Frozen Tracks

6

THIS WAS HOW HE RECOUNTED WHAT HAD HAPPENED. HIS TONE was almost exhilarated.

He couldn’t remember why he had decided to cut across the soccer field when that meant he would actually have farther to walk back to the student dorm where he lived, but maybe he’d noticed a forgotten soccer ball lit up by the streetlights and suddenly felt a strong desire to shoot the damn thing into the back of the net, and show some of those jokers on the national team how it was done. Let the world know that he’d quit too soon, simply given up before his career had really taken off.

That could have been it. But it might just have been that he’d been to a party. In any case, he’d walked over the playing field at Mossen on the way home, and it had been well into the night, or rather the morning. Half past four. He’d noticed a poor newspaper delivery boy trudging around, back bent, among the high-rise apartment buildings soaring heavenward behind him. Poor kid. Lugging newspapers up to the fortieth floor. Morning after morning, no thanks. Good for keeping fit, no doubt, but you should work out at a sensible time of day. Newspaper boys are the bottom of the heap, he’d thought, and grinned as he tried to adjust his footsteps that were leading him off course to the left when he didn’t look where he was going, the student dorm that was lying in wait for him over there, gloomy and cheerless, dormant until the murky gray light of dawn signaled time for more cramming and more hassle. But not for him, no thank you very much. He would be fast asleep the whoooole day long. No cramming, no hassle, no rain down his collar, no lousy lunch, no long-winded lectures, no slushy corridors, no aggressive women throwing their weight around.

That’s what was going through his head when he staggered to his left again and heard something swiiiishing past his head that had been in a different position a quarter of a second before, and something thudded into the ground in front of him and seemed to be stuck there, and he turned his head and saw the guy tugging and heaving at something with a long handle.

“What the hell…” he had managed to mutter in a shaky voice, and the other person was still tugging at the handle or whatever it was and it had dawned on him now, he’d been slow on the uptake, but now he realized that this wasn’t some old guy digging up potatoes two months late, and in a strange place at that. The guy had jerked whatever it was out of the ground, and then presumably had looked at him, but he wouldn’t have seen much, as his intended victim had fled over the soccer field at a pace that would have forced Maurice Greene and Ato Boldon and all the other wooden-legged Olympic sprinters to give up. All the potato man would have seen was his back and his legs, on the way to anywhere that would provide protection. He hadn’t heard any footsteps following him, but he hadn’t listened for any either. He had raced across the road and in among the little houses and across the street on the other side of the block and down the hill, eventually slowing down because his rib cage would have burst otherwise.

His name was Gustav Smedsberg, and he was sitting in front of a police officer in a thick woolen sweater who had introduced himself as Bertil Ring-something.

“You did the right thing, getting in touch with us, Gustav.”

“I remembered reading something about some guy going around bashing people on the head.”

Ringmar nodded.

“Was it him?”

“We don’t know. It depends what you remember.”

“What I remember is more or less what I told the guy I spoke to on the phone. The duty officer or whatever you call it.”

“Let’s run through it once again,” said Ringmar, and they did.

“Odd that I didn’t hear him,” said Smedsberg.

“Were there any other noises at the time?”

“No.”

“No traffic in the street?”

“No. Only a newspaper delivery boy.”

“Somebody was delivering newspapers at that hour?”

“Yes. Or just before. As I was crossing the street before you get to the sports field. Gibraltargatan.”

“Did you see this delivery boy?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Know what?”

“That it was a newspaper delivery boy?”

“Somebody carrying a pile of newspapers early in the morning,” said Smedsberg. “That’s what I call a newspaper delivery boy.”

“Just one? Or two? Three?”

“Just one. I didn’t see any others. He was just going into one of the apartment buildings as I passed by.” Smedsberg looked at Ringmar. “That’s a tough job. So early in the morning.”

“Did you speak to him? To the newspaper boy?”

“No, no.”

“Did you see him again?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, of co-” Smedsberg looked up at Ringmar again, and sat up straighter on the chair, which creaked.

“Do you think that-”

“Think what?” said Ringmar.

“Do you think it was the newspaper boy who tried to kill me?”

“I don’t think anything,” said Ringmar.

“Why are you asking so much about him, then?”

“Describe how he was dressed,” said Ringmar.

“Who? The newspaper boy?”

“Yes.”

“I have no idea. No idea at all. It was dark. It was raining a little and I was sort of looking down.”

“Did he have anything on his head?”

“Er, yes, I think so.”

“What exactly?”

“A wool hat, I think. I’d have remembered if it was a baseball cap, I think, a Nike cap or something like that.” He looked out of the window, then back again at Ringmar. “I’m pretty sure it was a wool hat.”

“The person who attacked you. Did he have anything on his head?”

No answer. Smedsberg was thinking. Ringmar waited.

“I really don’t remember,” said Smedsberg eventually. “Not right now, at least.” He ran his hand over his forehead, as if trying to help his memory along. “Isn’t that the kind of thing I should be able to remember?”

“It depends on the circumstances,” said Ringmar. “Maybe you’ll remember in a little while. Tomorrow maybe, the day after. It’s important that you get in touch with us the moment you remember anything. Anything at all.”

“Anything at all? Shouldn’t it have something to do with the case?”

“You know what I mean.”

“OK, OK. I feel a little, well, a little tired right now.” He was thinking about his bed, and his plans for today, which weren’t exactly ambitious.

“I think it might have been an iron,” said Gustav, after they’d had a short break.

“An iron?”

“A branding iron. The thing you mark cattle with.”

“Would you recognize a thing like that?”

“I grew up on a farm.”

“Did you have branding irons there?”

He didn’t answer. Ringmar wasn’t certain he’d heard the question, and repeated it. The boy seemed to be thinking about his answer, or perhaps about the question. It was a simple question.

“Er, yes, of course. They’re old things, been around for a long time.”

“Is that normal?” Ringmar asked.

“What do you mean, normal?”

“To brand your animals that way?”

“People do it. But it’s not like in Montana or Wyoming,” Smedsberg said. He looked at Ringmar. “American prairies.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been there.”

“Really?”

“Cody. Terrific place.”

“Were you a cowboy?”

“No. But maybe one day. When I’ve graduated from Chalmers.”

“The cowpokin’ engineer.”

Smedsberg smiled.

“There are jobs there. Engineering jobs, I mean.”

“How were you able to see that it was a branding iron?” Ringmar asked, abandoning Montana for Mossen.

“I didn’t say it was, definitely. But I think so. Then again, I didn’t hang around, if you know what I mean.”

“Was it the handle that looked familiar?”

“I guess it must have been.”

“What did it look like?”

“I can try to draw it for you. Or you can visit a farm and see one for yourself.”

“Do they all look the same, then?”

“I know what they looked like at home. This one was similar to them. But I didn’t see the branding part itself.”

Ringmar stood up.

“I’d like you to take a look at some photographs,” he said.

He walked over to a cabinet, took out one of the folders, and produced the pictures.

“Oh shit,” said Smedsberg when he saw the first photograph. “Is he dead?”

“None of these pictures are of dead people,” Ringmar said. “But they could easily have been.”

Smedsberg was shown several pictures from various angles of the three young men who had been attacked with what seemed to be the same weapon.

“And I was supposed to be the fourth victim, is that it?” Smedsberg said.

“Assuming it’s the same attacker, yes.”

“What kind of a lunatic is this?” Smedsberg looked up at Ringmar, then back down at the photograph of the back of Jakob Stillman’s head. “What is he trying to do?” He looked again at the photograph. Ringmar observed him closely. “Looks like he’s just out to bash somebody in the head.” Smedsberg looked up again. “Anybody at all.”

“Do you know any of these guys?” Ringmar asked.

“No.”

“Take your time.”

“I don’t know any of them.”

“What can you say about the wounds, then?” Ringmar pointed to the photographs.

Smedsberg scrutinized them again, held some of them up to the light.

“Well, I guess he could have been trying to mark them.”

“Mark them? What do you mean by that?”

“Like I said before. It could be a marking iron. A branding iron.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. The problem is that you often brand farm animals with some characterizing mark on their skin. But these are not that kind of wound, as far as I can see.”

“There’s something I don’t understand,” Ringmar said. “A branding iron is used for branding cattle. But in this case it’s been used as a club. Would there still have been a brand mark?”

“I really don’t know.”

“OK. But an ordinary branding iron must be pretty heavy, you need to be on the strong side to use one, is that right?”

“Yes, I would say so.”

“You’d need an awful lot of strength, in fact?”

“Yes.”

“The man who attacked you-did you get the impression that he was big?”

“Not particularly. Normal.”

“OK. Let’s assume he’s determined to club you on the back of the head with a branding iron. He creeps up behind you. You don’t hear him and ha-”

“Why didn’t I hear him? Shouldn’t I have?”

“Let’s not worry about that for the moment,” Ringmar said. “He’s behind you. He attacks you. At that very moment you veer to one side.”

“Stagger to one side, I’d say. I wasn’t stone cold sober, to be honest.”

“Stagger. You stagger to one side. He attacks you. But all he can hit is thin air. He hits thin air. His weapon thuds down into the ground and gets stuck. He tugs at it, but it doesn’t come loose. You see him standing there, and then you take off.”

“Yes.”

“Why did this weapon, whatever it was, get stuck in the ground?” Ringmar wondered. “It wouldn’t have if he’d jabbed at you in a straight line.”

“So he didn’t do that, I guess,” said Smedsberg.

“Really?”

“He took a swing at me with the branding iron.”

“If that’s what it is,” Ringmar said.

“Whatever it is, you’ve got to catch him pretty damn quick,” Smedsberg said. “Will he come after me again?”

Ringmar made no comment. Smedsberg looked away. He seemed to be thinking something over again.

“Maybe he’s trying to brand people, really brand them.” He was looking at Ringmar now. “Maybe he wants to show that he owns them, these people he’s branded?”

Ringmar listened. Smedsberg looked as if he were concentrating, as if he’d already accepted a job as a CID officer and was now on duty.

“Maybe he didn’t want to kill us. The victims. Maybe he just wanted to show that, er, that he owned us,” said Gustav Smedsberg.

“Fascinating,” said Halders. “We should give the kid a job here. Start at the bottom and work his way up to the top.”

“And where’s the top?” asked Aneta Djanali.

“I’ll show you when we get there,” said Halders. “We’ll make it one fine day.”

“It’s a fine day today,” said Djanali.

She was right. The sun had returned after a prolonged exile. The light outside made your eyes hurt, and Djanali had shown up at the police station in black sunglasses that made her look like a soul queen on tour in Scandinavia. At least, that’s what Halders had told her when they met outside the entrance.

They were in Winter’s office now. Winter was sitting on his desk chair, and Ringmar was perched on the edge of his desk.

“Shall we consult the farmers’ union-what do they call themselves, the Federation of Swedish Farmers? FSF?” Winter wasn’t quite sure if Halders was joking.

“Good idea, Fredrik,” he said. “You can start with all of Götaland.”

“Certainly not,” said Halders, looking at the others. “I was only joking.” He turned to Winter again. “What if it is a bumpkin, then? What do we do? How will we be able to pinpoint every clodhopper in the area?”

“Officer Plod in search of a clod,” said Winter.

“They’re a dying breed,” said Ringmar.

“Officer Plods?” said Djanali.

“Farmers,” said Ringmar. “Soon there won’t be any Swedish farmers left. The EU will see to that.”

“There’ll always be tough little Portuguese olive growers, though,” said Halders. “The Swedish national dish will become olives, whether you want the crappy things or not.”

“Olives are good for you,” said Djanali. “Unlike baked pig’s feet.”

“For Christ’s sake,” screamed Halders. “Why did you mention pig’s feet? You’ve made my feet hurt.”

At last the banter is getting back to normal, Winter thought. About time too.

“Maybe he wants to brand pigs,” said Halders. He sounded serious now. “Our attacker. Branding people he regards as swine.”

“

If it is a marking iron, or whatever it’s called,” said Winter.

“We’d better start making comparisons,” Ringmar said. “We’ll have to get hold of a branding iron.”

“Who’s going to volunteer to have their head bashed in so that we can make comparisons?” Halders wondered.

Everybody stared at him.

“Oh no, no, not me. I’ve already been bashed on the head, that’s enough for this life.”

“Maybe it wasn’t enough, though?” said Djanali.

Have I gone too far? she thought. But Fredrik asks for it.

Halders turned to Winter.

“The answer could be in the victims. Maybe there is a link between them after all. They don’t have to be random choices.”

“Hmm.”

“If we can find a common denominator we’ll have made a start. We haven’t checked up on the first two in detail yet. Not enough detail, at least,” Halders continued.

“Well,” said Ringmar.

“Well what? I can think of ten questions they weren’t asked but should have been. But I must say I think this last kid’s story is a bit odd. Gustav. The farmer’s boy.”

“What do you mean, odd?” asked Djanali.

“Confused, muddled.”

“Perhaps that makes it more credible,” said Winter.

“Or even incredible,” said Halders. “How can you fail to notice somebody creeping up on you in the middle of a soccer field?”

“But the same thing goes for the others, in that case,” said Djanali. “Are you seriously suggesting that they’re all in it together? That the victims allowed themselves to be injured? Or at least knew what was going to happen to them?”

“Maybe there’s something important he wants to tell us but doesn’t dare,” said Ringmar.

Everybody understood what Ringmar was getting at. A lot of people tell lies, and often because they are scared.

“We’ll have to ask him again,” said Djanali.

“Nothing surprises me anymore,” said Halders. “But OK, maybe they weren’t all aware of what was going to happen to them. But maybe they were, to some extent at least. This Gustav, though, he might have other reasons for telling us this story.”

Nobody spoke. Winter contemplated the sunlight blazing in through the window. We need some light, he’d thought as he raised the blinds shortly before the others arrived. Let there be light.

The trees in the park outside had been pointing at him, black fingers glinting in the sun. The sky was as blue as it’s possible to be in late November.

“He also said something about a newspaper delivery boy. We’d better check up on that,” Winter said, still staring into the heavens. “Bergenhem can look into that when he gets back from lunch. Somebody was working there that morning, and might have seen something.”

“Or done something,” said Ringmar.

“Even better if that’s the case. We’ll have solved it.”

“What about the other attacks?” asked Djanali. “Were there newspaper boys around then too?”

Winter looked at Ringmar.

“Er, we don’t actually know yet,” Ringmar said.

“Is that code for we haven’t looked into it yet?” asked Halders.

“Now we have a time pattern that is becoming clearer,” said Winter, getting to his feet. “All the attacks took place at about the same time-in the hours before dawn.”

“In the wee hours of the morning,” said Halders.

“We’re trying to interview everybody who might have been around the areas where the incidents took place, and now it’s the delivery boys’ turn,” said Winter.

“That’s hard work,” said Halders.

“Interviewing newspaper boys?” said Djanali.

“I’ve worked as a newspaper boy,” said Halders, ignoring her.

“Good,” said Winter. “You can give Bergenhem a hand, then.”

“I’ll take another look at the locations first,” said Halders.