Frozen Tracks

by Ake Edwardson

  They'd gone for an enormous walk in one direction, and just as far back again.

  I can feel that you're cold, Uncle had said when they got back home.

  Come here, my boy, and I'll warm you up. You're so soft. You're so soft to touch.

  6

  This was how he recounted what had happened. His tone was almost exhilarated.

  He couldn't remember why he decided to cut across the football pitch when that meant he would actually have further to walk back to the halls of residence where he lived; but perhaps he'd noticed a forgotten football lit up by the street lights and suddenly felt a strong desire to shoot the damn thing into the back of the net and show some of those morons in the national side how it ought to be done. Let the world know that he'd packed it in too soon, 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 sports ground 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 blocks soaring heavenwards behind him. Poor sod. 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, which were tending to lead him off course to the left when he didn't look where he was going maybe, to his halls that were lying in wait for him over there, gloomy and cheerless, dormant until the murky grey light of dawn signalled time for more swotting and more hassle. But not for him, no thank you very much. He would be fast asleep the whoooole day long. No swotting, no hassle, no rain down his collar, no crap 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 the penny had dropped, this wasn't some old bloke digging up potatoes two months late, and in a rather strange place at that. The guy had jerked whatever it was out of the ground and then presumably looked at him, but he wouldn't have seen much, as his intended victim had fled over the football pitch 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 over the street on the other side of the block and down the hill, eventually slowing because otherwise his rib cage would have burst.

  His name was Gustav Smedsberg and he was sitting in front of a police officer in a thick woollen sweater who had introduced himself as Bertil Ringsomething.

  '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 so.

  '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 time?'

  'Yes. Or just before. As I was crossing the street before you get to the sports ground. 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 the one? Or two? Three?'

  'Just the one. I didn't see any others. He was just going into one of the apartment blocks as I went past.' Smedsberg looked at Ringmar. 'A tough job, that. 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've no idea. No idea at all. It was dark. It was raining a bit and I was sort of looking down.'

  'Did he have anything on his head?'

  'Er, yes, I think so.'

  'What exactly?'

  'A woolly hat, maybe. 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 woolly 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 at the moment, 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 ought to remember?'

  'It depends on the circumstances,' said Ringmar. 'Maybe you'll remember before long. Tomorrow, perhaps, 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 bit, well, a bit tired just 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 recognise 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 lad 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 it usual?' Ringmar asked.

  'What do you mean, usual?'

  'To brand animals in that way?'

  'It happens. 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 to be had 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, d
efinitely. But I think so. There again, I didn't hang about, if you see what I mean.'

  'Was it the handle that looked familiar?'

  'I suppose it must have been.'

  'What did it look like?'

  'I can try to draw it for you. Or you can visit some farm or other 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 bit 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 bloody madman 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. 'Although he's a madman, it doesn't look like he wants to do anything but knock somebody about.' Smedsberg looked up again. 'Anybody at all.'

  'Do you know any of these lads?' 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 scrutinised them again, held some of them up to the light.

  'Well, I suppose 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 characterising 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? I should have done, surely?'

  '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 leg it.'

  'Yes.'

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

  'So he didn't do that, I suppose,' 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'd better catch him damn fast,' Smedsberg said. 'He might come after me again, right?'

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

  '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'd better give him 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 of these fine days.'

  '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 turned 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, is it? FSF?'

  Winter wasn't quite sure if Halders was joking.

  'Good idea, Fredrik,' he said. 'You can start with the whole 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?'

  'PC Plod in search of a clod,' said Winter.

  'They're a dying breed,' said Ringmar.

  'PC 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 olivegrowers, though,' said Halders. 'The Swedish national dish will become olives, whether you want the bloody things or not.'