opposition to the position and status that civilians had been given in the force. Without any relevant work experience whatsoever. Without the unique set of skills that can only be gained by learning police work from the bottom up. By spending at least a few years in the patrol car. Manhandling drunks. Talking to men who hit their wives. Giving pissed teenagers a lift home and facing their parents. Breaking into flats where lonely souls have died and just lain there, rotting.
Peder shook his head. He had more pressing things to think about than incompetent colleagues. He thought over the information he had garnered from talking to the train crew so far. Henry Lindgren, the conductor, talked too much, but he had a good eye for detail and there was certainly nothing wrong with his memory. The train left Gothenburg at 10.50. It reached Stockholm eight minutes after the time it was due, at 14.07.
‘I wasn’t the one in charge of the delay in Flemingsberg,’ Henry pointed out. ‘That was Arvid. And Nellie.’
He looked sadly at the train, still standing at the platform. All the doors were open, gaping like great dark holes along the side of the train. More than anything else on earth, Henry wished that the little girl would suddenly come stumbling out of one of those holes. That she had somehow lost her way on the train, gone back to sleep, and then woken up. But with all the certainty that only grown-up human beings can muster, Henry knew it wasn’t going to happen. The only people getting on and off the train were policemen and technicians. The whole platform had been cordoned off, and a fingertip search of the damp surface for traces of the missing child was in progress. Henry felt a lump in his throat that proved impossible to swallow.
Peder went on with the interview.
‘You say you were keeping an eye on the child; then what happened?’
Peder could see Henry literally shrink, as if he was ageing as he stood there on the platform, faced with explaining what had made him leave the girl.
‘It was hard, trying to be in lots of places at the same time,’ he said dejectedly. ‘Like I told you, there’d been trouble in several of the coaches, and I had to leave the girl and get to coach three, smartish. But I called Arvid on the two-way radio. I called him really loud, and I tried several times, but he never replied. I don’t think he can have heard. I didn’t seem to be getting through at all.’
Peder decided not to make any comment on Arvid’s behaviour.
‘So you left the child, and didn’t ask any of the passengers to keep an eye on her?’ he asked instead.
Henry threw out his arms in dramatic appeal.
‘I was only in the next carriage!’ he cried. ‘And I thought, yes I thought, I’ll be straight back. Which I was.’
His voice almost gave way.
‘I left the girl for less than three minutes, I was back the minute the train stopped and people started getting off. But she’d already gone. And nobody could remember seeing her get up and go.’
Henry’s voice was choked as he went on:
‘How’s that possible? How can nobody have seen a thing?’
Peder knew all too well how. Get ten people to witness the same crime and they will come up with ten different versions of what happened, the order it happened in, and what the perpetrators were wearing.
What was strange, on the other hand, was the way Arvid
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