HE LOOKED AT HIS HANDS ON THE STEERING WHEEL. THEY WERE shaking. He had to keep moving them to new positions, to make sure his driving wasn’t affected. He didn’t want that to happen.
All the parking places were taken, which was unusual. He drove around the block, and when he returned there was an empty space.
He drank a glass of water in the kitchen before taking off his shoes. He’d never done that before. He always left his shoes in the hall, so as not to bring grime and dirt into the apartment, as had happened now. He’d cleaned the apartment yesterday, and wanted it to be nice and tidy for as long as possible.
He put down his glass and looked at his hand, and at what was in his palm, and he turned his head away again and walked all the way through the kitchen and the hall to the bathroom, where he washed his hands with his face averted. He couldn’t see properly what he was doing, so water splashed down onto the floor, but that couldn’t be helped.
He dried his hands. The telephone rang. He dropped the towel. The phone was still ringing. He went into the hall.
“Hell… hello?”
“Is that Jerner? Mats Jerner?”
“Er, yes.”
“Hello, this is Gothenburg Tramways, Järnström here. I’m calling in connection with that accident at Järntorget. I’m handling the inquiry.”
Järnström and Järntorget, he thought. Did they select inquiry chairmen on the basis of their name? Or of the victim. My name fits in as well.
“It’s almost finished, in fact,” Järnström went on.
“Have we met?”
“No.”
He heard the rustling of paper.
“We’re basically done,” said Järnström, “with all this. You can start again.”
“Start work again, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“So there’ll be no more interrogations?”
“Interrogations?”
“Questions about how I do my job.”
“That’s not what-”
“So it’s not my, er, not my fault anymore?”
“Nobody ever said it was. You were-”
“I was suspended.”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
“What would you call it then?”
“It’s just that we had to hold this inquiry and it’s taken a bit of time.”
“Whose fault was it, then?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“
Whose fault was it, then?” he yelled into the telephone. The man was evidently a bit deaf and he had to speak more loudly. “Who’s going to take responsibility for everything that’s happened?”
“Calm down now, Jerner.”
“I am calm.”
“It’s all over and done with now,” said Järnström. “As far as you’re concerned.”
“Who isn’t it all over for?”
“I’m don’t follow.”
“Is it the drunk it’s not all over for? It was all his fault.”
“That kind of thing is a problem,” said Järnström.
“Who for?”
“For Gothenburg Tramways,” said Järnström.
“For the drivers,” he said. “It’s a problem for the drivers.”
“Yes.”
“That’s what causes this kind of thing.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Was there anything else?”
“No, not at the moment. We might need to ask you about the odd detail later on, but tha-”
“So I just need to show up for work again?”
“That’s precisely why I called you, to tell you that.”
“Thanks a lot,” he said, and hung up. His hand was starting to shake again. It was clean now, but it was shaking.
He went back to the kitchen and sat down, then stood up again immediately and went into the hall and felt in his right-hand jacket pocket and took out the souvenir he had of the boy.
He sat on the sofa and contemplated it. Then burst into tears.
It had never gone this far before. Never. He’d felt it coming on and had driven around in a big circle first in the hope of maybe being able to snap out of it, but instead he’d been sucked into the spiral, and he’d known it would end up like this.
What would happen next time?
No
no no no!
He went to get the video camera from the hall, and continued arguing with himself.
He watched the film play on the television screen.
He heard the boy’s voice asking what his name was. He heard himself replying without knowing then what he’d said. But he didn’t say the name he had now. He said the other name he’d had when he was a boy, a little boy like him, no, bigger, but still little.
The film was flickering on the screen. Cars, trees, rain outside, traffic in the street, a set of traffic lights, then another, his own hand on the steering wheel. The boy. A glimpse of his hair. No voice now, no sound at all. His hand. A glimpse of the hair again, no face, not in this film.
Winter tried to think in time with the music, which was in tune with the November twilight outside. Car headlights on the other side of the river were stronger than the light from the sky.
He had taken the same route that Stillman, the law student, had walked that night. Climbed up the steps and passed Forum and his own dental office and the library and stood in the middle of the square where the attack had taken place. How could it happen? How could he not have seen what was coming? Bicycle, perhaps. But that was hard to believe. Somebody creeping up from behind? Hmm. No, he didn’t think so. Somebody Stillman had arranged to meet? Who came sauntering up from behind or the side or in front? More likely. But Stillman should have noticed, for God’s sake. Should have been able to say something about it afterward.
He might have met somebody he knew.
There was also the other possibility, that he was with somebody whose identity he didn’t want to disclose. Why?
Warum? Pourquoi? Porqué?
That was always the most difficult question, no matter what language you asked it in. “Who?” and “where?” and “how?” and “when?” were the immediate questions that required immediate answers, and when those answers were found, the case was solved. But there was always that “why?” often in the form of a little prick in his memory, long afterward. Something unsolved, or undiscovered. Always assuming there was an explanation. Not everything was wrapped up, with explanations as an extra bonus.
But nevertheless. If he could get a better idea of this “why,” and soon, he’d be able to discover the answers to “who” and “where” and “how” and “when.”
There was a knock on the door and in came Ringmar. Winter remained in his desk chair, and Ringmar perched on the edge of his desk.
“It’s gloomy in here,” said Ringmar.
“Are you referring to the light?”
“What else?”
“It’s serene,” said Winter.
Ringmar eyed the Panasonic on the floor under the window, and listened for half a minute.
“Serene music,” he said.
“Yes.”
“In tune with the light.”
“Bobo Stenson Trio.
War Orphans,” said Winter.
“War victims.”
“Not really. More like kids who have lost their parents thanks to war.”
“War victims sounds better.”
“If you say so.”
Ringmar sat down on the chair in front of the desk. Winter switched on his desk lamp and the light formed a little circle between them. They had sat there many a time and slowly discussed their way forward to solving a riddle. Winter knew he wouldn’t have gotten as far as he had without Ringmar. He hoped it was the same for his older colleague. No, he knew it was. Even so, there were things he didn’t know about Bertil, of course. Large chunks of his life. The kind of things he didn’t need to know, just as Bertil didn’t need to know everything about him.
But at this moment he did want to know more about the older man opposite him, assuming Bertil wanted to tell him. Perhaps it was connected with Winter’s own life, his… his development. His maturity, perhaps. His journey from being a lonely young man with a lot of power to something different that also encompassed others.
They needed each other, needed their conversations. The banter that wasn’t always merely banter.
Ringmar’s face seemed thinner than usual. There was a shadow behind his eyes.
“Why does everybody insist on telling lies all the time?” he said.
“It’s part of the job,” Winter said.
“Telling lies?”
“Listening to lies.”
“Take these guys who’ve been attacked. It’s becoming a real mess.”
“Theirs first and foremost.”
“But ours as well,” said Ringmar.
“We can untangle their mess. That’s our job. They can’t do it themselves.”
Ringmar nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“Or else it’s the truth and nothing but the truth.”
Ringmar nodded again, but still didn’t say anything.
“But that’s not why you came to see me, Bertil. Is it?”
Ringmar said nothing.
“To be honest, you don’t look all that good,” Winter said.
Ringmar ran his hand over his forehead and his face, as if trying to wipe away the tiredness and the shadows. It looked as if he were moving his head in time with the jazz coming from the Panasonic without realizing it.
“Do you have a fever?” Winter asked.
“It’s not that,” said Ringmar.
Winter waited for what was coming next. The music stopped, the CD had finished. It was darker outside now. He could see the car headlights more clearly, and the sounds coming from outside were clearer as well. A few drops of rain tapped hesitantly at the windowpane. It could turn into snow, but that didn’t seem likely. Snow was a rare gift to Gothenburgers. A surprise to the snow-clearing teams every other winter when chaos descended. Winter had always enjoyed that type of chaos. He liked to walk home over Heden in the eye of the snowstorm, and drink a glass of winter punch while looking out of the window.
“It’s Martin, of course,” said Ringmar.
Winter waited.
“Ah well…,” said Ringmar.
“There’s something else you want to say,” said Winter.
“I don’t know how to put it,” said Ringmar.
“Just say it,” said Winter.
“It’s about… about fathers and sons,” said Ringmar.
“Fathers and sons,” said Winter.
“Yes. I’m trying to figure out what the hell he’s thinking,” said Ringmar. “How things could have gotten this bad. What could have caused it.” He ran his hand over his brow again. “What I’ve done. What he’s done. No, what I’ve done above all else.”
Winter waited. Took out his pack of Corps but didn’t touch the cigarillos. He raised his head and Ringmar looked him in the eye.
“That’s why I thought about you,” said Ringmar. “About how it was for you, with your father. How things got to the state they did. Why you two… why you… didn’t have any contact.”
Winter lit a cigarillo and inhaled deeply. The smoke drifted through the circle of light from the desk lamp.
“That’s a complicated question you’re asking, Bertil.”
“You saw how hard it was to ask.”
Winter smoked again. He could see himself standing on a slope overlooking the Mediterranean when his father was buried after a funeral in a church as white as snow. Sierra Blanca. No possibility of contact anymore.
“He took off, and took his money with him,” said Winter.
“I know,” said Ringmar.
“I didn’t approve.”
“That’s it?”
Winter didn’t answer, took another draw on his cigarillo, stood up and walked over to the window, opened it, and saw that it had stopped raining. He tapped the ash from his cigarillo after checking to make sure nobody was marching around on the lawn below. He turned around.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“How much did you actually know about… Bengt’s financial affairs?” asked Ringmar.
“Enough to disapprove.”
“You are a moral person.”
“He did something wrong,” said Winter. “He could have stayed in Sweden and, well, helped out. He could afford it. And he could have had his house in the sun.” Winter smiled. “If he’d paid his taxes we might have had an extra CID officer.”
He went back to his desk. He suddenly felt weary. All the things he’d just said to Bertil. What was the point? Everything could have been resolved if only they’d spoken to each other. The only thing that helps is communication with words. That’s the only thing that enables us to make progress. Silence begets more silence, and eventually causes a muteness that is like cement.
“By the end it became impossible to say anything,” he said. “It was as if we’d lost the ability to talk to each other.” He sat down. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think there must have been something else, further back in time. Something unconnected with-with that money business. Something different.”
Ringmar didn’t answer. The shadows behind his eyes had deepened.
“Jesus, Bertil, I shouldn’t be sitting here telling you this.”
“That’s why I came here.”
“I don’t think you’re a masochist. And you’re not like him.”
“We’re all different,” said Ringmar, “but even so, we all make the same damned mistakes.”
“What mistakes have you made?”
“I must have done something. I have a grown-up son who doesn’t want to meet me. He doesn’t even want to talk to me.”
“He’ll regret it. He’ll change his mind.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
Winter didn’t reply. Rain was pattering against the windowpane again, coming from a sky that had turned black. It’s not even five o’clock, but night is upon us.
“I’m sorry, Erik. It’s just that… Oh, damn…”
“I could try to talk to him,” said Winter.
“I don’t even know where he is.”
“But your daughter has some kind of contact with him, doesn’t she? Moa?”
“I don’t actually know exactly how much,” said Ringmar.
“Should I talk to her as well?”
“I don’t know, Erik. I’ve tried to talk to her, but she… respects her brother’s wishes.”
“What about Birgitta?”
“It’s even worse for her. He seems to have decided that since he doesn’t want to talk to me, that includes her as well.” Ringmar sat up straight and smiled, just as Winter had done a couple of minutes previously. “A sort of package deal, you might say.”
“Should I give him a good beating if I find him?”
“At last we’re getting down to the nitty-gritty. I thought you were never going to ask that.”
“Violence is the most extreme form of communication. When words are not enough, it’s time for a good thump.” Winter held his fist up in the mixture of light and smoke. “It’s not an uncommon way of communicating.” He took down his fist. “Not in the force, either.”
“Still, perhaps we ought to try verbal methods first,” said Ringmar.
There was a knock on Winter’s door and Winter shouted in response. Bergenhem came in and walked up to the desk that was lit up by a circle of light while the rest of the room was in darkness.
“Are you interrogating each other?” Bergenhem wondered.
“When you don’t have a suspect, you have to make do with what you do have,” said Winter.
“Count me out,” said Bergenhem.
“But you’re in,” said Winter. “You knocked on that door and came into this office.”
“I checked up on that marking iron or whatever it’s called. Smedsberg’s farm-union babble.”
“I noticed we don’t have any details about that,” said Winter.
“They’re coming now.” Bergenhem sat down on the chair beside Ringmar. He seemed to be exuding an air of excitement. Winter switched on a standard lamp next to the Panasonic. It was all so cozy. All that was missing was a few candles.
“I spoke to a woman at the Ministry of Agriculture,” said Bergenhem. “Prevention of cruelty to animals section.”
“Where else?” said Ringmar.
Winter couldn’t help laughing.
“It’s about to get even funnier,” said Bergenhem.
“Sorry, Lars,” said Ringmar. “The interrogation I just went through has exhausted me.”
“Branding irons like that actually exist in Sweden, not just in Wyoming and Montana.” Bergenhem had a notebook open in front of him but didn’t need to consult it. “But it’s no longer allowed in Sweden to burn symbols onto animals. Not with hot irons, that is.”
“What do they do, then?” asked Ringmar.
“They use so-called freeze branding,” said Bergenhem.
“Carbon dioxide snow, also known as dry ice,” said Winter.
Bergenhem looked at him. He seemed almost disappointed.
“Did you know about that?”
“No, just a lucky guess.”
“That wasn’t guesswork, come off it.”
“Go on,” said Winter.
“Anyway, they can freeze the branding iron using dry ice, or liquid nitrogen, and then brand the animals.”
“And that still happens today?” asked Ringmar.
“Yes, apparently. It’s used mostly on trotting horses, as a sort of ID. And the woman at the ministry figures it’s also used on cattle.”
Ringmar nodded. Bergenhem eyed him acidly.
“You knew that already, didn’t you, Bertil?”
“Farmers aren’t satisfied with a number clipped onto a cow’s ear,” said Ringmar. “If they’re milking a lot of cows at a time, they can’t see the label on the ear when they’re busy down at the udder.”
“Good God, what is this?” Bergenhem wondered. “Did I walk in on a boardroom meeting at the Federation of Swedish Farmers?”
“The new EU regulations are a pain in the ass,” said Winter.
“Why is it forbidden to brand cattle with a hot iron?” Ringmar asked, looking serious again.
“Well, I suppose it’s for humanitarian reasons, if you can use that expression in this context. In any case, the cruelty to animals law was revised in 1988, and as a result it was legal to brand cattle with a cold iron, but it says nothing about hot ones, which means that it’s forbidden.”
“But you can use the same branding iron for both methods?” asked Winter.
“It seems so.”
“Did you ask about that specifically?”
“Yes.”
“OK. Go on.”
“The most interesting part is the symbol itself,” said Bergenhem. “They use a combination of numbers.” Now he was reading from his notebook. “It’s usually three digits, but it can be more.”
“What do the numbers mean?” Ringmar asked.
“It’s a number allocated to a particular farm, and applied to each product.”
Ringmar whistled.
“Does this apply to every farm in Sweden?” Winter asked.
“Every farm with cattle and sheep and goats and pigs.”
That could apply to the police station we’re in at this very moment, Ringmar thought. The staff-and our clients.
“What about the ones who don’t?” asked Winter.
“What do you mean?”
“The ones who no longer keep animals? That’s not exactly uncommon nowadays. Are they still on the list? Or have they been removed?”
“I don’t know yet. I couldn’t get through to anybody from the registration department.”
“So our young men might have a combination of numbers underneath their scabs,” said Ringmar. “A sort of tattoo.”
“Is it possible to accelerate the healing process?” Bergenhem wondered.
“I’ll have a word with Pia,” said Winter.
“In which case we’ve solved the case,” said Ringmar.
Bergenhem looked at him.
“Are you being serious, Bertil?”
“I certainly am.”
“So,” said Winter, “we have an attacker who dipped his weapon into dry ice before launching his attack.”
“And where could he have done that?” asked Ringmar.
“He might have been carrying the dry ice in a thermos,” said Winter. “For instance.”
“Would it leave any traces afterward?” asked Bergenhem.
“I wouldn’t have thought so,” said Winter. “Who would know about this kind of thing? Animals and dry ice and that kind of stuff?”
He looked at Ringmar.
“Inseminators,” said Ringmar. “They keep sperm in a deep freeze.”
Winter nodded.
These guys are in the wrong business, Bergenhem thought.