Frozen Tracks

34

PIA FRÖBERG HAD A FURROW BETWEEN HER EYEBROWS THAT seemed to grow deeper the longer she examined the injury on Kaite’s head. There was something there she was scrutinizing between her splayed hands.

Kaite appeared to be lost in thought, gazing out of the window, head to one side.

“Hmm,” said Fröberg.

“What?” asked Ringmar.

“Well, you can see something, but you can also see nothing.”

“Great. Thank you for that.”

“But Bertil, I can’t say here and now if this is a special mark, or just… just a mark. A scar. A wound in the process of healing.”

“OK, OK, I’m with you, Pia.”

“But it could be an imprint.”

“Which in that case would represent something?” said Ringmar.

“In that case, yes.”

“Could it be this?” said Ringmar, holding up a copy of Carlström’s drawing.

“It could be. It’s not possible to say here and now.”

“Let’s go,” said Halders.

They headed for the door.

“What am I supposed to do?” said Kaite, raising his head.

“I have no idea,” said Halders without turning around.

“Shouldn’t I go with you?”

“Do you want to?” asked Halders, turning around.

“N… No, no.”

“Go home and take it easy,” said Ringmar, who had also turned around. “We’ll be in touch.”

“What will happen to this thing, then?” said Kaite to Pia Fröberg, moving his head slightly. “Will it leave a permanent mark?”

“It could.”

“Oh my God.”

“It’s too early to tell,” said Fröberg, feeling sorry for the boy.

They drove toward the city center. There were more and more lights and lamps and glittering garlands hanging over the streets.

“Call young Smedsberg and see if he’s at home,” said Ringmar.

There was an answer after the third ring.

“This is Detective Inspector Fredrik Halders.”

Smedsberg was in Ringmar’s office in an hour. He won’t run away, Halders had said.

“Please sit down,” said Ringmar.

Smedsberg sat down on the modest visitor’s chair.

“Shouldn’t we go to another room?” said Halders.

“Oh yes, of course,” said Ringmar. “Please come this way, Gustav.”

“What’s this all about?” asked Gustav Smedsberg.

“What was that?” said Halders.

“I don’t underst-”

“Are you still sitting down?” said Halders.

“It’s only two floors down, “ said Ringmar.

Neither of the police officers spoke in the elevator. Smedsberg looked as if he were on the way to the electric chair. Either that or he’s the type who always looks worried, Halders thought.

It was not a cozy room. It was the opposite of the interview rooms set up to make a child feel secure. There was a nasty lamp on the desk and an even worse one hanging from the ceiling. There was a window, but the view of the ventilation duct was unlikely to raise anybody’s spirits. The room seemed to be fitted out for its purpose, but everything was accidental-a window in the wrong place, a ventilation duct in the wrong place.

“Please sit down,” said Ringmar.

Smedsberg sat down, but cautiously, as if he expected a different instruction from Halders, who he was looking at now. Halders gave him a friendly smile.

Ringmar switched on the tape recorder that was standing on the table. Halders was fiddling with the tripod for the video camera, which was making a humming noise, the coziest thing about the room.

“Will you be celebrating Christmas at home this year, Gustav?” asked Ringmar.

“Er… What?”

“Will you be celebrating Christmas at home on the farm, with your dad?”

“Er… No.”

“Really?”

“What difference does it make to you?” asked Smedsberg.

“It’s just standard interview technique,” said Halders, who was still next to the camera but leaning over the desk. “You start with something general and then come around to the heavy stuff.”

“Er… Hmm.”

“Why have you been threatening Aryan Kaite?” asked Ringmar.

“The heavy stuff,” said Halders, gesturing toward Ringmar.

“Er…”

“You seem to have a limited vocabulary for a student,” said Halders.

“We have been informed that you threatened Aryan Kaite,” said Ringmar.

“W… What?”

“What do you have to say to the accusation that you threatened him?”

“I haven’t threatened anybody,” said Smedsberg.

“We have been informed that you did.”

“By whom?”

“Who do you think?”

“He would never da-”

Ringmar looked at him.

“What were you going to say, Gustav?”

“Nothing.”

“What happened between you and Aryan, Gustav?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Something happened between the two of you. We want to know what. We might be able to help you.”

Smedsberg looked as if he might be smiling. Ringmar saw the smile come and go within a fraction of a second. The camera saw it. What did it mean?

“What really happened between you and Aryan, Gustav?”

“I already told you, a hundred years ago. It was a girl.”

“Josefin Stenvång,” said Halders.

“Er… Yes.”

“But that’s not all, is it?” Ringmar eyed Smedsberg. “There are other reasons as well, aren’t there?”

“I don’t know what he told you, but whatever he said, it’s wrong,” said Smedsberg.

“But you can’t know what he’s said, can you?”

“It’s wrong in any case,” said Smedsberg.

“What’s the truth, then?”

Smedsberg didn’t reply. Ringmar could see something in his face that he thought he recognized. It wasn’t relief. It was at the other end of the emotional register, the dark side.

“It will be better for you if you tell us.”

That same smile again, like a flash of cynicism, combined with the darkness in the boy’s eyes. What has he been through? Ringmar didn’t know, couldn’t begin to guess.

“Gustav,” said Ringmar, “that story you told us about how you were attacked on Mossen-it’s not true, is it?”

Smedsberg said nothing. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“You were never attacked, were you?”

“Of course I was.”

“It doesn’t matter if you change your story.”

“Of course I was,” Smedsberg said again.

And again: “Of course I was.”

Are we talking about the same thing? Ringmar thought.

“Were you attacked by your father, Gustav?” Ringmar asked.

Smedsberg didn’t answer. That was an answer in itself.

“Was it your father who attacked you at Mossen, Gustav?” Ringmar asked.

“No.”

“Did he attack you at home, Gustav?”

“It doesn’t matter what he said.”

“Who, Gustav? Who said what?”

Smedsberg didn’t answer. Ringmar could see that the kid wasn’t feeling well now, not well at all. What the hell was he concealing? Is it something that has nothing to do with this business? Something worse?

Ringmar looked at Halders, and winked.

“That story about the branding iron you told us the first time we met-you made it up, didn’t you?”

“Did I?” said Smedsberg.

“Nobody uses those things, do they?”

“Not nowadays, maybe.”

“And they’ve never used them at your farm,” said Halders.

A special look in Smedsberg’s eyes again, something different this time. Is he playing games with us? Ringmar wondered. No, it’s something different. Or it might be a game, but not his.

“What made you think of that branding iron, Gustav?”

“Because it looked like it.”

Oops, Ringmar thought.

Halders seemed to be waiting for more.

“Haven’t you been able to check it out?” asked Smedsberg.

“Check what out?” asked Halders.

“The iron, for Christ’s sake!”

“Where would we be able to do that?”

Smedsberg looked at Halders, and now there was something different in his eyes. Perhaps it was desperation now, and insecurity.

“Do I have to spell everything out for you?” he said.

“He hasn’t told us a single thing,” said Halders, as they drove past Pellerin’s Margarine Factory.

“Or everything,” said Ringmar.

“We should have grilled those other two student brats right away,” said Halders.

“You’re talking about people who have been badly assaulted,” said Ringmar. “One of them so badly that he was on the point of being a permanent invalid.”

“He’ll recover,” said Halders. “He’ll be OK.”

“Still,” said Ringmar.

“He’ll be able to play for the Blue and Whites six months from now,” said Halders. “Even if he’s still lame. Nobody would notice the difference on that team.”

“You must be getting them mixed up with Örgryte soccer club,” said Ringmar.

“I think the most important thing now is to go out there again,” said Winter from the backseat.

He watched the townscape change and eventually disappear. Forests and an endless network of lakes now. Commuter trains.

He had been poring over the transcripts of the interviews with the children and trying to conjure up a picture of the man who had talked to them, done other things. He’d searched and searched. There was something he could make use of. The man had a parrot who might be called Billy. Winter had gone back to Simon Waggoner with ten toy parrots in ten different colors, and Simon had picked out the green one.

Simon had also pointed at the red one.

The man might well have been in his forties, possibly a worn-out thirty-year-old, possibly a fit and active fifty-year-old. Winter had been talking to Aneta Djanali when Halders and Ringmar returned from interviewing Smedsberg.

“We sent him home,” Ringmar had said.

“Hmm,” said Winter.

“I think it’s the best thing for now.”

They had made up their minds to make the journey out to the flats.

“I’ll come with you,” Winter had said. “I’ve been there before and I can think about this other stuff in the car.”

He was sitting in the backseat hunched over his laptop. Lakes and forests and hills turned into plains.

“That’s it,” said Ringmar at the crossroads.

“Drive straight to old man Carlström’s,” said Winter.

Ringmar nodded, and they passed a hundred meters away from Smedsberg’s house. They couldn’t see a tractor; there was no sign of life.

“It’s like being at sea,” said Halders.

Ringmar nodded again and drummed on the steering wheel.

“A different world,” said Halders. “When you see this you begin to understand a thing or two.”

“What do you mean?” asked Winter, leaning forward.

“Smedsberg is an odd character, isn’t he? When you see this it becomes easier to understand why.” They passed a man on a tractor who raised a hand in greeting. The tractor had emerged from a side road a hundred meters ahead of them, from a little copse. Like a tank coming out of a patch of camouflaging bushes. “A different world,” said Halders again. They could see two figures on horseback in what appeared to be the far distance.

They were being followed by birds. A minor twister whistled across a little field, whipping up a swirl of dead leaves. Ringmar drove past the same house as before. They suddenly found themselves in a forest, shadows. Then they were back among the open fields again. They passed Smedsberg’s wife’s family home. Gerd.

They were there.

They got out of the car and walked toward the house. Nobody came out to greet them.

“How do we explain our visit this time?” said Ringmar.

“We don’t need to explain ourselves this time either,” said Winter.

The winds circled around the house. Everything was just the same as the last time. In the distance Winter could see the tower he’d noticed before, like a lighthouse. Darkness was closing in quickly. It felt colder here than anywhere else. On their last visit he’d thought that if they returned soon everything would be white, and it really would look like a wintry sea.

When he raised his hand to knock, he thought about the feeling he’d had when he’d last stood there: the certainty that he would return, and he hadn’t been able to explain that feeling. But it had to do with darkness. It was a premonition that forebode something terrible. Now that I’ve experienced the feeling, it won’t go away, he’d thought. He could feel it again now. That’s why he’d chosen to accompany the others, to see if he would experience it again. Yes. There was a secret buried here. And something had made him come here again, and it had nothing to do with the assaults on the young men, with this case. What was it? It must have some connection with it, surely. But simultaneously he thought that he would have to bear it in mind again, remember that not everything was what he saw and thought it was, that there was something else about this place.

Why am I thinking like this?

After the third salvo of hammering they could hear somebody moving inside, and a voice said: “What do you want?”

“It’s us again,” said Winter. “From the police. May we come in and ask you a few more questions?”

“About what?”

The voice was as gruff as before and still seemed to be in several layers, an old man’s voice. Life is a series of repeats, Ringmar thought. At best.

“Can we come in?” Winter said again.

They heard the same mumbling and a clanking of bolts. The door opened and the man inside again appeared as a silhouette, illuminated by a low light from the hall and perhaps also the kitchen. Winter held out his ID. The man ignored it but nodded at Halders.

“Who’s he?”

Halders introduced himself and showed the man his ID.

“What’s it about this time, then?” said Carlström, who appeared to be even more hunched than before. His head was still shaved, and he was wearing what might have been the same whitish shirt, suspenders, trousers of no particular style, and thick woolen socks. He hadn’t abandoned his classic rural attire.

Talk about contrasts, Halders thought, looking at the two men facing each other. Winter’s white shirt made the old man’s look black.

Halders could smell a wood-burning oven and recently cooked food. Pork. It was damp and chilly in the hall, and this was not entirely due to the air coming from the outside.

“We just have a few things we’d like to clarify,” said Winter.

The old man made a sort of sighing noise and opened the door wider.

“Well, come in, then.”

He showed them into the kitchen, which seemed to have shrunk since the last time, just as he seemed to be more hunched.

This is one of the solitaries, Winter thought. One of the most solitary men on earth.

The wood-burning stove was alight. The air in the kitchen was dry and distinctly warm, in contrast to the raw damp in the hall.

Carlström gestured for them to sit down. He didn’t offer coffee. The kitchen seemed to be overfilled by the four men, as if a new record was about to be set for a country kitchen in the

Guinness Book of World Records, Halders thought.

“Do you remember us talking about marks made by a branding iron the last time we were here?” Winter asked.

“I’m not senile,” said Carlström.

“We’ve found one,” said Winter. “One that looks like a brand. On one of the boys.”

“Really?”

“It looks like your mark, Carlström.”

“Really.”

“What if it is your mark?”

“What am I supposed to do about it?”

“How could your mark have ended up on the skin of a young man in Gothenburg?” asked Ringmar.

“I don’t know,” said Carlström.

“We don’t know either,” said Winter. “It’s a mystery to us.”

“I can’t help you,” said Carlström. “You could have saved yourselves the journey.”

“Have any of the stolen goods come back?” asked Winter.

“Before any stolen goods come back pigs will have learned to fly from here to Skara,” said Carlström.

Winter thought of his own drawing, the flying pig. That felt like a long time ago.

“You understand why I’m asking, don’t you?”

“I’m not stupid,” said Carlström.

“Somebody might have stolen that iron from here, and used it.”

“That’s possible,” said Carlström.

Halders knocked against a little iron poker lying on the stove, and it fell on the floor with a hollow clang. Natanael Carlström gave a start and whipped around. Rather nimbly, Winter thought. His back had straightened out for a second. Winter looked at Halders, who was bending down and caught his eye. Halders was not stupid.

“I must ask you again if there’s anybody you suspect,” said Winter.

“Not a soul,” said Carlström.

“You didn’t see anything suspicious?”

“When are you talking about?”

“About the time of the theft,” said Winter. “You said last time that you discovered the theft more or less right away.”

“Did I say that?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t remember that.”

Winter said nothing. Carlström looked at Ringmar, who remained silent.

“You had equipment out there that was stolen.”

“Yes, that’s probably what happened.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve found any other, er, tool or equipment with your owner’s mark on it since we were here last?” Winter asked.

“Yes, I have,” said Carlström.

“You’ve found something?”

“Yes, I just said so.”

Winter looked at Ringmar.

“What is it?” asked Winter.

“It’s a little iron,” said Carlström. “It was in the old barn.”

The old barn, Halders thought. Which is the new one?